In the light of day, Jackson Square puts on her make-up – an eyeshadow of colorful artwork on her fences, a blush of pink on her sun-setting skyline, a rouge of fire in the piercing blows of the street saxophonist. At a glance, she was vibrant, alive, strong, as New Orleanians hustled the tourists of Saturday afternoons, and the tourists danced along. Party with us, we are high with purple and green Mardi Gras beads.
But at night, the square went home to wash the day off her face. The mirror whispered a reflection of bleak black-and-white lonely lights, shining on emptiness and flooded livelihood of yesteryears. The town is tired. It cannot fake another smile. Its dazed and homeless self is content under the blanket of weekend darkness. Here is me, and nothing is needed until the light of tomorrow.
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Through the lower ninth ward
The Garden of Wishes
A little bit of everything
Colonel Short's Villa
It thrills me with the reminder of why I do what I do--and infuriates me with the reminder that I'll never be able to do it completely.
Follow the music.