I heard. I heard and it gave me life. Outside my kitchen window in a home barely big enough for my body, let alone my heart, the music found its way through the sorrowful leaves of the weeping willow tree into my home, into my soul. I understood then that my body was simply a mask, a shield, and I constructed it. Strong and standing, I watched the world go by and fell in love… but the music, the music of the marching band, the second line, as they practiced a few blocks down and the brass notes swirled through the thin leaves into my ears reminded me of love. I was in New Orleans.
On quiet days I jumped the rocks to the Mississippi and sat, alone, in the darkness of moonless nights, and watched. I looked down the bank to strange and beautiful marks to remember how life never ceases to flow, the ripples on the river hinting to their purpose as they gave way to rocks, to markers. We all must flow, seeing the obstacles and wrapping around them, embracing.
I believe this is why New Orleans is so filled with magick – the music is the river, the river creates the music.
The second line still finds me, through the leaves and years. I remember you clearly, though some think I drink to forget. They are wrong. When I drink, I drink to remember.