mark knopfler

You have to love New Orleans. There is always something happening, but it’s never happening in a hurry. No matter what the hour, people are always milling about; some for nefarious reasons, sure, but it’s hard to feel lonely in the Big Easy. A guy creaks by on a rusty, Frankensteined bicycle and lifts his chin in a greeting. If he lets go of the mismatched handlebars to wave, his ride might come apart. Most people who are up this early on Annunciation Street are just getting home. Like vampires, we shield our swollen eyes from the first rays of the sun and growl in protest, but while they’re settling into bed, I’m settling into this wobbly porch chair to begin the painful process of trying to bleed ink onto an empty page. With a looming deadline and a trashcan full of failure, I contemplat...