“Baby,” I said. “I’m a genius but nobody knows it but me.”
—- Charles Bukowski
“Louisiana in September was like an obscene phone call from nature. The air–moist, sultry, secretive, and far from fresh–felt as if it were being exhaled into one’s face. Sometimes it even sounded like heavy breathing. Honeysuckle, swamp flowers, magnolia, and the mystery smell of the river scented the atmosphere, amplifying the intrusion of organic sleaze. It was aphrodisiac and repressive, soft and violent at the same time. In New Orleans, in the French Quarter, miles from the barking lungs of alligators, the air maintained this quality of breath, although here it acquired a tinge of metallic halitosis, due to fumes expelled by tourist buses, trucks delivering Dixie beer, and, on Decatur Street, a mass-transit motor coach named Desire.”
― Tom Robbins,
Even a tattooed hipster wearing crazy clothes on a skateboard in one of the coolest spots on earth can have bad taste in beer.
The Jenga Master
She spent a decade of deprivation, dedication, and study at a monastery in the mountains of Bhutan, high on the slopes of unclimbed Gangkhar Puensum, studying the game under the mysterious monks until she returned a Jenga Master.
Now she earns a meager living hustling the game in the city park.
The children are amazed at her skill, but they will never have the patience nor the passion to become a Jenga Master.
.
I was walking in the park and this guy waved at me. Then he said, ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.’ I said, ‘I am.’
—-Demetri Martin
Clyde Warren Park, Dallas, Texas
When was the last time you spent a quiet moment just doing nothing – just sitting and looking at the sea, or watching the wind blowing the tree limbs, or waves rippling on a pond, a flickering candle or children playing in the park?
—-Ralph Marston
I went to the park and saw this kid flying a kite. The kid was really excited. I don’t know why, that’s what they’re supposed to do. Now if he had had a chair on the other end of that string, I would have been impressed.
—- Mitch Hedberg
We left the Deep Ellum Brewing Company’s First Annual Party and walked over to Main street where the Deep Ellum Market was in full bloom. I’ve heard some good music at the Markets – the bands set up on the sidewalk outside a recording studio on Main. I’ve seen Ducado Vega and June Marieezy – they were all really good.
Today was a duo called Bad Veins – a guitar/singer/keyboardist and a drummer. They said they usually play with a backing tape deck (named Irene) but decided to be a little more laid back and simply play. They were pretty darn good. They had a little cadre of fans sitting in plastic chairs in the street. How cool.
Bad Veins playing on the sidewalk in Deep Ellum.
She asks me why, I’m just a hairy guy.
I’m hairy noon and night, hair that’s a fright.
I’m hairy high and low, don’t ask me why, don’t know.
It’s not for lack of bread, like the Greadful Death.
Darlin’
—Hair – lyrics by James Rado and Gerome Ragni
“Stay alive, no matter what occurs! I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you. I will find you!”
― James Fenimore Cooper, The Last of the Mohicans
Logically, when you talkin’ about folk music and blues, you find out it’s music of just plain people.
—-Brownie McGhee
An F hole tattoo – A perfect back tattoo for a washtub string bass (sometimes called a gutbucket bass) player in a street band in the French Quarter.
My idea of heaven is a place where the Tyne meets the Delta, where folk music meets the blues
—-Mark Knopfler
Man Ray
American, 1924
Gelatin silver print
“You know when I’m down to my socks it’s time for business
That’s why they’re called business socks
It’s business, it’s business time”
―— Flight of the Conchords
“There is something strange about agony; the memory of it can be terribly short-lived when the contrast of revival and a pretty spring afternoon have dispelled the regrets. One drink of vodka in a cheerful glass, in the company of good poetry and the scent of blossoms and earth might entice the most well intended to forgo promise of atonement until a worse time. I have at times been just less than amazed how one drink merges with the second, where at some unknown point a mental transformation sets in. I have never been able to ascertain at what point that is–not precisely–and I have been conscious of trying to catch that moment, to try and understand it, to try and prevent it from happening, or at least have a fair chance to decide whether or not to cross over into that other realm. Such an elusive thing, this is.”
― Ronald Everett Capps, Off Magazine Street
When you talk to someone that has visited New Orleans, they will tend to say, “Yeah, I’ve been there, I walked up and down Bourbon Street.” On our last trip, we spent a week in New Orleans and I never set foot on Bourbon. It’s all tourist, all the time, in a bad way. Trash tourist.
There is another street that has plenty of tourist in it, but in a good way. Magazine Street. I spent a lot of time on Magazine. Our Guest House was at Magazine and Race, not far out from downtown. But Magazine runs a long way. Decatur street in the French Quarter changes into Magazine as it crosses the neutral ground of Canal and then Magazine follows the curve of the river all the way through the Arts District, Garden District and Uptown until it pierces the gorgeous Audubon Park.
