After some reflection, I wrote the following words, then put some images together. Two years post-Katrina, a veneer of normalcy covers New Orleans. The French Quarter thrives, chefs cook, musicians play on, and the Garden District mansions stand tall under leafy oak trees. But the lower 9th ward is mostly a wasteland; generations of New Orleanians remain displaced; others dream of living in a town with lower insurance rates and a functioning justice system. People of all colors die, my friend Helen among them. She leaves behind her husband and 2 year old son, after a vicious home invasion, her killer still at large. Murderers go free here, while politicians waste time arguing about who’s to blame. The federal government spends billions in the name of democracy and homeland security, but reneges on promises to help our city. At least we’re getting own TV show, “K-ville,” so we can see justice mediated if not actuated. New Orleans has been called the city that care forgot. I wonder how many of our elected official forgot to care about New Orleans, especially the ones who made the biggest still mostly unfulfilled promises. I think about moving often but then I find faith in moments that can’t happen elsewhere; a strain of music pulls me off my front porch this early August evening and I am drawn to the corner as a brass band passes. At the clip’s end are the words and photo of George Brumat, recently deceased owner of Snug Harbor Jazz Club. So many hope that his prophecy comes true.