dog
2011-04-16 16:05:30 UTC
The Mississippi Night (part one prose)
Sometimes I play the blues. Sitting on a cyprus stump beside the
twigs and bark fire I built. The Ol' '52 Silvertone
slurred under the pressure of the glass slide. My Dodge van at my back
with the dark estuary blending
into the Mississippi night. The fact that I was sitting at the end of
the empty parking lot of the Bluebird Saloon
where Elvis frequented and whose stage he had played and I had played
that night, along with an excess of bourbon
still burning my throat, turned the blues in my voice to gravel as if
Robert Johnson himself had taken possession
of me. The Silvertone whaled in a way I'd never before made it sound.
It was only weeks after Katrina and the Delta
blues burned in me with a deep sorrow.
I had nowhere else to go so that here, outside the empty Bluebird,
felt exactly the place I was meant to be.
The blues filled my bone's marrow. The fire was for comfort; for the
night was sultry. The cornshine in the quart Mason jar
the old black bass player had given me tasted smooth as Crown Royal. I
lit a roach of some pungent southern
weed and let my left hand riff with the bottle neck slide. The night
churned the blues in me like butter. The fishy
water blended with the skunk weed and together they smelled like the
blues. Sillouettes of feeding bats punctuated
the silent cypruses. I flicked away the roach ember and added a
walking bass line to a 12 bar blues in 'open D'. My
voice told a somber story of violent, raiding storms upon helpless,
flimsey villages blown into the bent longleaf
pines along Interstate 10. The folks gathered round fire barrels in
the center of bare foundations. The
night patrols of National Gaurdsmen through the rubble with thier
armed posts outside the Wallmarts and filling
stations. In Biloxi, across the bridge beyond the barricades toward
the Gulf, a refrigerator truck full of thawing
chickens lay on its side, emitting a wretched odor. These and other
nightmares I'd seen so recently spilled forth; I
was over flowing, bursting with the blues.
Where I sat on the cyprus stump was only yards from the spot where
the healing springs of Ocean Springs had oozed forth.
They had long since dried-up, disappearing with the native tribes that
had been settled nearby for centuries. Ocean
Springs, Mississippi. One of a chain of cities connected by bridges
crossing the estuaries that spilled from the
Gulf of Mexico. Cities now ravaged by Hurricane Katrina. Shaman's
ghosts were said to gaurd over the distance that
was once their village. There was little damage from Katrina within a
quarter mile of these dry springs. The Bluebird and
the catfish restaurant above it were among only a few establishments
still open for business. Tonight, alone in the
firelight, I played the blues for the old ghosts and the new ghosts of
the recent deaths of many things. I played
the blues with the hands of ghosts and the voice of a dead hurricane.
The bats danced in the jukejoint that was the
Mississippi night. The Mississippi night, boiling with ghosts filled
with the blues.
part 2 : The Mississippi Morning Poem
The howling wolf that woke me proved to be a Shaman's ghost.
Curled in the dirt, spooning with the Silvertone,
I could see him in the first degree of morning light, just beyond the
dead fire's ashes. He was seated on his haunches,
his bare arms hugging his wolf's legs. His half man,
half wolf figure sat in profile to me,
looking north to where a crescent slash of moon lingered
above the horizon.
He howled again.
I was not afraid or surprised. I held the guitar closer, watching
him.
He sat quietly, motionless, before
howling again. The dawn's light crept timidly from the east,
seemingly respectful of the timeless ghost.
A shiver quivered through me as he tipped forward onto hands that
became paws. Then, as a ghost wolf, he meandered away,
moving this way and that without direction, until he faded
and was gone.
I closed my eyes; soon I was dreaming. As I have moved farther
and farther away from the Mississippi mornings,
the distinction between the dream and the ghost has not
diminished. The Shaman-wolf-ghost
is not to be found in the dream:
The old truck rambled by and parked in the shallow water.
A negro man in denim overhauls and straw hat
got out, peered at the vegetables loaded in the truck's bed,
then rattled the wooden slats that framed them in.
He grabbed a bundle of turnips by their greens;
carried them to me where I was sitting in a naugahyde
booth, rolling a toy fire engine back and forth on the table.
He sat across from me and pushed the turnips
across the table. "Be shor'n 'et dem greens," he said. "I was a
yungin' mama put da taste a dem greens to me wit
a cane switch."
"The shrimp boat just left," I said. "Bout time," he said.
He removed his straw hat and wiped his forehead
with a yellow bandanna.
"What happened here?" I asked, gesturing at a field freshly
logged of its trees. He looked around and shrugged'
"Dare be dat typhoon, din dare be all dim white peoples
comin' round be assin' dat
same ting."
." He spit a black mess into the dirt. He looked at me and
winked. "I gotsta go now," he said.
"I gotsta go cross da bridge. Dats where da white peoples be buyin'
anytin' I gots." He laughed. He kept laughing
and then he was my dead brother.
He said, "Hey, Bub, gotta
new keyboard from Mary. Come on by.
I'm ready to jam some blues, man."
The sun woke me. I leaned the Silvertone against my van,
In the swollen estuary waters,
in the near distance, a mangled shrimp boat, its rigging
fingered together in a cat's cradle, was jammed
between two sturdy cyprus trees.
A few gulls chattered in their flight.
The late morning heat crinkled the air.
I lit a cigarette.
Wondering about the ghost,
I checked for wolf tracks.
There were only my own. Could it have
been my brother? Could it have been
my brother and a shaman together,
watching over me, asleep in the dirt,
in Mississippi,
in the wake of Hurricane Katrina?
There is that local
tale of the shamans' ghosts.
As for my brother,
I believe he does watch over me.
I don't know.
