Sitting on the bank of the Mississippi River, I gaze around and soak up the view. Over my left shoulder is the river itself. Over my right is the Jackson Brewery. These neighbors couldn’t be more different from one another.
The river drifts, slowly, calmly, sure of herself and her direction. Barges and paddle wheelers caress her curves, making their way to their destinations on “Southern Delta Time.” The riverbank is dotted with people. Tourists and locals mingle in the sultry evening air, watching the sun turn gold on the water. I close my eyes and travel back over a decade, and I see myself at seventeen, sitting on a bench and listening to a saxophone solo drifting on the wind. Coming back to the present, I am thrilled to see that musicians are still entertaining the crowd. The water lapping at the rocks has traveled 2,300 miles to where I sit. It continues on its way, embracing the Crescent City and curving its way down to the delta.
The brewery bustles with activity. Once upon a time, it was the birthplace of Jax Beer, surviving prohibition as a place only could in New Orleans. Now, there is the dismal reality of its transformation into a tourist-trap shopping center. The “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” Museum has replaced my beloved Fudge Factory, a required stop on all elementary school field trips. Now, only the echoing tune of “Eat on Fudge” survives in my memory. The activity is unbroken. Camera-laden visitors weave through shop owners to get a shot of a mime on the sidewalk taking his break and eating a Lucky Dog from the corner vendor while delivery trucks threaten to flatten them all. The building’s exterior mimics its internal frenzy, looking a lot like a random assemblage of forgotten toy blocks.
The juxtaposition of calm and chaos is the heart of New Orleans, giving the city her rhythm and charm.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Inspiration, Devastation
The bar quieted the moment the group of writers left. The bartender breathed a sigh of relief. He really wasn’t in the mood to pour yet another black and tan for the group. His relief was bittersweet, though. The writers’ presence, while a slight intrusion from his chats with the regulars, was intriguing to him. “Why here?” he thought with exasperation as they clambered into his pub. During their visit and throughout his eavesdropping, however, he thought again… “Why here?” with less criticism and more curiosity.
He looked at his daytime home through new eyes. Green in every shade adorned the walls and doors. The wood floors echoed as customers wandered to the bar in worn out Doc Martens and shredded Chuck Taylors. The pub was charming in its shabbiness and he saw the appeal it held for a group hell bent on finding creative inspiration. His eye wandered the bar and he secretly hoped for their return. He longed to be inspired.
The days had been stifling in their repetition. He found that his regulars were creatures of habit. Old Byron would wander in just after lunch every day, order a Bodington Ale on tap, and with his usual patience, wait for a chess partner. Byron always fell back on the same stories, the same recollections. Sandy would stumble in shortly after. Sandy was one of the only honest prostitutes in the city. She never hid behind pretty titles, like “exotic dancer” or “lap waitress,” a truly puzzling term. She, at least, could always be counted on for a sordid story or three, but even these began to run together.
The writers had left him in a quandary. As they departed, they had invited him to join them for dinner. He pondered this as his shift drew to a close. He drew beer after beer and debated the invitation. How could a group of complete strangers just ask him to join them? They didn’t know him. Then again, he thought, this is New Orleans. He ran a troubled hand through his shaggy brown hair and continued his inner debate. He considered the group. They had no rhyme or reason. Normally a group of friends has some cohesion, but they were the most eclectic bunch he’d ever seen. Why was he so hesitant? He only needed to ask himself this question once. Rebecca.
Rebecca. His valkyrie, his spirit, his muse. When she left, his inspiration left with her. Now he felt like Christmas decorations in January.
He drifted through the rest of his shift and reminisced about what once was. With Rebecca by his side, he was invincible. He wrote and sang and played his Country Gentleman in any venue that would accept him.
After his shift, he strolled down to Molly’s. It was one of the first places he’d discovered after moving to New Orleans only a few short months before. New Orleans was his escape. Once Rebecca left, he knew he had to move and the mythology of the Big Easy beckoned him. “Easy what?” he thought. There was no clear answer, but he was determined to look.
Trying valiantly to banish these thoughts, he entered Molly’s. The familiar groove of “Green Onions” by Booker T and the MG’s welcomed him, along with a chorus of hellos from a few familiar faces, and a meow of greeting from Blanche, the resident furball of the back courtyard.
Suddenly, the routine of his own life struck him. He had spent the morning criticizing his regulars and now he discovered the leash of his own routine. “Enough,” he thought. “I don’t care if they’re strangers…or that they seem a little bit strange. I’m going to meet them.” Eyeing his watch, he saw that he still had time to spare before making the invite.
