Great to see a few people are connecting to my Blog. These past few days have been busy here in AlbuQ...around family doing virtually 24 hour care and encouragement for dear mother/aunt Carrie so, no time for Blog duty. However, seems things may be out of the danger zone, as Carrie is beginning to eat and keep it down!!! and her spirit is irrepressible. I will send lots of new and exciting photos and stories in a few days.
You may notice that I have managed to rename my Blog to: Shake Mr Scratch Off but, I have not published it as yet... want to give people some time to see the change. Also, I realize that introducing color to text, makes it near unreadable. Will take more care now and will try to correct previous stuff or reprint.
If Aunt Carrie continues to improve, I will be back on the road again in about a week.
Cheers
Rod
Monday, August 11, 2014
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Kerrville to Q
07 August 2014
The landscape rapidly changes from Kerrville westward to my AlbuQ (Albuquerque) destination. From the lush Guadalupe River to the parched Rio Grande.
And a deep sadness at the inevitable reality of life and death on the "Highway Fields Forever"
The landscape rapidly changes from Kerrville westward to my AlbuQ (Albuquerque) destination. From the lush Guadalupe River to the parched Rio Grande.
It is threatening, chilling, baffling as one wonders how in such dryness anything can survive. It is magnificence in it harshness, its beauty. Life does exist here in all forms. My adrenalin flows with anticipation and danger, as my eyes wander to the landscape and off the highway with passing cars... a close call a few times, as I quickly pull over for another photo...
A human oasis, irrigated farms amongst it all.
Geological layers of white stone exposed by highway construction looking, in many places, as if they were stacked piles of ancient manuscripts.
Further on, as the large lust forests diminish and the soil surfaces crack from more dehydration we see the rivers of sand, waiting for more rain fall. There is a poignant beauty to it all
And a deep sadness at the inevitable reality of life and death on the "Highway Fields Forever"
T H R I L L I N G
As I neared my destination, I was reminded of those old Clint Eastwood spaghetti Westerns and "Boot Hill". Not funny, I know! But, there is a certain chuckle in my belly with this modern day Boot Hill, where marble/stone headstones and plastic flowers have replaced two pieces of wood, tied together with a piece of rope or leather
Finally, I had to display my natural rebellious constitution by taking a poke are a useless law by standing where everyone is told not to stand!
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Kerville Texas and the Devil
5 August 2014
This morning I woke in this Kerrville Rest Area, with the sound of a big eighteen wheeler hugging my back bumper with it engine growling away. They never turn those machines off.... 'cause it is either too hot or two cold outside and those truckers need to sleep... sometime "play a bit" with their dog, inside their temperature controlled apartments.
Outside, I checked the entire area. Meisha was not around.
I want to change the title of my Blogg to: Shake Mr. Scratch off. The use of "Devil" is way too rhetorical and pejorative and not very intriguing and also tied to Christianity. I do not wish to imply such a limited, simple view of the forces of darkness upon humanity and besides... there is simply no intelligence or humor associated with that tedious institutional reference.
A little Wikipedia research directed me to a wonderful short story by, Stephen Vincent Benet titled: The Devil and Daniel Webster, published in The Saturday Evening Post in 1936 providing a fascinating character called, Mr. Scratch (representing the devil). Even that short Wikipedia synopsis creates an intriguing and compelling character insight into the complexity and ambiguity of the devil in the human society. It is impossible to refute an argument against Mr. Scratch and his relevance. It even challenges my own biases and bigotry while giving a feeling of lightness and new anticipation for my journey ahead.
The only problem I have figuring out, with my limited digital knowledge, is how to edit my title. And it is time I moved from this Kerrville Starbuck's seat overlooking the beautiful Quadalupe River before I am booted out. My $7.49 rent time... bagel, banana bread and tea and three hours of internet time has probably exhausted my good will. But, let me say one last thing. Thought a corporate giant, Starbucks does provide great internet connection and is /environmentally and does not pressure its patrons to move on. A lot of young people hang out here and as far away as Canada
That is my white van down there in the parking lot.
Ciao, chow for now...