But this is true-
not before or since have I seen
another ghost.
Sometimes I play the blues. Sitting on a cyprus stump beside the
twigs and bark fire I built. The Ol' '52 Silvertone
slurred under the pressure of the glass slide. My Dodge van at my back
with the dark estuary blending
into the Mississippi night. The fact that I was sitting at the end of
the empty parking lot of the Bluebird Saloon
where Elvis frequented and whose stage he had played and I had played
that night, along with an excess of bourbon
still burning my throat, turned the blues in my voice to gravel as if
Robert Johnson himself had taken possession
of me. The Silvertone whaled in a way I'd never before made it sound.
It was only weeks after Katrina and the Delta
blues burned in me with a deep sorrow.
I had nowhere else to go so that here, outside the empty Bluebird,
felt exactly the place I was meant to be.
The blues filled my bone's marrow. The fire was for comfort; for the
night was sultry. The cornshine in the quart Mason jar
the old black bass player had given me tasted smooth as Crown Royal. I
lit a roach of some pungent southern
weed and let my left hand riff with the bottle neck slide. The night
churned the blues in me like butter. The fishy
water blended with the skunk weed and together they smelled like the
blues. Sillouettes of feeding bats punctuated
the silent cypruses. I flicked away the roach ember and added a
walking bass line to a 12 bar blues in 'open D'. My
voice told a somber story of violent, raiding storms upon helpless,
flimsey villages blown into the bent longleaf
pines along Interstate 10. The folks gathered round fire barrels in
the center of bare foundations. The
night patrols of National Gaurdsmen through the rubble with thier
armed posts outside the Wallmarts and filling
stations. In Biloxi, across the bridge beyond the barricades toward
the Gulf, a refrigerator truck full of thawing
chickens lay on its side, emitting a wretched odor. These and other
nightmares I'd seen so recently spilled forth; I
was over flowing, bursting with the blues.
Where I sat on the cyprus stump was only yards from the spot where
the healing springs of Ocean Springs had oozed forth.
They had long since dried-up, disappearing with the native tribes that
had been settled nearby for centuries. Ocean
Springs, Mississippi. One of a chain of cities connected by bridges
crossing the estuaries that spilled from the
Gulf of Mexico. Cities now ravaged by Hurricane Katrina. Shaman's
ghosts were said to gaurd over the distance that
was once their village. There was little damage from Katrina within a
quarter mile of these dry springs. The Bluebird and
the catfish restaurant above it were among only a few establishments
still open for business. Tonight, alone in the
firelight, I played the blues for the old ghosts and the new ghosts of
the recent deaths of many things. I played
the blues with the hands of ghosts and the voice of a dead hurricane.
The bats danced in the jukejoint that was the
Mississippi night. The Mississippi night, boiling with ghosts filled
with the blues.
part 2 : The Mississippi Morning Poem
The howling wolf that woke me proved to be a Shaman's ghost.
Curled in the dirt, spooning with the Silvertone,
I could see him in the first degree of morning light, just beyond the
dead fire's ashes. He was seated on his haunches,
his bare arms hugging his wolf's legs. His half man,
half wolf figure sat in profile to me,
looking north to where a crescent slash of moon lingered
above the horizon.
He howled again.
I was not afraid or surprised. I held the guitar closer, watching
him.
He sat quietly, motionless, before
howling again. The dawn's light crept timidly from the east,
seemingly respectful of the timeless ghost.
A shiver quivered through me as he tipped forward onto hands that
became paws. Then, as a ghost wolf, he meandered away,
moving this way and that without direction, until he faded
and was gone.
I closed my eyes; soon I was dreaming. As I have moved farther
and farther away from the Mississippi mornings,
the distinction between the dream and the ghost has not
diminished. The Shaman-wolf-ghost
is not to be found in the dream:
The old truck rambled by and parked in the shallow water.
A negro man in denim overhauls and straw hat
got out, peered at the vegetables loaded in the truck's bed,
then rattled the wooden slats that framed them in.
He grabbed a bundle of turnips by their greens;
carried them to me where I was sitting in a naugahyde
booth, rolling a toy fire engine back and forth on the table.
He sat across from me and pushed the turnips
across the table. "Be shor'n 'et dem greens," he said. "I was a
yungin' mama put da taste a dem greens to me wit
a cane switch."
"The shrimp boat just left," I said. "Bout time," he said.
He removed his straw hat and wiped his forehead
with a yellow bandanna.
"What happened here?" I asked, gesturing at a field freshly
logged of its trees. He looked around and shrugged'
"Dare be dat typhoon, din dare be all dim white peoples
comin' round be assin' dat
same ting."
." He spit a black mess into the dirt. He looked at me and
winked. "I gotsta go now," he said.
"I gotsta go cross da bridge. Dats where da white peoples be buyin'
anytin' I gots." He laughed. He kept laughing
and then he was my dead brother.
He said, "Hey, Bub, gotta
new keyboard from Mary. Come on by.
I'm ready to jam some blues, man."
The sun woke me. I leaned the Silvertone against my van,
In the swollen estuary waters,
in the near distance, a mangled shrimp boat, its rigging
fingered together in a cat's cradle, was jammed
between two sturdy cyprus trees.
A few gulls chattered in their flight.
The late morning heat crinkled the air.
I lit a cigarette.
Wondering about the ghost,
I checked for wolf tracks.
There were only my own. Could it have
been my brother? Could it have been
my brother and a shaman together,
watching over me, asleep in the dirt,
in Mississippi,
in the wake of Hurricane Katrina?
There is that local
tale of the shamans' ghosts.
As for my brother,
I believe he does watch over me.
I don't know.
But this is true-
not before or since have I seen
another ghost.