Swirls of white frameworks and pastel-colored clapboards.
Cotton candy streets and the merry go round melody of a majestic steamboat interspersed
with the howling of industrial trains sweeping through town. The nostalgic
soundtrack echoes through porches of swing benches covered in leaves and stoic
rocking chairs.
Dozens of black cats scurry into the warm lairs of
the hibernating city; the magic shacked up behind tightly closed doors adorned
with little strands of colorful Tibetan flags. Smiling passersby huddle by
space heaters from the drugstore in their haphazardly curated nooks of melted
candles, used books and the local art they couldn’t afford, but couldn’t pass
up. Louis Armstrong sauntering down Royal Street in the starry night humidity,
the crooked grid of roads blurring into a whimsical, twisty-turny row of
rainbow stoops lit by the soft orange glow of French street lamps, Mardi Gras
Indians covered in neon feathers dancing with devotion to a life of festivity…reminders
of the spirits that wait to be awoken as unbearable chills transform into
seductive beads of alcoholic sweat and music, music, music blends into a
delirium that reminds us we’re alive. Until then, we wait; masochistically embracing
this cold as the opposite end of the twisted spectrum that fuels our desire to
feel, even if it’s sadness. Dirty dishes, a wine glass stained with cheap Cabernet
and a beckoning unmade bed. Tea steeps, incense burn, pens move across
journals…the warmest town in America is frigid and so are our words.
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