The Calling



Even thousands of miles away, hints bombard the senses, every minute of every day.

The burst of fresh coffee’s aroma, and the knowledge that it won’t be perfect.

A wall of air so steamy, it’s worn like soggy paper.

Silent fog, swirling, devouring all in its path without remorse.

Snippets of jazz, riding on a veiled wind.

The fleeting whiff of a long forgotten candle.

Whispers of spirits hidden in the midnight rain.

In her sultry voice, New Orleans is always calling us home.

Getting Away With It


Empty? Maybe.

Silent? Never.

Hands on the clock crawl to that moment when day gives way to sultry dusk and all souls stir in their tombs, destined for midnight’s wicked frenzy.

This air buzzes with history’s notes—flashy keyboards and wailing horns. Floor boards creak underfoot, worn thin by musicians and their dancers, nobles and their courts.

Dazzling lights of royalty fell dark only once, born again amidst sapphire flame and victory bells.

Every chance I get, I sneak in, close my eyes and remember the devilry and decadence, incense and absinthe. Precious memories of brothers and sisters, fast friends and young lovers, chasing their dreams and tempting fate in the Golden Age.

We got away with all of it…