He sat at the bar and ordered a Blue Moon. He found that he was tired of the thick scent of the ales and ambers he once loved. Did he love them because his Irish faerie loved them or for what they were? He wondered if a person could really know how much of what they enjoy is genuine or is a result of the powerful suggestion from those whose opinions they value. He knew that he loved to write and create, and he knew that he ached for the fire that he once felt when he grasped a pen or his guitar.
Somehow, during his musings on his sorrowful state, time had rushed by. He excused himself to his acquaintances (he hadn’t known them long enough to consider them friends), gave Blanche a goodbye scratch behind the ears, and left.
The group had plans to meet at Café Brasil for dinner. He turned left and headed for the Marigny, his favorite of the city's hidden treasures. His thoughts, seesawing between hope and regret, bombarded him as he made his way to the restaurant. When he finally arrived, he peered into the window and saw the writers, sharing and laughing. He placed his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought, “To the future.” Then his traitorous mind conjured up its favorite ghost. The swish of Rebecca’s hair as she departed. Her, composed. Him, shattered. He turned his head and with sudden stinging tears of mourning, went home.
He looked at his daytime home through new eyes. Green in every shade adorned the walls and doors. The wood floors echoed as customers wandered to the bar in worn out Doc Martens and shredded Chuck Taylors. The pub was charming in its shabbiness and he saw the appeal it held for a group hell bent on finding creative inspiration. His eye wandered the bar and he secretly hoped for their return. He longed to be inspired.
The days had been stifling in their repetition. He found that his regulars were creatures of habit. Old Byron would wander in just after lunch every day, order a Bodington Ale on tap, and with his usual patience, wait for a chess partner. Byron always fell back on the same stories, the same recollections. Sandy would stumble in shortly after. Sandy was one of the only honest prostitutes in the city. She never hid behind pretty titles, like “exotic dancer” or “lap waitress,” a truly puzzling term. She, at least, could always be counted on for a sordid story or three, but even these began to run together.
The writers had left him in a quandary. As they departed, they had invited him to join them for dinner. He pondered this as his shift drew to a close. He drew beer after beer and debated the invitation. How could a group of complete strangers just ask him to join them? They didn’t know him. Then again, he thought, this is New Orleans. He ran a troubled hand through his shaggy brown hair and continued his inner debate. He considered the group. They had no rhyme or reason. Normally a group of friends has some cohesion, but they were the most eclectic bunch he’d ever seen. Why was he so hesitant? He only needed to ask himself this question once. Rebecca.
Rebecca. His valkyrie, his spirit, his muse. When she left, his inspiration left with her. Now he felt like Christmas decorations in January.
He drifted through the rest of his shift and reminisced about what once was. With Rebecca by his side, he was invincible. He wrote and sang and played his Country Gentleman in any venue that would accept him.
After his shift, he strolled down to Molly’s. It was one of the first places he’d discovered after moving to New Orleans only a few short months before. New Orleans was his escape. Once Rebecca left, he knew he had to move and the mythology of the Big Easy beckoned him. “Easy what?” he thought. There was no clear answer, but he was determined to look.
Trying valiantly to banish these thoughts, he entered Molly’s. The familiar groove of “Green Onions” by Booker T and the MG’s welcomed him, along with a chorus of hellos from a few familiar faces, and a meow of greeting from Blanche, the resident furball of the back courtyard.
Suddenly, the routine of his own life struck him. He had spent the morning criticizing his regulars and now he discovered the leash of his own routine. “Enough,” he thought. “I don’t care if they’re strangers…or that they seem a little bit strange. I’m going to meet them.” Eyeing his watch, he saw that he still had time to spare before making the invite.
He sat at the bar and ordered a Blue Moon. He found that he was tired of the thick scent of the ales and ambers he once loved. Did he love them because his Irish faerie loved them or for what they were? He wondered if a person could really know how much of what they enjoy is genuine or is a result of the powerful suggestion from those whose opinions they value. He knew that he loved to write and create, and he knew that he ached for the fire that he once felt when he grasped a pen or his guitar.
Somehow, during his musings on his sorrowful state, time had rushed by. He excused himself to his acquaintances (he hadn’t known them long enough to consider them friends), gave Blanche a goodbye scratch behind the ears, and left.
The group had plans to meet at Café Brasil for dinner. He turned left and headed for the Marigny, his favorite of the city's hidden treasures. His thoughts, seesawing between hope and regret, bombarded him as he made his way to the restaurant. When he finally arrived, he peered into the window and saw the writers, sharing and laughing. He placed his hand on the doorknob and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and thought, “To the future.” Then his traitorous mind conjured up its favorite ghost. The swish of Rebecca’s hair as she departed. Her, composed. Him, shattered. He turned his head and with sudden stinging tears of mourning, went home.
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