From Crescent to Venice

It is finally happening. The one great apocalypse that those insane sign wavers talked about inthe Frenxh Quarter. The 'Big Wind' is here. Sky becoming black as I pull out the lap top onto this ancient porch. May very well be the last transmission from this place. Yayabo is still drinking, and the granfather of this place, Don Ron, will not leave, insisting that I fry up more plantains- that the smoke from the cigar is perfect and he cannot abandon this place.

I feel like I am on a ship, and I cannot leave- dont want toleave. Yes, the waves comes and go, like spiraling thoughts in a drunken mind. But the Bayou don't look that bad. Bad. That is the only thing that the damn radio says, so the few remaining us shut it off. Knowing it is the vital reason why everyone takes batteries. I mean here I am looking at an entire barrel of Caribbean rum, from the island of my blood birth- and....

Damn Riggs calling from his Escalade- dammit!

August Sweat

Getting bad on the porch, I look out of it this morning waiting for the shade to overcome the chairs and palms- eat up the Victorian trim as I sip some coffee. It is hot here in New Orleans and I find the shutters on all my windows closed. Come about two o clock the inside of the house begins to pressure cook. Humid, evaporating water, the kind you are wet even after drying yourself from a cold shower. Some people even just go to bed with a cold wet. Definitely not a tourist season now in this weather. You can hear the compressors bulging as the noon comes upon us. Almost like a quiet disaster movie flaming around us. Like old people flocking away to malls, we go off to bars and restaurants, not to eat or drink but just to pay rent on their air conditioning.

I just hate hearing people complain about the heat. We all know it is seathing, sweating, and purifying, that we feel like sweet fruits ripening and then rotting in the sun, but dammit do so many people have to actually think about it? As long as there is an ice maker in my house I am happy. There is the answer. But I confess the grand sport or game of porching is rather difficult, but delicious at night- when pagans rise to the blessing of a breeze that comes so sporadically

Looking up, all of us hoping the lantern on the porch will swing with a merciful breeze. But complain about it? Never!

Dragon Altar

I know, I know, another neglected blog, another neglected porch that no longer handles a purpose. Well on an archetypal level, the summer may be almost over. So perish the thought I may actually feel the need to do something, gods I hope not. The porch witnessed the biggest barbecue this side of the river in a long time. Burned my hands and everything. I adore my barbecue pit, the massive fast iron altar to the lords of fire. When I grille or barbecue, I honestly feel like I am summoning the forces of evil into the earth. Fire be good. Perhaps it is the basic instincts that dominate us, that rule us, which create the staisfaction that comes with burning edible flesh. It is one of the few male dominated fetishes that I can actually plug into. How can you beat 3 million years of evolution?