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  • Writer's pictureMark

On New Orleans

Updated: Oct 16, 2022

Friday, April 14, 2017

Bourbon street, one long back alley. Bring out your dead, your proud heathens, and your wound

up weary travel toys. Bubbles logged in the fetid air, from unseen windows, desperately trying to clean the mistakes of last night.

The youth walk amongst the din, beauty in legs and breasts and fresh skin, hardly ever sated. Each street, up and down, garbage and the occasional smile wearing a fine white thread suit. Up and down each block, a new ear of jazz.

We couldn’t stop eating, and nor do I think should we. I would sample each dish, with each being made of earthly ingredients, but my God how together they were something heavenly. The deep, rich mud of the gumbo, the tangy flirt of the creole. And the bites of the seafood. No, we should never stop.

Away from the marbled identity of men with simple dreams, come rows of globalization. You could see it sometimes on the horizon, like an impending difference towards the uniqueness of man. I can’t ever think of a reason a building needs more than 8 stories. Yes, 8 is enough for anyone. Let the eye reach, dammit. Let the eye see far, for it causes man to dream.

Sometimes you can get lost in these large crowds. But these crowds, soaked in jubilant jazz seem to hug you. This is not a sad animosity. I watched police men dance with the homeless. I think, I am seeing something very specific, but it felt so good. Watching a mass of noise and color and sound all throb for a single purpose, being human and feeling alive. How I needed this, New Orleans.

And then we watch the little lego houses, carved amongst the bush. I realize, I am sober here. I am sober everywhere. And I feel no less.

Nature offers up warm sun. Fresh air. As we walk, we notice it demands energy as tribute. Still, I don’t sleep well. The mind.

And then I wonder, as I think about leaving. How to separate experience from eternity. How should I not want to hold indefinitely, that which in the moment is perfection. And should I? When, and how, do we bid adieu to that one long, rare night. To that one long, rare love. Never to return, and be warm and peaceful with only a smiling fondness. Is this something we learn, when all we’ve known is tearing longing.

Can I say I am a new on this wind. In this sun. So far from that concrete maze I look on as soley as obligation. We are perched on a gallery, full of youth and resilient.

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