Rain in the well.

This well has been dry for quite some time. As I gazed inwardly I felt my heart move slightly with the notion that my barren soil, just received a drop of rain. This cannot be happening... This land was forsaken, sold to bidders who didn't cherish its existence, its heartbeat long since departed from its tired, arid veins. I cannot shake the moments that have brought me back full circle to the technicolor reality of the past. The most meaningful and moving corners of my entire life archive were now being summoned to the present. Within the walls of its deceit, I felt displaced in time to a place where my life's course changed so drastically...so abruptly, so unwillingly, so permanently? Rekindling these memories, I feel as if an old 8mm reel camera springs to life... its wheels still vibrant and obedient, but what scenes will be left on the tape to play and who will be watching this performance? More importantly, how will it end? Can I handle another failed repeat performance of this act that just kept spinning without end in my soul for the last 20 years?


Living torn, knowing that I cannot change the past, I sit contemplatively trying to understand the moments that define my recent days... If I stay here at this well, will the rains continue or is this just a sick, hallowed oasis in my own mind trying to deceive my last bit of sanity? Hold the tape. Not this memory, not the most cherished set of recollections I have ever known...I know the risk in placing these reels on the projector of my life, but like the proverbial moth, I cannot ignore this flame either. I just cannot look away. Perhaps, I secretly believe in the omnipotent power of love and the beauty & calmness that still resides in this place.


Perhaps, I am just mad...


Perhaps there is one more performance left...


Perhaps we better be careful. This slope is mighty slippery.


Give me your hand...


...................................................................................................................


It is just a walk, it is just me...

Moment.

Driving without intention nor destination, my mind continued to race. Cycling through the myriad of memories presenting themselves upon the stage of my frontal lobe, as if someone tossed a hundred Polaroids into the air without care, I was captivated in the moment. I hadn't heard her voice in nearly two decades and the now the veil of silence had been lifted, albeit for a moment. I felt instinctively that my sight had been restored in some discounted way that I cannot explain. Cherishing the purity of the moment, and not the quantitative value of the experience, I smiled.

There are no ordinary moments, I pondered to myself.


I feel that my life is reaching a crossroad, and while I am not certain to what degree my path will be altered, it is still the journey that matters. My heart has not been whole in quite some time, but I have no one else to blame at this juncture. I never envisioned that I would ever be complete, not in this lifetime with the decisions I had already made. I never believed that I was ever truly understood and valuing the richness of your own worth, must came from within before the patronization can ever truly matter, if it ever should at all.


The future doesn't matter, as I have no definitive plans ---

Every second and every word. That is all I remember.

Cheers.

Saints - Declaring War on New Orleans?

Resolve and the perils of declaring war on the city of New Orleans.

My ancestors first arrived in the port of New Orleans in the late 1700s. The earliest one on record was Victor David from Bordeaux, France whom at age 16 founded his own mercantile hardware store in what would be considered Jackson Square and in spite of the many challenges of the day, managed to excel in his trade. The Victor David house still stands as a historic moniker, a testament to his ingenuity & ambition, next to Le Petit Theater and just a stone toss from the nearby St. Louis Cathedral.

 On the other side of town, in Bayou St. John, my grandfather thrice times removed, Christoval Morel, was an established attorney of the day and taught sword fighting in what is known now as the bloody oaks of City Park. He was what you might consider a refined scallywag, a true swashbuckler shrouded in linen suits, and in actuality was the legal counsel for pirate Jean Lafitte himself, the most gloriously renowned adventurer ever to grace our Cajun coast.

 To say that adventure, mystique and penchant desire for rebellion is in my blood would be an understatement.
It was indeed known that the King of France presented the Fleur de Lis to the Morel family in their home in Bayou St. John and this symbol, this icon talisman, would later become our own personal seal of identity not only for ourselves, as New Orleanians, but also bestowed upon our professional football franchise, established in 1967.

 Hurricane Katrina did not define who we were, it merely exposed our tenacity and our resolve to the world on a public scale. People of New Orleans are some of the most feverishly proud, deeply spirited & most resolute citizens of this planet. This culture is not for the faint of heart. It is bold, spicy and untamed - deeply rooted in its own twisted past of lore spanning a myriad of races, ethnicities & styles, but it is all New Orleans. Carrying a bite equal to its jazzy bark if shown disrespect to its intention, or its people. Its soft-underbelly is merely the gentile nature of its inhabitants. We would rather respectfully nod and share a drink than quarrel, but if your aim is to battle, we don't back down either.

