Thursday in New Orleans
New Orleans. The name has weight on the tongue. Meant to tease across the lips and be sucked back in and swirled around the insides of the mouth. In my life no more perfect place exists. Everything feels art directed. Turn your eyes any direction and hold them long enough and the fullness of life will reveal itself to you. A doorway, a root, a broken expanse of concrete. Everything here is infused with something old and alive, contrasting itself to everything else without effort or pretense and to wild and glorious effect.
This place never runs out of photographs. They race toward you full speed and laugh as you make chase. I learned some time ago that they will do this until you acquiesce to their rhythm and not your own. Once you realign they sometimes stop to dance with you for a bit. I walked the city all day trying to reacquaint with that rhythm. I’m about halfway there already, but I’m rusty.
I have many moments where my heart beats too fast and my breath drops too shallow. Bits of color and design, the old and gnarled, the contemporary and exotic, all of it mashed up and me in the center of it in a frenzy of the senses. I realized yesterday during a walk that part of this frenzy is fear that I’m not really here. That I will wake up back in the old dead world, all this spiritual decadence taken away from me as quickly as it came.