This morning I woke in this Kerrville Rest Area, with the sound of a big eighteen wheeler hugging my back bumper with it engine growling away. They never turn those machines off.... 'cause it is either too hot or two cold outside and those truckers need to sleep... sometime "play a bit" with their dog, inside their temperature controlled apartments.
Outside, I checked the entire area. Meisha was not around.
I want to change the title of my Blogg to: Shake Mr. Scratch off. The use of "Devil" is way too rhetorical and pejorative and not very intriguing and also tied to Christianity. I do not wish to imply such a limited, simple view of the forces of darkness upon humanity and besides... there is simply no intelligence or humor associated with that tedious institutional reference.
A little Wikipedia research directed me to a wonderful short story by, Stephen Vincent Benet titled: The Devil and Daniel Webster, published in The Saturday Evening Post in 1936 providing a fascinating character called, Mr. Scratch (representing the devil). Even that short Wikipedia synopsis creates an intriguing and compelling character insight into the complexity and ambiguity of the devil in the human society. It is impossible to refute an argument against Mr. Scratch and his relevance. It even challenges my own biases and bigotry while giving a feeling of lightness and new anticipation for my journey ahead.
The only problem I have figuring out, with my limited digital knowledge, is how to edit my title. And it is time I moved from this Kerrville Starbuck's seat overlooking the beautiful Quadalupe River before I am booted out. My $7.49 rent time... bagel, banana bread and tea and three hours of internet time has probably exhausted my good will. But, let me say one last thing. Thought a corporate giant, Starbucks does provide great internet connection and is /environmentally and does not pressure its patrons to move on. A lot of young people hang out here and as far away as Canada
That is my white van down there in the parking lot.
Ciao, chow for now...
Meisha
04 August 2014 4:45 PM
I trekked back with relief, that I found my vehicle… right where I left. Maybe that ends my chronic “losing my vehicle” nightmares. But maybe new ones will evolve after near seven hours of tramping on the blood drenched soil of heroic Texas revolutionaries.
Back on the road again and just miles from Kerrville, Texas as my anxiety builds. Will she be there, at that Rest Stop, where I left her four years earlier. Over 4000 kilometres I drove with this torment in mind. What would I do, how could I help her now, as I am in no better financial position today then when we shared our last meal together, hugged, with tears filling my eyes, saying goodbye and promised I would be back, with some more money and a better vehicle? Pulling in, up to that picnic table (a misnomer … it was no picnic) the memories flowed back. As I anticipated and regretfully wished… she was not there. But, I will stay here for the night. Who knows what will become of it.
Meisha was a Federalist revolutionary, as those of the Alamo… fighting the Centralists of modernity knowing quite well the potential outcome on the highways of Liberty:
“If we succeed, the Country is ours. It is immense in extent. And fertile in its soil and will amply reward all our toils. If we fail, death in the cause of liberty and humanity is not cause for shuttering… we know what awaits us, and are prepared to meet it” Daniel Cloud, 1835.
The side entrance into the Alamo brought me directly into the retail shop, filled with unlimited shelves packed with commercial “goodies“. Everything was for sale. My anticipation soured immediately… good ol’ American enterprise… like selling worthless, imitation trinkets to the Aborigines… cleverly retooling modern ignorance. Nothing was for free there, except a one 8-½” x 11” b/w page with minimal text. And that shop was packed full of modern ghosts, tripping over one another for another precious treasure to joyfully take back to their tribe. No!!! Right!!! I bought nothing!
Exiting out of there onto another pathway, I was led to some original walls of the Alamo… fascinating.
Then unto some small panels of historical facts that gave me a satisfying glimpse of the history of the Alamo and the Mr.Scratch, back to 1724... thrilling… after about four plus hours of reading, I understood…the Texas Revolution… this was not a Hollywood movie… it was finally clear to me and fully justified my reason for going there. In the entire long list of the heroes, not one heroine was mentioned. Was that possible! Was not even one heroine put against the wall and shot along with the surviving heroes in 1836.
I must return to Galveston, as on that last final fatal day with Meisha, four years ago, to that magnificent 20 foot high grand bronze sculpture in the centre of town. It is a sculpture honouring the flag draped heroines of the Texas Revolution, which I did not understand at that time. This time, I will re-view it with a new found reverence and adulation. That (or those) photos I will send to you in a few weeks, on my return from the “Q” (Albuquerque).