 Fast-forward to 2012. The Saints. Some might consider the recent decision of the commissioner to punish our franchise, its head coach, players & management to be a coup de grâce to our 2012 football season. A heavy-handed way to extinguish any chance for a Superbowl victory at Home in the Dome. I believe this action just may grow to become larger than the aforementioned tragedies of Katrina, igniting the passions of the feverishly loyal, insanely proud & notoriously underestimated city and its hallowed gridiron gods.

This, my friends is our time for a WHO DAT NATION battle cry of epic proportions. This is US versus the world, not just mother nature, FEMA nor City Hall. Not just the 9th Ward, Garden District, Lakeview nor Marrero, this is all of us united. The entire nation of NFL rivals including the executives of this very sport have declared war on our team for transgressions of our recent past. Punishment should fit the crime and the allegations are indeed heinous, but our collective past never should have justified this level of damnation. This was personal, and we all know it. Roger Goodell could have cancelled Mardi Gras and received less incensement from the people of New Orleans.

If history of living as a true New Orleanian has taught us anything, it is that we always recover, we always get back up to fight another day. We have a deeper layer of grit, pride and determination than most and this is going to be unleashed in the upcoming 2012 football season on our opponents. Bounties? Nothing new for people descending from blood lines of pirates. Declaring War on our Saints? A epic showdown of rebellion and pride from a city more united than ever.

Goodell should have been more careful in his methods. You simply don't declare war on the people of New Orleans and expect us to surrender in peace. Blue tarps or not, our foundation has been shaken once again. Now "Let's make it Right" WhoDat Nation. Let's bring home the ultimate bounty in the Dome on February 3, 2013.


See you back on the ship.... Section 638.

Gaining Ground

You know sometimes when you travel, you think about the long road ahead, the inherent frustrations of the journey itself, and this makes you question the significance of the entire process. Most of the time, I admit, I feel remotely pessimistic about my own path and where this caravan of life is taking me.

Alas, there is a breaking point for me so far in 2012. I feel calmer, perhaps due to the fact that I am chronologically getting older, and just perhaps a tad bit wiser, but outside of those two imponderables, I finally feel that I am gaining ground in my walk. I sense the purpose of my step, perhaps the mortality in my veins in a more lucid light, but I am truly shedding my skin this year and it feels cathartic & hopeful.

Perhaps, my butterfly will finally emerge victoriously from this tired, aged & nearly broken chrysalis that has been my life for the last 20 years or so. I have to find a way to unleash my true purpose herein and cease my idling and I believe in earnest this is the year of that rebirth.

I cannot vividly recall a moment in time that felt so aligned with my own vision of my walk and my soul so prepared to be unmasked. Truth be known, I have felt shrouded from the light, content to survive inconspicuously in the darkness, never realizing that for true growth to occur, you need both sides of the proverbial coin ---- the yin and yang of life and the elements of God need to shower & nourish equally. Water without sunlight will not yield a good harvest.

Too long I have remained in the darkness, meditating, believing and seeking its truth, but now I need to allow God to enrich the fertile ground of my life in His glorious light, the light that needs no shadow, no shade & no allowance for abdicating my fears. It is time to position myself towards the greatness that God has intended.

Feeling a comforting warmth in my soul, I know this year will be uniquely special and if it is the end of all time, then so be it likewise, my Mayan friends.... at least, I will go out with a glorious bang of enthusiasm and contentment in my soul. I don't fear dying at this juncture, only not truly living.....

Cheers,
Andy

Morning Message...

I felt a strong summoning this morning to walk amongst the oaks even in the midst of the solemness I viewed gazing out of the window before me. The cold early morning skies revealed not a whisper of sunlight nor happiness, just existence and an occasional reprieve that the end was truly not happening, not now at least. I have always felt tremendous power and spiritual energy from trees, especially large oaks. It is not anything you can quantify nor cast away, it is purely there for those who believe in the magic of the moment, the hidden arrangement of all moments, none of which are ever ordinary.

As I strolled with my border collie in tow, I tried in vain to escape from both the cold wind and the chills from my emotional sadness that this environment had now forced me to focus thereon. None of these burly aged oaks felt despair nor sadness with my visit, as they have witnessed my soul in so many forms over the last 15 years of visiting this park. They had seen me married once to others, carrying my new born children, walking this same soil with other dogs, families, and girlfriends. At each of those moments in time, everything seemed so certain, so permanent, but alas --- nothing ever lasted.

