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Crisp November 3, 2013

Posted by Mark Folse in Fortin Street, geo-memoir, lyric essay, New Orleans, NOLA, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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To say the insubstantial  air is crisp is to notice the absence of summer floral profusion, the sweet olive blossoms fallen and the jasamine gone to pods. Deprived of garden aromas and the spice smell of crawfish and shrimp boiling, the hearing becomes more astutue; the sounds of football and concerts carry through the evening air with the alacrity of flocks of starlings. As the flowers dwindle to funereal marigolds, the evergreen oaks’ deep green is familiar and comforting as a favorite sweater, the cypress and odd fellow’s oaks that dot the landscape like Jazz Fest banners echo the marigolds reds and oranges and yellows, hearth colors announcing the imminent birth of the cool.

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1. vagabonde - November 4, 2013

Lovely sentences and vocabulary – wish I could write like this. But you know, I just went to New Orleans – and frankly the air smells good there – could be all the perfume the tourists are wearing or more likely the musicians and waiters going to work. I also like to go to Hove’ every time I am in town and purchase some more Bayou d’Amour or Flame – they have a great scent.


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