Meisha was/is a revolutionary and I curse the Centralists forces that have abandoned her to the highways… I am holding my “cuss-words” back… not my customary, pejorative nature. But the Centrist forces are re-emerging in the lands, defying the spilt blood and political victories of the Texas Federalists, Sam Houston, Davy Crocket, William Barret, James Bowie, James Bonham and the other heroes (will name the Federalist heroines after I get back to Galveston).
My nature is to cuss but, the Centralists control the media and consequently our minds. Even here at this Texan Rest Stop, along with the previous ones, as I entered this state… WiFi was cut off. The Texas map says Free WiFi at all Rest Stops… not so! The attendants do not know why. Too many revolutionaries… perhaps? No worry, I will keep my cuss words for the underground… to those in-person, activist venues who might invite me in with my colourful tongue, art, music, poetry.
Meisha and I had the cussing out on the highways for two weeks, from Corpus Christi to Galveston, as we tried to re-enable her blank memory and find her home. She revealed a highway of horrors, her story of living in her own Alamo, under siege by a ruthless oppressor.
Life on a Wire
This Song: I wrote in Memory of her... her words.
LOST HIGHWAY USA
She’s a doctor, a lawyer, Israeli commander
A professor, scientist, secret service agent
With under cover missions locked in her mind
She’s been eight years on the highways waiting
For that day when HE will come for her
And HE will come for her in two years
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
She’s been locked up, knocked up, chopped up
She’s been spit on, slapped on, hit on
She’s been needled, drugged, poked, and joked about
And dropped on the highways without ID
With her face and memory reconfigured away
Left alone in this land of yours and mine.
We travelled together on the asphalt lines
Houston, Corpus Christi, Pasadena
Indianola, Magnolia, Matagorda, Jamaica Beach
Texas City, Palacios, the Bayou Vista
Skidmore, Geronimo, Buckeye, Galveston
looking for a place to finally call her home
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
We shopped in thrift stores, ate beans and peaches
We camped on the Gulf Coast white beaches
She tidied and swept up to leave no trash
She did not want to mess up the earth
Wouldn’t throw her banana peel on the highway
She said, cars would slip on it made me laugh
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
She thanked me for the time out on the coast
She threw handfuls of bread to the seagulls
She stood quiet on the dock watching the harbour go by
She said you are one of a kind (in my world)
But fate took me to leave her in her in that dangerous place
Lost Highway USA
With only a bench and the sky above to call home
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
I trekked back with relief, that I found my vehicle… right where I left. Maybe that ends my chronic “losing my vehicle” nightmares. But maybe new ones will evolve after near seven hours of tramping on the blood drenched soil of heroic Texas revolutionaries.
Back on the road again and just miles from Kerrville, Texas as my anxiety builds. Will she be there, at that Rest Stop, where I left her four years earlier. Over 4000 kilometres I drove with this torment in mind. What would I do, how could I help her now, as I am in no better financial position today then when we shared our last meal together, hugged, with tears filling my eyes, saying goodbye and promised I would be back, with some more money and a better vehicle? Pulling in, up to that picnic table (a misnomer … it was no picnic) the memories flowed back. As I anticipated and regretfully wished… she was not there. But, I will stay here for the night. Who knows what will become of it.
Meisha was a Federalist revolutionary, as those of the Alamo… fighting the Centralists of modernity knowing quite well the potential outcome on the highways of Liberty:
“If we succeed, the Country is ours. It is immense in extent. And fertile in its soil and will amply reward all our toils. If we fail, death in the cause of liberty and humanity is not cause for shuttering… we know what awaits us, and are prepared to meet it” Daniel Cloud, 1835.
The side entrance into the Alamo brought me directly into the retail shop, filled with unlimited shelves packed with commercial “goodies“. Everything was for sale. My anticipation soured immediately… good ol’ American enterprise… like selling worthless, imitation trinkets to the Aborigines… cleverly retooling modern ignorance. Nothing was for free there, except a one 8-½” x 11” b/w page with minimal text. And that shop was packed full of modern ghosts, tripping over one another for another precious treasure to joyfully take back to their tribe. No!!! Right!!! I bought nothing!Exiting out of there onto another pathway, I was led to some original walls of the Alamo… fascinating.