Vividly recounting the past and the memories that this groundhog moment recreated in my mind stopped me in my tracks. I paused and saw myself from above the large canopy of trees like a google satellite photo turned personal, deeply personal. I recounted from aged memories the steps that I must have taken with others and it mapped out trails walking in every direction in my mind, all eventually leading to nowhere, I surmised. With more resolution and detail than ever imagined, I found myself believing that this life is all individual moments. They are all transient, they are all but temporary and they all need to be cherished.

I continued to walked deeper between the large row of trees aligned like soldiers shrouding my walk with their extended swords, albeit sturdy limbs above my head. When will I be at peace, when will I understand the message enough to not fall victim again to this parade? When will I return and not feel unfulfilled and alone? I stopped and inquired to myself, feeling slightly better than no one else was around to witness my delusional behavior, but smiling knowing that those who really knew me would truly expect nothing less...

Why was I so hard to believe in and why was I never valuable enough to hold onto to?
I continue to walk with this feeling of unimportance regardless of the proverbial skins of the walls of my life. It is not pity I feel, just a sense of solitude that I enjoy most of the time, just occasionally, I find myself questioning the rationale for it to exist. Comforted, I know that this was the plan all along. Without this, my soul would have never continued to grow, continued to strengthen itself in the midst of our epicurean culture. I would have lost my touch not only with myself, but upon my walk with God.

I wouldn't call myself godly, at least in the traditional sense of this word. However, He knows how much I care, how often I call upon His wisdom, and that is more than enough for my soul to ever reveal. Turning away from the water's edge, the wind strikes me hard and bitterly upon my face as I trudge back towards my vehicle. I know I am getting closer to understanding my destiny and the purpose of this penance that I have felt for so long. Pausing for a moment, my dog instinctly sits. Reaching out my hand, I stroke the beautiful long coat of my dog, she smiles, and like a sled-dog knows it is time to return home. She pulls hard knowing the message of this moment has been received...

It is now up to me to heed its intention or simply continue to return unchanged.

Guesswork Garage....

"Stand back, she is about to rumble to life...", now where have I heard that before I pondered to myself...

Two tired old men in their late 60s, disheveled and unpolished as the garage that they stand inside of, peer through the open hood cowling intently at a 1938 Ford flathead engine. The engine itself oil-stained with time and unfazed at their enthusiasm, nor interested in awakening from its 70 year old nap, rests quietly. Returning to their chairs, the only work getting done now is from their rambling vocal cords, as I slowly grow impatient with their sense of urgency & relentless banter. While the men jeer each other with silly stories of their youth and hot-rod glory days, I smile. Knowing only a fraction of truth lace either book of their collective history, I wonder why I am still here paying to have my truck repaired by these Neanderthals.

Grabbing another wrench one of the men approaches my truck once more, perhaps believing that metal on metal contact is now what will propel this engine to start and finally relinquish its restful slumber. I am unconvinced, but take a step back to avoid any further casualties in this dramatic enclave, that they call a repair shop. Tap it right there, one exclaims. Thinking out loud, with a silent but bitter diatribe, I put on my engineering hat and wonder how tapping a chunk of iron will somehow produce internal combustion. I wonder, sarcastically if this is just a modern bit of cavemen theory --- eliminate all ideas, perhaps we will stumble upon how that other tribe produced F-I-R-E. I grin, trying to hide my amusement from the immediate audience armed with large, heavy tools, but still maintain my cheerful disposition outwardly.

The engine doesn't start. Not a whimper, nor a rattle or even a lowly grunt emanates from the old block of metal. "Must be a dirty carb..", I hear from a distance. This next idea pounces into the cage of uncertainty, just as recklessly as the last, but at this point they must be getting closer, as their chances for eliminating all other options is optimistically reduced. As the carburator housing is removed from top of the engine, its innards are examined carefully and deliberately by one of the men, this one I have named Ink in my head, due to his abundance of tattoo work, albeit most appear amatuer carvings at best. I sigh, believing this intense investigation may produce meaningful dividends to our immediate struggle, but still remain unimpressed.

I observe Ink carrying the carburator assembly to the bench with great concern and almost grave medical preservation. I ponder if this organ transplant or detailed cleaning will finally restore life to my tired engine. As chemicals spray off of the parts in nearly every direction, the mist permeates the otherwise damp but non-aromatic garage. Leaning down, I witness Ink reaching for a dirty shop towel and wonder the logic in drying a part with a cloth containing the same amount of grease that you just removed from the part itself. I shake my head in mild disbelief, but at this point I remind myself to displace logic. In fact, I think an appropriate signage to the entrance to this debacling shelter, would be "ELIMINATE ALL LOGIC BEFORE ENTERING, WE CHOOSE GUESSWORK" --- that is it. The "GUESSWORK GARAGE", man I am good. I smile, nearly breaking into a complete chuckle. My mind returns from my stand-up comedy act, back to the somber present.

