Given that she knows everyone, it is by now public knowledge that Nudawn, whom you don’t want to call ‘Nudawn’ in real life unless you’re looking for some chrome to your dome, came to New Orleans for the second weekend of JazzFest.
My inclination was to try and describe with some fidelity what she’s like, partly from fondness and partly because she’s fascinating, but as she noted with emphasis on our first night out -when we met DHK and she calculated the precise mathematical division of her antipathy for me and Will- people are not who they are on their blogs. This is well-known, but not to me: while people often tell me that I’m not as I come across here, that’s because who I am here is who I am when I am alone. It thus seems to me like the most representative instantiation of my self to me, while those who know me find it slightly alien (and more than slightly sullen).
I won’t presume to disclose Nudawn’s personality to the world except to say this: she is as much fun as she seems and also gentler and more happily enthused than the title of her blog would lead you to imagine. She is also peculiarly self-deprecating, and as in her writing mixes ribald and scatological humor with a reflective intelligence she seems slightly uncomfortable with; this reminds me of myself, which makes sense, as we share a father. I would have preferred her trip last longer; we were hitting our stride when she left, and Big Daddy’s was likely only hours away.
Her photos, about which she is characteristically too modest, are here; mine are here. Experience! the splattered remnants of her crawfish boil experience on Syd’s pregnant expanse! See! how much Nudawn likes to sabotage dull group photos! Witness! her endless good spirits as her guides fucked the logistics to bits again and again! Fear! me holding a handgun, as captured by Nicki!
And catch! us having the best JazzFest of my 28-year life. Thanks for coming, Nudawn, and I recommend Mardi Gras next year: trust me, we do it well.
