Wandering the streets of New Orleans, I guess they are called rues here, I am as depressed as the hurricane beaten neighborhood through which I stroll. The ornate sarcophaguses are further reminiscent of my meaningless life. Born in an up and coming neighborhood, I abandoned the cultural expectations to strive for power and greed by embarking on a spiritual journey at the age of 14. Of course my parents would never agree to such a thing, thus, I ran away to Cuba.
Che was as long dead as was the summer of love and his hopes for Caribbean communist utopia. The Cuba I found was as void of idealism as it was of the pirates of years gone by. The beautiful dark bronze bodies fought to stave off starvation rather than for Libre. I was similarly crushed in finding no Zen in the washing of dishes for 3,000 Tibetan monks. I found no Celestine road map while wondering cold and dirty over the Andean mountains of Peru.
I had however, apparently found a mosquito, one carrying malaria no less, when my excursion dipped down into banana trees before climbing up the steep path to Machu Picchu. Having collapsed within the ancient stone structures, I awoke from a coma back in Duluth, Minnesota; the home from which I had ran almost 10 years prior. Confusion reigned as darkness was eclipsed by a waking mixture of images to include my childhood room, the erotic feel of a sponge bathing my testicles, and my mother's caring face.
Mom commenced to nursing me back to health as Father began teaching me the mundane details of our family business, shipping cargo over the great lakes. With the acceptance that nirvana had eluded me, business success did not. Each of the projects dad entrusted to me succeeded astoundingly. I soon was surpassing his knowledge in the business and was pushing beyond previous barriers which had held us back. One such boundary for us was expansion beyond the great lakes. Thus, my presence in New Orleans auditing our recently purchased Mississippi River Shipping Company corporate offices.
New Orleans; where everything of culture and spirituality is for sale. Souls up for sale, a concept which I would meditate upon, had I not abandoned that practice. Could I actually purchase that which I had thought beyond the power of the dollar? The creole (meaning homemade) cooking was heavenly. Big Mama, was selling her heart by the plate to customers lining up outside her restaurant. The pain, the pleasure of the soul exuding from street musicians, for the low, low price of putting a dollar into their hat. Tourists purchased release from the confines of their restrictive social standards by baring their breasts in exchange for beads. A religious practice gone as wild as the girls on Bourbon Street.
With a smile on my face and the flashing of breasts in every conceivable size and shape freshly emblazoned in my mind, I stepped into a touristy voodoo shop on the edge of Storyville. This area of town was well known for the high end brothels of yester year. The area conveyed an appearance that the experience still might be found behind the veil of neon. The voodoo shop held the same promise, behind the rubber skulls and pin pierced dolls might one find the soul of the famous practitioner the store is named after? Thus spawned my answer to the simple inquiry of "How might I help you?" "I am here to purchase pleasure, enlightenment, love, and eternity."
Once again, I slowly awoke to a kaleidoscope of confusion: Who's bed am I in? Why are my hands tied? The smooth sponge again washing my testicles and bringing my cock to erection. Rather than my mother, this time a beautiful mullata woman is the source of my erection. This time rather than releasing my cock from her hand with sheepish embarrassment, as my mother had, Miss Eve continued to caress my cock whispering in my ear: "Relax, release control, ... I am your spirit guide, I am your goddess, ... I will teach you, you will worship me, ... relax, submit"
