Friday, April 11, 2008

Today, Ashley Morris Joins Other New Orleans Legends

Ashley's body will join my grandfather's and many other passionate and unique Orleanians in St. Louis Cemetery #3 today.

That piece of geography will get even more holy today.

We are all getting stronger today, too, with bonds sealed in Ashley's fire.

1 comment:

New Orleans News Ladder said...

Clio, bless your precious world class heart.
I have been reading about #3. Nobody--NO! BODY!--lines'em up and lays'em down like Our Pucelle d'Orléans.

Having camped more than a few nights in #1 & #2 I had every intention of getting to know #3 before the storm.
Alas I yet still cannot describe the Reaper's Laughter of even one of those nights in any one of those cemeteries during what I euphemistically refer to as "The Troubles" that first week after the levees failed.
See how I talk around it?
I thought that storm had taken enough from me, of course until now, so I trust putting precious things in da'sky, like writing, music, money, pictures...whateva needs to be safe from mahem.
But as we know today, da'Reapa will just slip in anyway and steal our sense of humor...again and again...dat'forking IceHole.
Sooo, I hope that you don't mind that I send you these couple of pieces en'lieu of my absence today as y'all marched Our Saint home. I have sent the latter, from da'Ladda, around to a couple of you'z'guys.

Thank You fo'keepin da'Light On, Noble Mon.
Editill O'rilla d'Aphasia

The Story of Down
“Take care when you handle Cliche’ lest you draw offense of Metaphor as neither will honor what they seem in life--nor what you would wish of them in death.” …said Down the Gravedigger, to his apprentice Bourgeois.

“I could not agree more.” mutters Bourgeois to himself only. His words fall like pennies on a damp vault floor amidst the scattered sounds of fat raindrops as they begin to hit the tiny streets and little stone buildings of this city of the dead. Above, shit-brown clouds fly over the rooftops of the Quarters like the surface of a dirt road as seen from three inches away at thirty mph. Yet he feels neither breeze nor even a cool sigh from the rain falling straight down into the cemetery.
He had already seen Metaphor kill here, just minutes ago, before the weather changed. Now he needs to get away, get out of this labyrinth, get normal again somewhere hidden, before the Guard makes another sweep through the hood with their humvees and big hard spotlights. Thank the Devil their helicopters are grounded for the coming storm. Cliche’ cares not for uniformed authority, as their spotlights and loud machines and the misunderstanding of control in their barked orders make her nervous. Whenever Cliche’ gets nervous Metaphor comes into play and the scene changes quickly, irrevocably. Having seen enough of that for one night, Bourgeois just wants find someplace more comfortable to settle down before the storm opens up properly and real darkness falls over the city again like a rat bag. Plus it just would do no good--at all--to be seen right now with the bloody twins, especially out after the city-wide 2am curfew--and especially after they both ripped apart and consumed four confident, well armed heroine dealers and their murdered Master Down. Five dead humans you won't find a trace of in this necropolis. Bourgeois Melonsong is their Master now, for better or for worse, which he already knew as the deal with Cliche' and Metaphor.
But where is the fucking gate out of this filthy maze? He came in through it, the only entrance, but still for the life of him he can’t even find the wall around the place. If he could make it to a wall then he could work his way around through the Stations, always keeping to the right, along the Society vaults until he reached the front gate. Cliche’ and Metaphor are no help, of course. The don't care, having grown up in these tiny towns across the city. They lead Bourgeois along, as if he were a writer with all the time in the world to study the names on each address, ponder how they came to be here and when. Therein lies the rub. He is a writer and he indeed knows something of the stories behind some of the citizens of this city that care forgot and the Presidente left for dead. And he has no time for bullshit dog tricks.


MON'CHERE WHO'DAT NUMBA
'00'
Sinn Féin
We may Know Da'Sound of UnBroken Belief
as a bucket of tears while da'years grow inside us.
But We Roll
down da'wet stones in da'street
by dat'little Cafe' named for Our Goddess of Flowahs.

There da'8-Ball line'sups wit'da Lucky-13
Snake Eyes'n'Diamonds
Demons'n'Chains
Still, da'Angels Wake
for Saint Ann to begin
with her Masque made of sorrow
and her Laugh made of sin.

So when I die
do please carry me down Royal Streets
wit'a Brass Band an'da 2nd Line Beat
by'da Court Yards tru'da Mook d'City
and lay me down
my soul to sleep