Tuesday, December 07, 2010

If New Orleans were a woman

Nancy Sinatra
I had a dream last night.  I don't really know any current celebrities.  I think John Goodman lives in New Orleans or at least he has a love for the city (who doesn't?).  An actress lives here, I think her name is Susan but I don't much about her beyond her relationship with the chopper mechanic Jesse James.  I only know that because it was in the paper and, as a motorcyclist, I'm vaguely aware of Mr. James though I have little interest in choppers.  My Littlest Ninja is good enough for me.

My dream didn't contain Nancy Sinatra.  That would have been a nice dream, not that this dream wasn't nice.  It was set in New Orleans, after all.  Celebrities seem to like New Orleans.  They don't cause much of a ripple in the atmosphere and I suppose they enjoy that.  It is a pain in the neck to be recognized everywhere you go.  

In my dream I was walking down Dauphine Street just past where it intersects with Toulouse Street.  My companion was this woman, the woman of my dreams:
She bears a remarkable resemblance to the lady of the house.

She's appeared in my dreams before, usually sipping coffee in Cafe du Monde or sometimes I bump into her (in my dreams) at Ms. Mae's or Lucky's or at the Roosevelt Bar.  I glimpsed her once dancing at the Rock 'n Bowl and one time I saw her going to the ladies room at the Saturn Bar.  I've never known her name so I asked her last night (again, in my dream).

"Why must you ask such a thing?" she sighed.  "Why must gentlemen always know my name?  It's a terrible bore.  Like finding flowers on my doorstep or anonymous poems in my mailbox.  I'll tell you and then you'll tell me it's a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.  My name doesn't make a difference.  I am what I am and I am not a Rose."

I got down on one knee and begged.  I offered her a dollar.  When that didn't work, I offered two dollars.  When that didn't work I took the ring off my index finger, the ring I bought last August with the fleur-de-lis.  She held the ring in her hand and and held it up to her eye, looking at me through the void where my finger usually is.  She was scrying me.

She shook her head and her hair floated as if a breeze had just wafted off the Mississippi River.  She sighed.  "My name is Calliope Terpsichore St. Roche," she said.  "Now we are going to reverse direction and go to Tropical Isle where you are going to buy me a hand grenade."

She handed me back my ring and it seemed shinier than when I had given it to her.

Then I woke up and went to work.  

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