Bathed in vivid flickering hues and with a quiet roar that drowns out the hum of the neon, the crowds roll down Bourbon Street. Waves of jubilance and excitement, tempered with a subtle desperation sweep plastic beads into the gutters and bright smiles into seedy parlours — it's a lot to take in all at once.
Two nights in a row I watch, engulfed quietly in the swell of human vice in one of the most infamous areas of New Orleans, trying to absorb and capture some of the electric radiance that's palpable from blocks away. Proportionally, I don't spend much time in cities when I travel, I'll admit; when I do, more often than not I find myself taking measured steps with wide eyes, a slip of an observer weaving carefully through the tapestry of vibrant life around me. Some of my favourite places to slow down are those where our senses race the most.
It's a sound: live jazz, strained laughter, bright-eyed conversation, echoing hoof strikes on pavement, over-stimulated screeches, and the low rumbles of simmering confrontation and celebration just waiting to explode. There's so much happening at once that when I close my eyes and try to pick out any one thread of noise, I can't — it's almost a deafening form of silence, because my sound doesn't matter here.
It's a smell: decadent fried foods, acrid hints of smoke, horse shit, the crispness of fresh rain, tendrils of delicate perfume and overbearing cologne and snatches of the excited bodies carrying each, wafted suggestions of tropical breezes leading to slightly disappointing three foot margaritas instead of sandy expanses. Each breath is a new combination of scents that should probably be unpleasant, but it's not — inhaling deeply and meditatively paints a much more intricate picture than straining to listen.
Taste and touch are purposeful and accidental here in turn. Everything and everyone is laid out haphazardly, everywhere. It's impossible to avoid jostling in the crowd or brushing in doorways, and hard to resist an inquisitive stroke or clasping hands. There's a promise in the possibility of taste; sustenance in vice, delight in everything delicious for consumption in every manner.
It's a sight — or perhaps more accurately — a glow: luminescence in every hue arcing out of the darkness to paint old brick and young flesh, intricate costumes, tempting marquees, the tangible hang-time that occurs right before someone takes the leap into letting go of inhibitions, the way my eyes hope to slide away from a display that saddens or discomforts, a riot of colour and sharp reflections and deep shadows and a well-loved shabbiness revitalized with slapdash, garish paint.
The more I watch, the more I appreciate Bourbon Street. It's easy to get caught up in whatever evocative emotion is in control at any given second. Like anywhere we congregate as a species, there are experiences here that are so alluring — or disgusting, or enthralling, or thought provoking, or expressions of unbridled joy. I love that about us... capturing our seediness and fabulousness blurred, because that's who we are. It turns out I love us even more when all of those smudged edges are painted with neon.
These photos and words are my own work, inspired by travels all over this pretty blue marble of ours. I hope you like them. 🌶️
Hi, I'm Crimmi. I run a top 20 STEEM witness with 