While off in my own mind, appearently the carburator assembly has already been positioned back atop its meaningful perch above the engine. As Dopey, the slightly older dazed repairman, who seems to enjoy inhaling engine fumes a bit too much, enters the driver's door, I pray secretly for a miracle. I listen intently, even able to discern the metal clankering of the keys nearing the ignition just above the low volume of the continuous shop radio, now filtered out of my mind permanently. Click, the key slides into position. Clunk, the ignition engaged. Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrl, the engine slowly breathes....or spins, or something magical happens. I am more excited than ever, like witnessing a mother giving birth, I jump forward & yell "PUSH" or "START" outloud. I am not sure what exactly I said, but I am unconcered at this juncture. I just want the engine to start. The tired old engine finally relents and the room fills with smoke simultaneously with a low but consistent rumble. A beautiful rumbling of timed combustion. It is running.

As I witness Ink and Dopey giving each other High Fives and smiling, I relax and realize that we have finally achieved success. There is something inherently sacred and primal about witnessing an engine come to life. All men, even the most mechanically uninclined are incapable of becoming intranced by its beckoning.
Like a mystical siren, it draws you near and somehow makes you feel as accomplished as the men who designed, created and built the engine itself. It is a force that is unexplained, but totally real in its existence. I peer over to the two men, and smile glowingly, showing appreciation in spite of my frustration with the process.

As I turn my head to ensure my wallet is still in my pocket, Ink reaches in and turns the key off. I shudder for a moment, as I hear the engine draw down to a stop.
Silence enters once again, but I am content now for some unexplained reason. Reaching down, I caress the side of the slightly warm, faded red engine cowling. I speak silently to my truck and assure it will be a good ride going forward for both of us.

"She is all yours", Ink offers with a proudful smile. Yeah, after I pay for your professional services, I think to myself. "I hope I am not paying by the hour", I announce sarcastically with a grin. Alas, no further time for deliberation, I am content and ready to depart with my dear Ford truck.

I can now attest that even in the Guesswork Garage, once in a while they guess right.

Costume Department

Excerpt from one of my Dramatic Narratives

I cannot define the method of my ways, nor of the moments that truly define the reasons for my existence. The weight of the past and the burden of emotions that I cannot shake continue even at this age to define my walk. Emotionally I feel spent, torn away from the realty of the present, like a stage performance over-played and undersold, I walk through each day defining the expectations of others only to continually sacrifice the time that I have left for those who could barely discern that I was wearing a costume at all. I cannot shake the moments where I truly felt alive and embraced by those who really tried to know me, tried to understand the mysteries of the man behind the madness that each day brings forth. There were those who held onto me with a true heart of compassion and love, those days are just not with me any longer. Their fingerprints long lifted from the crime scene of my life.

For those who tried to bear the brunt of my sadness and revelled in the joy of my lost soul buried in the short-lived happiness that was my own thoughts, I thank you.
I cannot erase the images of your face away from the constant knowledge that I was as close to keeping you near as I ever was in releasing you to the world. I knew what cards I needed to play, I just could not afford to cash in your soul in exchange for my petty happiness. I have never been good at maintaining the moment, nor watering the gardens of souls that I know in the end I will either drive away to protect or tragically attempt to retain for my own disparity.

Perhaps, I know, secretly, that I am not worth the attention, nor the sacrifice. I adore the darkness, always believing that the truth lives in that place. For when the dawn breaks, the sun will continually shadow the reality of life and perhaps bring enlightenment to areas that condemn that enhancement of character. We have all been taught that light brings truth, but the harshness of its power can indeed overshadow the beauty, simplicity and even altruistic nature of life itself. Seeing things for what they are, being allowed to self-illuminate --- that is how you are able to ever shine.

I am not sure when I last believed in myself and the promise that I could shake the struggles of holding onto something that continues to cloud my steps. Like a strange, but living apparition --- I am confused and dismayed that I am still here haunting myself in this house of emptiness and greed. There must be a calling, my own personal Paul Revere being summoned with my orders, my commandments? I sit here from a different era, an old soul trying to hit replay in a world that has long admonished the history of its own past, much less the simplicity of my message.

For now, I must continue to push onward. I hear the director calling, "Performance begins in 5" --- Exiting stage left, I head to the costume department. Content at least in this moment, that this show is not over, my final performance still undone...