Moving Below Sea-Level
In honor of the beautiful city of New Orleans, which has suffered this terrible flood, I am reposting a piece I wrote after a visit almost two years ago.
October, 2003:
A week in New Orleans. Bed in the Bywater. Bikes to the French Quarter. A girl's bike with crooked handlebars. Jackhammer. Up every morning. Breakfast and Coffee. Croissants. Garden Balconies. That Friendliness. Sun's Rays. The Breeze, Louisiana Air Conditioning. Heavy Raindrops dripping from a bright umbrella. Babies. A girl's life at three months. A boy's life at a year. Mother's giving suck in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the living room, in the restaurant, on the bus. Flood-wall at the levee. We're moving below sea-level. The succulent air. The Back Yard. Elephant ears, four-plus feet wide. Green vines. Dew-laden tufts of lawn. A thorny bush. A lizard eats a wasp. The Bayou. Iridescent dragonflies. Cypress trees and knees. Wild Hemp Weed. St. John's Wort. Thus, the Snakes, the Frogs and the Gators on their bellies smile. The turtles drop into the water like stones rolling off of stones. Egrets slink behind trunks, roots, reeds, stalks, blades, folding, raising, stretching, dipping their articulated twigs in and out of soft ripples, their downy bodies nodding in time. Back in the city. Stray cats live and multiply beneath the floorboards of a local Police Station. Merchants gather at the square, flipping cards and kissing brass. A bench at the Big Muddy. A long train passing holds you captive there. Upriver, Lafayette No. 1. Tombs built by Yellow Fever. Some broken open, exposing dusty artifacts and mortal ruminations. Magazine Street boutique. A necktie. A candlestick. Looking for a pint. Mossy brick and dank canopies. A streetcar. A taxi. Tastee coffee. Stories by candlelight and hot baths. People are buzzing. Expectant, yet calm. We bare witness. A blur of cream silk and flowers. Gold, pearl, silver, platinum. Joy and revelry. Music and dancing. Feasting and drinking. Jazz. Swing. Swamp Pop. Rockabilly. Folk. Spotted Cat acoustics. Gravelly Savoy. Pounding hammers, scraping nails and bass-strings clapping out percussion, meet with the sound of horns. The room wags, nods and bounces, joints tied to an unseen hand. Partners twirl and kick, posturing, fingers spread, mouths agape, all toothy smiles and wide-eyed oh's. A woman. The old flapper girl with white hair. She wears it short and pinned. Her waves and curls turning around her head like the lapping of a serene sea against pale rock, cracked, lined, but worn smooth. She sits at the bar. I see her in a periwinkle frock, white gloves, a long string of pearls. Old soul with a young heart. She knows the moves.
October, 2003:
A week in New Orleans. Bed in the Bywater. Bikes to the French Quarter. A girl's bike with crooked handlebars. Jackhammer. Up every morning. Breakfast and Coffee. Croissants. Garden Balconies. That Friendliness. Sun's Rays. The Breeze, Louisiana Air Conditioning. Heavy Raindrops dripping from a bright umbrella. Babies. A girl's life at three months. A boy's life at a year. Mother's giving suck in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the living room, in the restaurant, on the bus. Flood-wall at the levee. We're moving below sea-level. The succulent air. The Back Yard. Elephant ears, four-plus feet wide. Green vines. Dew-laden tufts of lawn. A thorny bush. A lizard eats a wasp. The Bayou. Iridescent dragonflies. Cypress trees and knees. Wild Hemp Weed. St. John's Wort. Thus, the Snakes, the Frogs and the Gators on their bellies smile. The turtles drop into the water like stones rolling off of stones. Egrets slink behind trunks, roots, reeds, stalks, blades, folding, raising, stretching, dipping their articulated twigs in and out of soft ripples, their downy bodies nodding in time. Back in the city. Stray cats live and multiply beneath the floorboards of a local Police Station. Merchants gather at the square, flipping cards and kissing brass. A bench at the Big Muddy. A long train passing holds you captive there. Upriver, Lafayette No. 1. Tombs built by Yellow Fever. Some broken open, exposing dusty artifacts and mortal ruminations. Magazine Street boutique. A necktie. A candlestick. Looking for a pint. Mossy brick and dank canopies. A streetcar. A taxi. Tastee coffee. Stories by candlelight and hot baths. People are buzzing. Expectant, yet calm. We bare witness. A blur of cream silk and flowers. Gold, pearl, silver, platinum. Joy and revelry. Music and dancing. Feasting and drinking. Jazz. Swing. Swamp Pop. Rockabilly. Folk. Spotted Cat acoustics. Gravelly Savoy. Pounding hammers, scraping nails and bass-strings clapping out percussion, meet with the sound of horns. The room wags, nods and bounces, joints tied to an unseen hand. Partners twirl and kick, posturing, fingers spread, mouths agape, all toothy smiles and wide-eyed oh's. A woman. The old flapper girl with white hair. She wears it short and pinned. Her waves and curls turning around her head like the lapping of a serene sea against pale rock, cracked, lined, but worn smooth. She sits at the bar. I see her in a periwinkle frock, white gloves, a long string of pearls. Old soul with a young heart. She knows the moves.
posted by Lee-Roy at 12:58 PM
1 Comments:
Indeed. She could swing. This makes me so sad for New Orleans.
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