(no subject)
ANYWHERE I LAY MY HEAD
In the catechism of scum and scoundrels, only two holidays are considered with any seriousness: Halloween and the Day of the Dead. And so it was with rare gravity that the procession gathered at the edge of the river: the looming jack o' lanterns and the the ash stained fire breathers, the buffalo spirits spectres of dancing lace, ghost brides and ghost grooms, damsels and dandies, each and all bearing the unifying rictus of jagged bone beneath the brims of stovepipe hats and umbrella spindles. For twenty feet off the rocks the water was lightless and grey as granite before the lanterns of the ferry port caught on the ripples. Across the river, the lights of Algiers point pillared across the surface of the Mississippi and slowly swayed. A call came up for prayers, messages in bottles. These they loaded onto a small wooden raft and on the raft sat two squat calacas. As the little gondola touched the water and floated out, the brass swelled slowly, a funereal dirge. The boat dallied and figures waded off the rocks and into the river and carried it, out into the mirrored darkness with the warm low trombones moaning and the tubas crawling even lower and the cornets calling sweet melancholy over it all and finally the drums burst and the music rose into a raucous march reeling in frantic and boisterous ecstasy, bottlerockets whizzing out overhead and popping above the river in blossoms of sparks.
Jill looked back over her shoulder to me. I had been sick the past week; my throat hurt and I could not speak. It was alright. Sometimes you do not have to say anything at all.
Off the banks of this world, across the river to the next.
Pictures by Andy.
In the catechism of scum and scoundrels, only two holidays are considered with any seriousness: Halloween and the Day of the Dead. And so it was with rare gravity that the procession gathered at the edge of the river: the looming jack o' lanterns and the the ash stained fire breathers, the buffalo spirits spectres of dancing lace, ghost brides and ghost grooms, damsels and dandies, each and all bearing the unifying rictus of jagged bone beneath the brims of stovepipe hats and umbrella spindles. For twenty feet off the rocks the water was lightless and grey as granite before the lanterns of the ferry port caught on the ripples. Across the river, the lights of Algiers point pillared across the surface of the Mississippi and slowly swayed. A call came up for prayers, messages in bottles. These they loaded onto a small wooden raft and on the raft sat two squat calacas. As the little gondola touched the water and floated out, the brass swelled slowly, a funereal dirge. The boat dallied and figures waded off the rocks and into the river and carried it, out into the mirrored darkness with the warm low trombones moaning and the tubas crawling even lower and the cornets calling sweet melancholy over it all and finally the drums burst and the music rose into a raucous march reeling in frantic and boisterous ecstasy, bottlerockets whizzing out overhead and popping above the river in blossoms of sparks.
Jill looked back over her shoulder to me. I had been sick the past week; my throat hurt and I could not speak. It was alright. Sometimes you do not have to say anything at all.
Off the banks of this world, across the river to the next.
Pictures by Andy.