Tags » Toulouse Street
It’s Tennessee Williams Festival Week. Sadly, Odd Words will not be covering the festival as in recent years as the paying day job makes that impossible. 1,800 more words
Two cups of coffee, an over-charged e-cigarette (27 milligrams of nicotine) and the lizards of adrenaline trace the paths of my nervous system with familiar claws. 252 more words
It is the hour of ground fog in the feral corners of City Park nearest to water, the hour of empty streets, dark except for the illumination of unsleeping neon , disregarded stoplights and the taillights of third shift police cars, the first shift workers, and the passing of the wheel- and teeth-clenched homeward-bound reveler aiming for the center line, Bourbon Street itself mostly empty as the street cleaners pass, their powerful jets of water washing plastic and vomit into the storm drains, while around certain corners a few streets are still haunted with the music of jukeboxes where men in leather or in lace panties slowly dance in a drunken embrace and the last shift of bartenders and busboys call out for rounds of shots in bars where the doors are stored behind the cigarette machine, the hour in which the most unholy rituals of the city are observed in the dark of Sunday mornings beneath faded bunting in the colors of the ecclesiastical calender and the cemeteries glow in their most waxen, bloodless alabaster, the hour of the disinterested cat cleaning itself on a wall while the rats scurry along the powerlines toward their dark holes, the silence of tree-draped weekend streets unbroken by the rumble of the trucks and the whistle and shout of the garbagemen, the moment when my own mind sparķs to life as if an unseen hand has thrown a sparking knife switch and I wake with the cut-glass clarity I once felt stepping out of the Abbey and into the street to clear my mind of the fog of alcohol with a cigarette and the surcease of uneasy laughter, to relish the echo of certain songs carefully selected for this moment with the slide of my last quarters into the jukebox, music certainly written in pre-dawn hours the for the pre-dawn prowler, Keith Richard’s fingers picking out “Moonight Mile” with the precision of a needle sliding into a well-worn groove, the last rush of exhilaration before the nod and the stumble home become, with age, unwelcome coffee and the flush of an uncertain shade of morning obscured by clouds and illuminated with birdsong.