Post by Marshall Quatrevaux on Aug 29, 2015 23:39:24 GMT -5
Travels the very
nature we’ll live in
Seasons to cycles
children to men
-10 Years, "Seasons To Cycles"
nature we’ll live in
Seasons to cycles
children to men
-10 Years, "Seasons To Cycles"
Canal Street at Chartres Street
New Orleans’ French Quarter
Saturday, 29 August 2015
around 11:30 PM
Something alive was in this city.
Uttered aloud, those might have been the words of a madman or an idiot. But the electricity, the energy coiling around New Orleans’ invisible heart had a certain spark to it, one that was far too unique to compare. But it radiated out, it infected, whether you felt it or not.
Ten years ago, he wouldn’t have felt it. Not to this extent, at least. Whenever he thought his ability had fully manifested, it took him for another turn. That was the case at the moment, in fact - another fluctuation, a fresh birth. A blossoming. Except he didn’t especially like what it was that was in bloom.
And then again, ten years ago, on this day, at this time, there had not been much of a spark to feel in this place. Granted, he wasn’t even in the worst of it. The French Quarter - currently to his right - had sustained comparatively little damage in the storm; indeed, its elevation even at the immediate banks of the mighty Mississippi had kept it from flooding overmuch. That did not mean the old settlement had gone completely unscathed, but it had certainly not been one of the hardest-hit areas when Katrina bore down and the levees broke.
Grand Isle, however, had been.
The house and the marina that had been the center of his childhood had been built around 1970, after the devastation of Hurricane Betsy but not soon enough to be included in the hurricane-safety craze. It was not until 1998 that the buildings met their first true test; the result being that the nearly thirty-year-old structures, along with the rest of the island, were completely inundated.
Grand Isle itself had been part of an older school for a long time, with only one bridge connecting it to the mainland. That bridge had gone down hard in the midst of Katrina. And if anyone had ever been under the impression that true despondency could not be illustrated, then such a person clearly had never stood on the far end of the only lifeline to his only home.
That was a sight that had never left the thirty-year-old psychiatrist. Using his considerable pull and his rank as one of the city’s top counselors, he had been allowed to form a response team and enter New Orleans with the other first responders. With Rhea, Irma, and the rest of the River’s Edge team still fighting for the same permissions, Marshall’s first excursions had been with strangers, most of whom were volunteers from other parts of the state.
The state of the city then had overtaxed his ability. And after searching neighborhoods for survivors and finding nothing but bodies, the state of things had overtaxed him. It was not something he liked to reminded of often.
But now, ten years after it all, what everything felt was worth it. He had spent the day before at home and at the marina with his family, along the same beaches he had played on as a child. That had been the true reward, for him; simply having the ability to do that. All those memories, all those moments, almost lost to the sea. Again.
It had taken an inordinate amount of persuading from all sides to get him to return for the ten-year anniversary of what he had once seen termed as Katrina’s ”assault.” Originally, months earlier, he had planned to go, preferably with Jessica and Sammie, or at least with Gabriel, who, albeit overtly disliked by the rest of their family, was most certainly one of them in his eyes. It was hearing about the awards that had changed his mind; at which point almost everyone persuaded his ears off until he’d agreed to go again. And so he had spent the day attending various events as Lauren Marshall Quatrevaux III, M.D., native son and local hero, receiving several awards and commendations for his work in the early days of New Orleans’ revival.
It was humbling at a time when he’d needed humbling. When everything was shifting in his life, when even his abilities were unreliable, one moment standing with his toes in the sand had meant everything. It had given him a center, and a start. And a spark.
The spark was reaching out again.
Hey, toast of the town. You gonna join us or are we drinking to you alone?
And, apparently, so were his friends.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, Marshall dutifully made his way into the French Quarter, following the trail of Irma’s psychic link. The music played on and the people around him paid him little mind. And life moved on again.
Uttered aloud, those might have been the words of a madman or an idiot. But the electricity, the energy coiling around New Orleans’ invisible heart had a certain spark to it, one that was far too unique to compare. But it radiated out, it infected, whether you felt it or not.
Ten years ago, he wouldn’t have felt it. Not to this extent, at least. Whenever he thought his ability had fully manifested, it took him for another turn. That was the case at the moment, in fact - another fluctuation, a fresh birth. A blossoming. Except he didn’t especially like what it was that was in bloom.
And then again, ten years ago, on this day, at this time, there had not been much of a spark to feel in this place. Granted, he wasn’t even in the worst of it. The French Quarter - currently to his right - had sustained comparatively little damage in the storm; indeed, its elevation even at the immediate banks of the mighty Mississippi had kept it from flooding overmuch. That did not mean the old settlement had gone completely unscathed, but it had certainly not been one of the hardest-hit areas when Katrina bore down and the levees broke.
Grand Isle, however, had been.
The house and the marina that had been the center of his childhood had been built around 1970, after the devastation of Hurricane Betsy but not soon enough to be included in the hurricane-safety craze. It was not until 1998 that the buildings met their first true test; the result being that the nearly thirty-year-old structures, along with the rest of the island, were completely inundated.
Grand Isle itself had been part of an older school for a long time, with only one bridge connecting it to the mainland. That bridge had gone down hard in the midst of Katrina. And if anyone had ever been under the impression that true despondency could not be illustrated, then such a person clearly had never stood on the far end of the only lifeline to his only home.
That was a sight that had never left the thirty-year-old psychiatrist. Using his considerable pull and his rank as one of the city’s top counselors, he had been allowed to form a response team and enter New Orleans with the other first responders. With Rhea, Irma, and the rest of the River’s Edge team still fighting for the same permissions, Marshall’s first excursions had been with strangers, most of whom were volunteers from other parts of the state.
The state of the city then had overtaxed his ability. And after searching neighborhoods for survivors and finding nothing but bodies, the state of things had overtaxed him. It was not something he liked to reminded of often.
But now, ten years after it all, what everything felt was worth it. He had spent the day before at home and at the marina with his family, along the same beaches he had played on as a child. That had been the true reward, for him; simply having the ability to do that. All those memories, all those moments, almost lost to the sea. Again.
It had taken an inordinate amount of persuading from all sides to get him to return for the ten-year anniversary of what he had once seen termed as Katrina’s ”assault.” Originally, months earlier, he had planned to go, preferably with Jessica and Sammie, or at least with Gabriel, who, albeit overtly disliked by the rest of their family, was most certainly one of them in his eyes. It was hearing about the awards that had changed his mind; at which point almost everyone persuaded his ears off until he’d agreed to go again. And so he had spent the day attending various events as Lauren Marshall Quatrevaux III, M.D., native son and local hero, receiving several awards and commendations for his work in the early days of New Orleans’ revival.
It was humbling at a time when he’d needed humbling. When everything was shifting in his life, when even his abilities were unreliable, one moment standing with his toes in the sand had meant everything. It had given him a center, and a start. And a spark.
The spark was reaching out again.
Hey, toast of the town. You gonna join us or are we drinking to you alone?
And, apparently, so were his friends.
Tucking his hands into his pockets, Marshall dutifully made his way into the French Quarter, following the trail of Irma’s psychic link. The music played on and the people around him paid him little mind. And life moved on again.
