Wild: Strange White Witchery

It must take a ton of gall to live in the city of New Orleans. I say this, this requisite for temerity, due to a large number of thieves and homeless folks (poor people, I blew magic on them whenever I might) when all one wishes to do is watch the line of buildings trapped against the sky. Wire frames, decorative drains…. They say that the city was hard to build, the legacy of a madman, a tactical genius.

Though the place is swimming in t-shirt stores and knickknack peddlers, there is hope. The stores one expects to find, in a city steeped equally in moral value and old magic, one finds, and are almost all the better for the hunt. They are like diamonds, rare and glinting, fair as sunlight. Witchcraft abounds, but so do the Voodoo and Christian religions respectively. The stores dedicated to such craft have altars, where one might whisper wishes in the spirits’ ear. Though, of course, there were a few where there wasn’t magic, I knew the right from wrong… I tried to bow my head, or think kind things to those altars. Sometimes, I blew will on the wishes of my brothers and sisters. Other times, I prayed to God. I walked the cathedral of Saint Louis….

I lit a candle for my hearts and prayed, humble as you please. Celestina Warbeck’s songs were on my lips, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Sometimes, I was just in awe. The way the people dressed….! And so kind. I saw a goblin king, with hanging buckskin and bullet belts, his hair wild in the wind... another dark-haired man in three-piece suit, scratchy with jeans, dark-skinned and handsome... a remarkable number of women walking out of the 50's and smiling coyly... some wear amulets, others crosses.... a woman wears a full turban and robe, advertising Tarot... moving statues, one a confederate soldier of silver, the other a NOLA Saint's fan of gold.... The ruder men attempt to foist beads on me.

Bourbon street was named after a man, not the liquor. They built an Opera House, a French Opera House, which overnight became the destination of the country. Bars, restaurants, clubs and strip clubs (each themed and expensive to build, that the clubs would employ "tempting girls", pretty ones who could convince gentlemen to buy them drinks at exorbitant prices, then split the take with the bar at the end of the night), abound over night. Today, it is t-shirt shops and bad food and strip clubs.

 The legal red-light district, Storyville, was known for the healthiness of its girls, who would insist that their male clientele take a bath prior to service...that they could inspect them. They would give them drugged wine and wait if they seemed unfit, throw their lingerie around the room, and summon a bouncer to deposit the man in the bed. A trick, Hope the tour guide assured us, which worked extremely well. 

It took me awhile to realize the twinges of power, so unstable and grasping, even pitiful, never quite the same, they were from the ghosts. The buildings they attempt to sell are seriously labeled with “haunted” or “not haunted” labels, like one would label having a washing machine or a dishwasher here. 

 The stores were packed with magic paraphernalia, beautiful dresses in all shapes and styles, hats for the men, clothing from the bygone vaudeville days… one bookstore we went into, Books Arcenia or some such, had books from floor to ceiling. You had to be careful when you walked through, because piles were thrown wildly, huge stacks of books on the precariously balanced shelves. I fell in love with that bookstore.

I chose two books that seemed most likely to highlight what I was thinking about at the time, the placee system…. The young, free women of color who made arrangements with the unmarried (but wealthy) white men, until such a time as the men could marry (once their lifestyle had been assured). Were my pocketbook of no concern, I would have spent hours and hours in that little shop. The other bookstores seemed drab after that, because the man knew where all of his books were. Let me say that again: in a store so filled with books one could barely walk, he knew where each book was located.

It was hard to go, but when we did, we stumbled onto endless fantastic artists and their treasure hoards of gifts and beauty. The food hit you like a punch and didn’t let up, so you were always sniffing—even if you’d just eaten. I went into Hex, a sister store to the one in Salem (!!!), and bought myself perfume and rocks…. My rocks. Moonstones, and smoky quartz, raw emeralds…. A few other things. I can’t remember off the top of my head. Perfume that smelled and felt like magic. The two cashiers were beautiful. One, a young, kilted man of fierce heart, argues with the other, a dignified blonde of about 65 with a melting drawl, about the nature of a Tarot reading the man had done for himself: the nature of the Hermit card, and whether it means that the man should break things off with his boyfriend. They argue:  ‘He always starts it!’ says the warlock. The witch, ‘Do you think that matters, my love? It matters that it happens, and that it ends. You know what the Hermit means.’