I must return to Galveston, as on that last final fatal day with Meisha, four years ago, to that magnificent 20 foot high grand bronze sculpture in the centre of town. It is a sculpture honouring the flag draped heroines of the Texas Revolution, which I did not understand at that time. This time, I will re-view it with a new found reverence and adulation. That (or those) photos I will send to you in a few weeks, on my return from the “Q” (Albuquerque).
Meisha was/is a revolutionary and I curse the Centralists forces that have abandoned her to the highways… I am holding my “cuss-words” back… not my customary, pejorative nature. But the Centrist forces are re-emerging in the lands, defying the spilt blood and political victories of the Texas Federalists, Sam Houston, Davy Crocket, William Barret, James Bowie, James Bonham and the other heroes (will name the Federalist heroines after I get back to Galveston).
My nature is to cuss but, the Centralists control the media and consequently our minds. Even here at this Texan Rest Stop, along with the previous ones, as I entered this state… WiFi was cut off. The Texas map says Free WiFi at all Rest Stops… not so! The attendants do not know why. Too many revolutionaries… perhaps? No worry, I will keep my cuss words for the underground… to those in-person, activist venues who might invite me in with my colourful tongue, art, music, poetry.
Meisha and I had the cussing out on the highways for two weeks, from Corpus Christi to Galveston, as we tried to re-enable her blank memory and find her home. She revealed a highway of horrors, her story of living in her own Alamo, under siege by a ruthless oppressor.
Life on a Wire
This Song: I wrote in Memory of her... her words.
LOST HIGHWAY USA
She’s a doctor, a lawyer, Israeli commander
A professor, scientist, secret service agent
With under cover missions locked in her mind
She’s been eight years on the highways waiting
For that day when HE will come for her
And HE will come for her in two years
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
She’s been locked up, knocked up, chopped up
She’s been spit on, slapped on, hit on
She’s been needled, drugged, poked, and joked about
And dropped on the highways without ID
With her face and memory reconfigured away
Left alone in this land of yours and mine.
We travelled together on the asphalt lines
Houston, Corpus Christi, Pasadena
Indianola, Magnolia, Matagorda, Jamaica Beach
Texas City, Palacios, the Bayou Vista
Skidmore, Geronimo, Buckeye, Galveston
looking for a place to finally call her home
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
We shopped in thrift stores, ate beans and peaches
We camped on the Gulf Coast white beaches
She tidied and swept up to leave no trash
She did not want to mess up the earth
Wouldn’t throw her banana peel on the highway
She said, cars would slip on it made me laugh
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
She thanked me for the time out on the coast
She threw handfuls of bread to the seagulls
She stood quiet on the dock watching the harbour go by
She said you are one of a kind (in my world)
But fate took me to leave her in her in that dangerous place
Lost Highway USA
With only a bench and the sky above to call home
She lives on the chains of highways
On this cold hard land of yours and mine
From California to the Atlantic shore
She cannot find her way home any more
Her name is
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Meisha ISRAEL MICAH Meikein
Monday, August 4, 2014
The Alamo
04 August 2014
.I decided to stop by San Antonio on my way to the “Q”(Albuquerque)... to see the Alamo, which, as growing up Nova Scotia, I always imagined this place and Davey Crocket to be a Hollywood fantasy. But, there it is just outside this Starbucks door and across the street. One might call Starbucks... “a home away from home”... it has free internet, for the price of a big cup-a tea and no time limit... just keep refueling my cup with hot water... free!!!... filling it right to the rim..Grandma!!!... and I didn’t even have to ask!!!! ...Brother!!!! And... to my surprise, got public parking... less than a minute walk from the Alamo... $3 for the day... WOW... no pressure!!! But... what fucked up streets... my worst nightmare... lost in a ghost city and cannot find my way back to my vehicle.
I walked slowly... inch by inch... making a map as I moved. A street merchant approached, earphones attached to his little digital device clipped to his T-shirt. He gave me directions to the Alamo... “People are afraid of me” he said. “I am not afraid but, I am hitch-hiking around... about in the same financial situation as you”. He immediately turned away, to another passer-by ... “People are afraid of.....” I heard him say.
