I'd Crawl to New Orleans

I'd crawl to New Orleans. Hyperbolic, but expressive of my deep affection for a city that is revelatory to the senses in a way no other is. Woven into her fabric is some kind of passion that seeps up out of the ground and rains down out of the sky. It bubbles on the mouths of the people. It slinks between the wrought iron balustrades and cloaks the night in deep, indigo velvet. It’s the sound of brass, pumping out of the cracks in the sidewalk, like a heartbeat in the earth. The sousaphone’s call beats the air as a thousand feet move, in response. Humidity, thick and dense with it all, clings. The scent of subtropical sidewalks drenched with rain, ascends; vanquishes heat by transforming it into respite. Again, the sun blazes forth. Steam rises from peaked roofs and the mute pastels, chameleon like, are transfigured. This ambient passion creates a revolution in anyone who approaches this city with even the tiniest crack in the heart. In it rushes and one is lost.




One is lost to the great Mississippi, churning, or placid, the leaves of the oak trees graciously dappling the ground with shade, neutral ground the domain of Dog. Of all the beauty in this city, though, none is so beguiling as that of the people that live here, for they are the source of the passion. As a way of life, these people create New Orleans as the mystical jewel it is, on a daily basis. Their faces reflect history and defy it at the same time. From their mouths comes honey that nestles into the ears. They sound the trumpet. They beat the drum. They smile at you like they mean it, because they do. Without these beautiful people, their faith and resilience, there would be no New Orleans. It’s through them that God has broken into a bend in the Mississippi River and shone forth.




Inspired talent grows wild in the streets. Everywhere, enthralled at the sheer magnitude of it. Running through it all is the familiar thread that joins the disparate communities of the city together, which is pure New Orleans. Tiny rooms filled with as many bodies as possible. Bands that cook with a fire so hot, you feel you’ll cease to exist if you don’t dance, right now. Children with trombones bigger than they are, tapping on Bourbon and blowing your mind, second lining like they learned it in a past life and never forgot. A woman blowing a clarinet rises slowly from a kitchen chair in the middle of the street, eyes shut and the air fills with her passion.

The man is almost angelic in appearance, small; fine-boned. He stands and takes the mic and hearts expand with the sweetest sound that can be heard by the human ear. Through his throat, out his mouth and into the ether it flows, warm and resonant, nurturing all hurt into wakeful joy. The stage throbs under the weight of the band, as the smoky air bristles with trombones and the clarion call of the trumpets provokes us to leap as one. Somebody screams. Beer flows. Smoke, bourbon, sweat, love, crazy passion and you want to stay lost.