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We are a people in shock. We stumble at trying to find our bohemian city that may lie dormant or may be dead. Post-K New Orleans is full of tales of apocalyptic nightmares coupled with a longing for days gone by. New Orleans’ soul remains a place of artists, banker artists, lawyer artists, oil and gas artists, oil painting artists, tour guide artists, food making artists, food eating artists, float riding artists, poet, musician, actor artists, second-line-dancing artists, politician artists. We have lived in chaos before, but never can we remember living in such a chaos of despair. Some of us cry, some of us rage, some of us cry and rage. That bitch Katrina has smashed our multi-colored memorabilia and sent our multi-colored friends packing. The splinters of our fractured community chafe our skin and reveal our blood. And we are suffering alone in grief, anger, and shock. None of us can see the future. We are confused about who we are, and we long for our national family to stroke our hand and pat our shoulder with “attaboys” and “attagirls.” We are so broken that we are not even able to ask for help. Despite good intentions early on, our family is no longer shining its light on our plight. Our Governor said “send us everything you’ve got” and then was blamed for not being specific enough. Our U.S. Senators, one from each party, teamed to write a bailout bill, and they were blamed for asking too much. We are too exhausted to ask again. But when I dig deep, I can ask once more; here goes: send us your hearts, send us your poet laureate, send us every last compassionate conservative, help us rebuild our levees - get the Dutch!, help us protect our coast and restore our wetlands, help us rebuild our housing stock without exploiting us, help us clean our land, give us phone service, mail service, stoplights, notice our power company declared bankruptcy, bring in planners, listen to our visionaries – not just the official ones, ignore media misinformation, be our friend, feel our tears, be our family, be our nation. Please, hold us in your prayers. And someday, when you see, hear, and taste New Orleans again, and know what you have done to help us, you will see us smiling back with gratitude, and, as your artistic bohemia, we will be gazing at you with shining eyes, beholding your soul as you have beheld ours. Namaste. (“The soul in me bows to the soul in you”). Mark
© 2005 Mark Morris |
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