Shame on me... you might say but, I was proud of myself to inadvertently come up with an effective deterrent on such short notice. However, I have to confess, I was not so alert two hot nights ago, to be suddenly awaken at 1:30AM at that first Texas Rest Stop by a knock on my van door. I crawled to the door from my sweaty sleeping bag to see a small slight well tanned blond woman, looking about 30 years old. “Can you help me” she asked, “I am about to run out of gas and need to get to Houston. There a gas station not far from here... my man beat me and kicked me out and I have my little brother in the truck... I need about $20 or $40”.
“You want me to follow you to the gas station?” “Yes” she said. “Am sorry to disturb you and I am really embarrassed to do this... I knocked on another car door and the woman told me to ‘go to hell!’... I don’t kno why she was so pissed off”. Smart woman, I thought in retrospect.
“Just a minute”. I crawled back to my sleeping bag, got my glasses, stumbled out the door, still trying to sort this out in my groggy brain.
Now I could see clearly ... maybe a 50 yr old, skinny, skinny woman, burnt by sun and hardly enough wrinkled skin to hang from her bones, with a cigarette clinched between her fingers. Maybe she was younger but life was hard on her.
I followed her to the gas station. Her little brother got out and stood by the door... was about a five foot- eight inch, over weight chubby, shameful looking black man. I wondered if the “little brother” was stuck in the cab.
Instinctively, my inner antennae were up but my brain was still groggy so, it was all to late for me to change the course of the inevitable. “Give the woman $40 in gas” I told the attendant. “No, no” she said. “I ain’t had anything to eat in days... I need some food” she said, with the cigarette hanging from her. I just handed her the $40 and escaped any further entanglement... realizing what just happened. “God bless you...” she called as I pulled out
Well, it took hours along the night road for me to rationalize that scam. In the end, I accepted it as an inadvertent action of good will to a woman, who really did need that money. I still feel bad for the life she must lead... every day.
So, that “Alamo street merchant” got nothing and I feel good. Now, I am off to the Alamo.
Will send photos after the visit, also some photo of Bourbon Street in the land of NO. This is my first time Blogging so need to familiarize to all the digital possibilities. In any case, I am attempting to make this Blog into a book/play so, let me see if I can generate some followers with my writings, photography, art, etc.... ultimately... some personal venue presentations. I will keep my fingers crossed... the competition is fierce but, let's see.
.I decided to stop by San Antonio on my way to the “Q”(Albuquerque)... to see the Alamo, which, as growing up Nova Scotia, I always imagined this place and Davey Crocket to be a Hollywood fantasy. But, there it is just outside this Starbucks door and across the street. One might call Starbucks... “a home away from home”... it has free internet, for the price of a big cup-a tea and no time limit... just keep refueling my cup with hot water... free!!!... filling it right to the rim..Grandma!!!... and I didn’t even have to ask!!!! ...Brother!!!! And... to my surprise, got public parking... less than a minute walk from the Alamo... $3 for the day... WOW... no pressure!!! But... what fucked up streets... my worst nightmare... lost in a ghost city and cannot find my way back to my vehicle.
I walked slowly... inch by inch... making a map as I moved. A street merchant approached, earphones attached to his little digital device clipped to his T-shirt. He gave me directions to the Alamo... “People are afraid of me” he said. “I am not afraid but, I am hitch-hiking around... about in the same financial situation as you”. He immediately turned away, to another passer-by ... “People are afraid of.....” I heard him say.
Shame on me... you might say but, I was proud of myself to inadvertently come up with an effective deterrent on such short notice. However, I have to confess, I was not so alert two hot nights ago, to be suddenly awaken at 1:30AM at that first Texas Rest Stop by a knock on my van door. I crawled to the door from my sweaty sleeping bag to see a small slight well tanned blond woman, looking about 30 years old. “Can you help me” she asked, “I am about to run out of gas and need to get to Houston. There a gas station not far from here... my man beat me and kicked me out and I have my little brother in the truck... I need about $20 or $40”.
“You want me to follow you to the gas station?” “Yes” she said. “Am sorry to disturb you and I am really embarrassed to do this... I knocked on another car door and the woman told me to ‘go to hell!’... I don’t kno why she was so pissed off”. Smart woman, I thought in retrospect.