At every major cross street it holds a cluster of restaurants, nightclubs, shops, and everything else. In between are fabulous examples of the amazing New Orleans architecture, from Gothic old mansions to rows of shotgun houses.
A walk down Magazine is a great walk. Be careful, though – it is a long street. I still have memories and pains in my ankles from a stroll we took a couple years ago. Near the beginning, I turned an ankle on a bit of rough sidewalk broken pavement and then hiked too far from the car. The trip back will forever be etched in my mind as the “Magazine Street Death March.”
(Click to view a larger version on Flickr)
I saw a bit on television about the uselessness of a college education. The reporter wandered New Orleans interviewing bouncers, bartenders, cooks, and pedicab drivers – even a woman reading tarot cards in Jackson Square. They all had college degrees – some multiple, many graduate degrees – yet they all were working in nightlife in New Orleans. The point of the piece was how useless the college was to these poor dupes – that in spite of their education, the best they could do was work in the New Orleans nightlife.
The main thrust of the concept may be true, but the reporter was missing the whole point. The folks he interviewed were doing what they wanted to do – not a single one of them expressed regret. They didn’t want to be investment bankers, teachers, or engineers; they wanted to be a part of New Orleans, as best as they could.
I guarantee that if you interview a pack of bankers, managers, and businessmen and ask them, if they could, would they want to drive a pedicab through the New Orleans night, tell fortunes under the Cathedral in Jackson Square, or hustle for the strippers on Bourbon, and they probably won’t tell you that they would d’ruther, but there will be a long pause and a wistful look into the air. It’s all a question of who has the courage and who doesn’t.
“there was something about
that city, though
it didn’t let me feel guilty
that I had no feeling for the
things so many others
needed.
it let me alone.”
― Charles Bukowski“Leaving New Orleans also frightened me considerably. Outside of the city limits the heart of darkness, the true wasteland begins.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces“There are only two things: love, all sorts of love, with pretty girls, and the music of New Orleans or Duke Ellington. Everything else ought to go, because everything else is ugly. ”
― Boris Vian“I’m not going to lay down in words the lure of this place. Every great writer in the land, from Faulkner to Twain to Rice to Ford, has tried to do it and fallen short. It is impossible to capture the essence, tolerance, and spirit of south Louisiana in words and to try is to roll down a road of clichés, bouncing over beignets and beads and brass bands and it just is what it is.
It is home.”
― Chris Rose, 1 Dead in Attic“People don’t live in New Orleans because it is easy. They live here because they are incapable of living anywhere else in the just same way.”
― Ian McNulty, A Season of Night: New Orleans Life After Katrina“Jesus just left Chicago, and he’s bound for New Orleans.”
―ZZ Top
Woman studying on a nice day in the Besthoff Sculpture Garden, New Orleans
(Click for a larger and more detailed version on Flickr)
A sculpture garden is a wonderful place… a well-done sculpture garden on a nice day is the best of all possible places – one where the blue sky, crystal humming air, and moving spectators become part of the exhibit and integral to the pure joy of hanging out in such a spot.
A woman sits barefoot, shoes and drink nearby with her backpack not far away, and quietly studies her notebooks in the sun. How is she not as exquisite a work of art as the famous bronzes? The curve of her back, the spherical bun of hair on top of her head, and the sun gleaming from her ankles and toes – these are the simple pleasures the great artists strive for lifetimes to come close to duplicating and have to settle for a second-rate imitation, the best they can do.
The granite chair behind her is Settee, by Scott Burton. His works blur the distinction between furniture and sculpture. I’ve always enjoyed his piece at the Nasher, here in Dallas, Schist Furniture Group (Settee with Two Chairs). I’m never really comfortable sitting on his work – it seems wrong to wear the art like that, even though that’s exactly what he intended.
What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to the soul.
—-Joseph Addison
When a finished work of 20th century sculpture is placed in an 18th century garden, it is absorbed by the ideal representation of the past, thus reinforcing political and social values that are no longer with us.
—-Robert Smithson
Sculpture is the art of the hole and the lump.
—-Auguste Rodin
Sculpture occupies real space like we do… you walk around it and relate to it almost as another person or another object.
—-Chuck Close
There is no substitute for feeling the stone, the metal, the plaster, or the wood in the hand; to feel its weight; to feel its texture; to struggle with it in the world rather than in the mind alone.
—-William M. Dupree
I knew a queen of toil with a crown of silver hair.
Garland of valour and sorrow, of beauty and renown…
—-Robert Louis Stevenson
Yeah, I know the Stevenson poem is about age… and the woman in the photo isn’t old. I still like the crown of silver hair… even if the queen of toil is stumbling through the French Quarter desperately clutching a to-go cup half-filled with some vile alcoholic fruit punch.
Nice boots.