I wanted to reach into the magic of the air and join, but I held my tongue; it wasn’t my business. I want to work there, very much and very badly.

Oh, and Napoleon House! Had a sandwich—muffiliate?—of many meats and peppers and melted cheese. The rain pelted violently against the building, and I laughed, protected by my much-complimented hat. Let my ocean sing to me! Let me meet, firsthand, the River of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry fin! I wanted to throw out my arms and dance in it, but Katie was frowning, trying to protect me with a borrowed umbrella.

The people, too, are so polite one stops to gawp at them. I found our Sunday best manners to be lacking in comparison to their basic propriety, and that’s fact. They use darling and baby as we would use “Ma’am” or “sir.” Kindness abounds in a city of magic and God. Absinthe is being advertised to the gills, smelling of black licorice…

The music, too, swims, is everywhere, and of such a quality that you can half-convince yourself you are hearing it canned, from speakers in the old buildings. The musicians here can surely only profit from such ambiance, and the people, locals and tourists alike, are delighted. I was warned to buy a CD, and I didn’t—I understand that warning now. I find it very strange to sit in a silent office and pretend I care about the radio when my heart is thrumming with drums and jazz. I miss the city enough that it aches, that I was wary to leave even in the middle of thunderstorms and tornadoes…

The humorous, kind taxi driver, driving his father's fan on the latter's off day, warns us that it gets hot enough to melt eggs on the sidewalk. That the humidity makes the whole city cook. It only increased my want to live there; am I not always cold in the far reaches of the north?

Today, coming back into the Office, I find a large pile of electronic scoldings awaiting me. Smelling of two types of potion and clinging to my enchanted comfort rocks, it appears nobody noticed I had gone, or perhaps cared. Driving back last night from Chicago, the cold air whipping my face, I felt the magic of home, but I knew that that which people remark upon in me was rampant in New Orleans. I am reinforced in the belief that it is fine, right, and good to be different… to buy spells for friends with a smile and a wink…. To touch old furniture, picked up in pieces of trash and remade to be new and better than new…. To wear bowler hats….to whisper magic in a palace of God, almost worthy of His barest footstep.

Here, home, I will always be too many and too much. The wildness in me is something I must restrain, that I may interact with others in polite society. There, my…. Wild…. Magic… religion… would run free. I could be more delighted to sell magic and give spiritual advice than I ever have been here, as well paid as I am. As much as I care about how things go for Kirk.

My family and friends would miss me some, and that is the issue, isn’t it? Always has been. Is my happiness worth the pain of another? Have I not already made such a choice, and continue suffering for it? Perhaps I should have sought confession in that great Cathedral.  That which marks me as mad in the north would equally mark me as talented in New Orleans, or so I do believe.

Kirk, this morning, asked if I was wearing anything from my trip to New Orleans. Teasingly, like, kind as he is always… Pulling out my bag of rocks, I set it briefly on the desk before returning it to my breast pocket. He says he wants to touch them, but “there’s always something about rocks.” I put them away immediately, remembering where I am, but instead he asks if I’ll empty the silver bag. I tell him a bit about each rock, how the system works down there…. Shaking his head, he tells me with something like awe that I “become a little bit more of a white witch every day…”

I am startled by this. Haven’t I hidden it well, my strange magic, the magic I attribute to the love of God’s ability? Apparently not.

I might be more suited to New Orleans than I thought…

But I’m not sure I can bring myself to hurt Finley again. Or my mother. Or any of the people I so dearly love….

God, I always pray to you. I trust you, and I know that you will guide me—and yet, in the spirit of my journey, of politeness to an old legend…. Papa Legba, if you hear me, point me towards the right door. Saint Peter, do so also.

My brothers and fathers, may ye guide me well.