howl to the moon

Tomorrow is my 2 week anniversary of ever having been in New Orleans.

In that time, I've already decided on a whim to stay and live here, already been working a job, already secured a great place to live, shed my previous plans, traversed the Louisiana countryside and explored the swamps, outdone myself, had my heart broken, started volunteering at a nonprofit book collective, been a fully functioning resident out of my lone vacation-minded suitcase, and voluntarily turned on the air conditioning for the first time in over two years.

It's hot down here.

I am committed to getting to the bottom of whatever the hell it is that makes this strange other universe called New Orleans so fucking magical. It's a tragic magic. It's a seepy, sultry, ghosty, blues song of a town. And I, for one, am haunted.

My hypothesis is that it must be some combination of the very electric humidity/history which keeps the spirit world hanging in the air. It's thick like a curtain, or a blessing, or a warning, depending on what kind of day you've had.

That and the fact that they don't bury their dead under the ground.

This whole town is howling.