As the iconic hook of Miles Davis’s “So What” caresses my ears my thoughts shift to possibilities and creation. The story remains one of the possibilities—publishing my first novel, publishing the first volume of my publishing empire, and building something better (and different) than what was.

Too often during the past six weeks, my eyes have wakened to dimming afternoon sunlight rather than bright and unabashed morning sunlight. Too often during these recent months of the pandemic, my eyes have finally settled into unconscious slumber at dawn. What am I afraid of missing out on?

The notes of creativity still come to me in song when I awake and in blossoming conversation during idle moments during my walks. My iPhone and voice recording app at the ready to catch these pearls and gems that spring from my mind. I often wonder where exactly that creative nexus resides in my brain. I’ve resisted the nagging urge to open a textbook and locate the hypothetical hive wherein creativity pools and bubbles over. I choose to embrace the mystery.

Ohh, Freddie Freeloader!

I intend to sit on the paved banks of Lake Pontchartrain and make myself available to the stories that may come. I certainly hope to not wilt in the heat and humidity that accompany life in New Orleans, but I can only put on sunblock and find a manly parasol to protect my naked scalp.

I hear the story of a Black gentleman who walks along the inadequately repaired levees in the ninth ward looking for cracks and signs of weakness. He could be blessed with sight or extrasensory gifts that enable him to stand sentry over that that other people cannot see. What is his backstory?

Whom did he lose to Hurricane Katrina?

Did they drown in onrushing waters or did they succumb to the terrors in the Louisiana Superdome?

Is this man a dapper don or bereft of sartorial sensitivity?

I see him as a finely, seasoned gentleman in his 60s. He has a slight hitch in his strut. The hitch stuck with him after crashing to the ground when Big Reggie issued him a hard foul during an attempted, silky finger roll. That shot would have so clean had Reggie’s ass not fucked it up, he thought. Reggie stood over him thinking, no smooth or clean paths to the basket, whether it’s NBA playoff basketball or a pickup game on a steamy Saturday afternoon at Armstrong Park—aka The Strong.

Ah, Blue in Green!

Kensington “Kenny” Wallace knew the rules about the lane, but he had to try to instill some elegance into what had been a brutal pickup game. His stubbornness and resilience inherited from his feisty mother