“Just a minute”. I crawled back to my sleeping bag, got my glasses, stumbled out the door, still trying to sort this out in my groggy brain.
Now I could see clearly ... maybe a 50 yr old, skinny, skinny woman, burnt by sun and hardly enough wrinkled skin to hang from her bones, with a cigarette clinched between her fingers. Maybe she was younger but life was hard on her.
I followed her to the gas station. Her little brother got out and stood by the door... was about a five foot- eight inch, over weight chubby, shameful looking black man. I wondered if the “little brother” was stuck in the cab.
Instinctively, my inner antennae were up but my brain was still groggy so, it was all to late for me to change the course of the inevitable. “Give the woman $40 in gas” I told the attendant. “No, no” she said. “I ain’t had anything to eat in days... I need some food” she said, with the cigarette hanging from her. I just handed her the $40 and escaped any further entanglement... realizing what just happened. “God bless you...” she called as I pulled out
Well, it took hours along the night road for me to rationalize that scam. In the end, I accepted it as an inadvertent action of good will to a woman, who really did need that money. I still feel bad for the life she must lead... every day.
So, that “Alamo street merchant” got nothing and I feel good. Now, I am off to the Alamo.
Will send photos after the visit, also some photo of Bourbon Street in the land of NO. This is my first time Blogging so need to familiarize to all the digital possibilities. In any case, I am attempting to make this Blog into a book/play so, let me see if I can generate some followers with my writings, photography, art, etc.... ultimately... some personal venue presentations. I will keep my fingers crossed... the competition is fierce but, let's see.
03 August 2014
I watched her as she worked on the sidewalk with her associate trying to shake that little mouse out of the electric fan. She was barely clothed, only in her bikini, seductive under garments, in which she solicited through the dark wee hours on Bourbon Street. Yes, that Bourbon Street. That famous Bourbon Street onto which the ghosts of the whole world tramp. That Bourbon Street, of that city, the birth place of Jazz in Congo Park, of Louis Armstrong, of big Hollywood movies like The Big Easy and Easy Rider, of Hurricane KATHERINE, that virtually wiped it off the global map. Yes New Orleans, Yes, that New Orleans, into which I plunged, with all the snakes of the world on my back, from 71 years of indoctrination.
On Henriette Delille Street in the Upper Side of town I met wise 86 yr Miriam, sitting on her spot, in her deck chair on the sidewalk in the shade of a banana tree next to a big old white plastered Spanish style church, “Shake the devil off” she said. She was my latest oracle and gave me permission to use her words for this blog I am now starting.. I hugged her and moved on to find places of Jazz and Blues on Frenchmen Street. I will get back to this, as I am now pressed with another matter.
One of two remaining family members from my previous generation… my father’s half sister lay in an Albuquerque hospital with dehydration and vomiting following a serious car accident. She is a fighter. I must be there for at least moral support. This may be her last days.
I watched her as she worked on the sidewalk with her associate trying to shake that little mouse out of the electric fan. She was barely clothed, only in her bikini, seductive under garments, in which she solicited through the dark wee hours on Bourbon Street. Yes, that Bourbon Street. That famous Bourbon Street onto which the ghosts of the whole world tramp. That Bourbon Street, of that city, the birth place of Jazz in Congo Park, of Louis Armstrong, of big Hollywood movies like The Big Easy and Easy Rider, of Hurricane KATHERINE, that virtually wiped it off the global map. Yes New Orleans, Yes, that New Orleans, into which I plunged, with all the snakes of the world on my back, from 71 years of indoctrination.
On Henriette Delille Street in the Upper Side of town I met wise 86 yr Miriam, sitting on her spot, in her deck chair on the sidewalk in the shade of a banana tree next to a big old white plastered Spanish style church, “Shake the devil off” she said. She was my latest oracle and gave me permission to use her words for this blog I am now starting.. I hugged her and moved on to find places of Jazz and Blues on Frenchmen Street. I will get back to this, as I am now pressed with another matter.
One of two remaining family members from my previous generation… my father’s half sister lay in an Albuquerque hospital with dehydration and vomiting following a serious car accident. She is a fighter. I must be there for at least moral support. This may be her last days.
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