Copyright © 2011 Bob R Bogle
[The rewrite of this chapter has been stymied by delays, but is now back in progress.]
[The rewrite of this chapter has been stymied by delays, but is now back in progress.]
The sky was paling rapidly and low beams of very clear sunlight the color of an amber-white wine shone through between the houses. Crossing Pleasant and Toledano and strolling slowly along, they turned back south once again on Louisiana Avenue, its grassy divider running away for uncounted blocks. Many of the lush green yards around them were veritable gardens bright with enormous flowers thrusting forward over the oak root-rippled sidewalks. Purple, green and gold Mardi Gras beads dangled motionless in forgotten silence from banisters and tree limbs. No one else was outside except for occasional cars crossing a few blocks behind them. They were across the street from the church on the east side when the sun finally set, the dusky sky's soft, velvety peach-gray hues beyond the steeple and tower seeming to deepen even as they watched. It was no longer so very hot. A block down on the further side of the street a flight of steps like those in an old-fashioned luxury liner shuffled down from an old parochial school. Several minutes later they crossed Camp Street, and then they were back on Magazine. The colorful lights were beginning to light up down the street to their left. The sidewalks were busier with people looking for dinner. They came to the seafood store and crossed the street, continuing past a few other restaurants before coming to the café they'd selected. Underneath a long, second-storey balcony several sidewalk tables were available. They waited while Carroll stepped inside, and soon he returned with a hostess to assist them. They settled around two very small round iron tables that they pulled close side by side, Carroll and Jessie at one, and Max, Nora and Charlie at the other.
glad to see you back on track. reading faulkner now, so I'm breathing similar air. i'd love to see you melt past and present and future, south and north and all that into one slice-of-everything encapsulated in the flesh of one current flowing not like the river - not along one track time-abraded with just enough quantum splits to make-believe there's choice or will, that must terminate in the dumping ground of a man-soiled sea (to the casual observer's eye anyhow) but rather like a nautilus spiral that no matter how far-progressed, always beholds and is beheld by, the infinitely discerning and infinitely blind eyes of our ancestors. this I can't quiet yet see, but trust to when all that scaffolding cocoon has been shed and out comes a butterfly.
ReplyDeletenice way you put that; captures the notion of the effort pretty well. i read faulkner sometimes. i think i admire his writing better in principle than in the execution. come to think of it, that's almost exactly the same way i admire the grateful dead.
ReplyDelete