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  • Even though she joined the volunteer organization after I did, Edda had already spent some time New Orleans, and was familiar with the various festivities happening around the city. Her mystic tendencies – equal parts Catholicism and witchery – meshed well with the voodoo vibe of The Big Easy. While many of us volunteers crashed after a long day of painting or building demolition, she went out alone to one of the many parties happening around town.

    “Edda,” I asked one evening as she prepared herself for a bondage workshop, “Aren’t you tired?”

    Standing in front of a cracked mirror in the rustic basement room, Edda paused from applying her cherry-coloured lipstick, and through the reflection looked up toward my bunk bed.

    “Yeah, brah,” she replied in her Australian accent. “But we only live once, right?”

    Then she stood up, put a spiked collar around her neck, blew me a kiss and headed out into the night.
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