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Redemption Songs March 12, 2016

Posted by The Typist in Irish, Irish Channel, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.

Now at the annual collision of our African, Celtic and Sicilian cultures, in this town where the African’s ripped from their villages and put into bondage were too valuable a property to risk so the hungry Irish were set to work and die digging the New Basin Canal, where the Sicilian residents of the French Quarter were lynched by practiced hands, the Mardi Gras Indians will come out even as the Irish and Italians stage their parades and the green beer and red wine will flow, and the streets will be lined with rotted cabbage heads, pork chop sandwiches and loose feathers, a celebration in the way only our entirely Creolized culture knows how to do best. In this one place God set aside like Nod for the rejects of Anglo culture and in which we have established (with a wink and a blind eye from God) all that the propaganda of the north promised in their lies, the true melting pot. It is time to to sing Redemption Songs.


1. Michelle Adam - March 12, 2016

A beautiful description of a true melting pot that sings, plays, dances, lives! Thanks. I miss you on my blog! I imagine Mardi Gras has kept you busy in all the best ways.

Liked by 1 person

2. The Typist - March 13, 2016

Carnival is behind us. It runs from 12th Night until the day before Ash Wednesday, and I recon a Spanish origin comes with a Catholic upbringing so you know that calendar. Part of my absence from your blog and others I follow, my absence here, has been my involvement in a spiritual journey of my own, one which comes with homework (much reading) which is documented here: ThisSolitaryHearth.wordpress.com. Mine is also about the spirit of a place, although mine is at once holy and mundane, a bit of City Park containing some of the oldest trees on the continent, survivors of countless storms and floods, to graceful in their curved limbs and beautiful in their gnarled boles to make good lumber. New Orleans is old by American standards, a town of numerous ghosts, but these spirits are older still and speak to me as your beloved desert and mountains do.


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