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Pedestrian I: The Old Man in the Oaks February 29, 2016

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Pedestrian I, The Journey, The Mystery, The Narrative, The Typist, The Vision, Toulouse Street.
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The Old Man in the OakWalking with intent, without the distraction of an iThing and ear buds and with attention to my environment, I find the most interesting things in the grove of oaks and other trees along the south side of Bayou Metairie. Among yesterday’s discoveries was The Old Man in the Oak. No, I’m not going to tell you where to find him. You will have to join me in walking with intent through what I have come to think of as the Sacred Grove.

Of course, when intent and attentive, one also notices certain vistas of great beauty. I make a habit of leaving the sidewalk and going cross-country as it were through the grove of live oaks, stepping over and through what I think of as gates made by the pendulant branches that come down and touch the ground only to ascend again. Below is a view I found particularly striking on Sunday. I call it the Lady in the Grove.

The Lady of the Woods

Finally, while wending my way through the gates (think walking straight ahead above toward the fountain, although the particular path I thread usually involves a much smaller passage), I found a rose stuck in the ground, framed by (and appearing to glare at) a green bottle cap with a bit of gold twist tie you can’t easily make out laying nearby.

Rose & Bottle Cap

Walking with Intent. It’s the only way to travel.

As if February 16, 2016

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Pedestrian I, poem, Poetry, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Poem cross posted from http://poetryisnot.wordpress.com

it didn’t winter enough
for them to stop
& think to take
the time to

Wandering February 11, 2016

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Pedestrian I, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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When I first came home to New Orleans, 469020_10151593918210138_253649131_oI was working out of a converted kitchen cum office. I would often take a lunch break to step away from the massive monitor to bathe myself in sunlight instead of the cracklin radiation of the CRT. As it was closest, I often found myself wandering the groves south of Bayou Metairie.

That is where I walk today with more purpose: briskly for exercise, sometimes for distance, often just to be among the great trees, to catch a glimpse of the anhinga that haunts the west end of the cutoff remains of the Bayou.

Anyone who lives near this end of the park knows the air whistle of the miniature train that wends its way around the south end of the park. It has been a fixture of my life since childhood, when the trains were a streamliner style engine and cars, and an Old Smokey engine with false pistons tied to the wheels, a Smokey Mary stack, and most incorrect confederate flags flying at each side of the cow catcher. Those trains are gone. I miss the Old Smokey Mary (but not the flags), the actual tie-in of the decorative pistons and arms to the driving wheels, the antique look of it.

It does not run all of the time, only weekends and the long Celebration of the Oaks. What is always present is the line’s curving tracks wandering among the trees, another path I sometimes wander along the ballast or stepping gingerly along the ties.

Best Of Cast Off Sculpture December 27, 2015

Posted by The Typist in A Fiction, art, FYYFF, je me souviens, New Orleans, Pedestrian I, Remember, The Narrative, The Odd, The Typist, WTF.
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The Forgotten Labor Of Heracles: The Slaying  of the Psychotropic Bacon at the Gates of Taste


The Ignominy of Ignorance: Kinetic Sculpture by Some Guy from Some Where with Docent in the Background

All photos by A. Eulipion. Reproduced under a letter of Marque and Reprisal issued by the Committee of the Whole, Free  City of New Orleans.

Ed. Note: Some explanation for the blog’s many subscribers from afar: These are the sculptures that graced the front of the New Orleans Museum of Art in my living memory, a span of half a century. I did not grab a picture of the plaque beside the bronze sculpture of Hercules of my earliest memories and so cannot name the artist. The kinetic piece below, Wave, is by Lin Emory, a world renowned native of New Orleans. His deserved place of honor is now taken by a monstrous Lichtenstein. I would not argue the acquisition of the Lichtenstein, or a place of honor for it in the Bestoff Sculpture Garden behind NOMA. I am resentfully nostalgic that the museum would displace a native son with it. The title is a play on the Bestoff family partnership in the local Katz & Bestoff drug store chain.

Pedestrian I: Lost Flamingo October 18, 2015

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Pedestrian I, The Journey, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Fone 10-18 070Its bright pink eroded by so many suns, nearly hidden in the shrubbery, faded to something like the waterbirds in the nearby park who also hide themselves along the marge, it is reduced to a muted respectability appropriate to a neighborhood which takes its name from that park, and is entered between two pillars.

Pedestrian I: Sky Blue Heaven February 18, 2014

Posted by The Typist in New Orleans, Pedestrian I, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
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A Community of Saints

Haiku (gesundheit) August 18, 2011

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Pedestrian I, Poetry.


A maple leaf blows
Across the cool Fall asphalt–
Lost ideogram.

Fixed to make it singular and a better (more particular, i.e. specific) haiku.

Pedestrian I: 310 May 10, 2010

Posted by The Typist in 504, art, cryptical envelopment, Jazz, Pedestrian I, Toulouse Street.
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“Oh the streets of Rome/Are filled with rubble.
Ancient footprints/Are everywhere.”
–Bob Dylan, “When I Paint My Master Piece”


Mondrian ruins on the hard luck side of Rampart, the pawn shop gone, the facades unredeemed, avoided by spooked rail-pass tourists walking past the remains of the Eagle Saloon wondering where the picturesque history and jazz are hidden.