Memento of Mardi Gras

1:27 PM, Wednesday.

The sun is out. It's as if a new season has arrived. The outside air is fresh. Vibrant and alive. A number of puddles lie dying in the streets, slowly losing their battle against the sun and the wind. There is optimism in the air, a hope of better days ahead.

The hope of these better things comes with a price - a sacrifice. Actually, 40 days and 40 nights of sacrifice, which represent the introspection, the fight against temptation, and surrender of one's will to the surrounding world. Actually, it's 46 days. But who's counting?

A breath is drawn in. An orange glow slightly precedes the quiet sound of burning. A breath of smokes leaves. A second later, ashes fall from the balcony down to the sidewalk below. No one was there to mourn for the sidewalk. And the sidewalk had nothing to give, other than it's constant presence, a sacrifice in it's own utilitarian way. Minutes later, a footstep spreads the ashes across the sidewalk. It is finished.

6:00 AM, Wednesday.

The rain started. A light, methodical rain, that grew, building upon itself. Over the course of a few minutes, the light, methodical rain had crescendoed into the aggressive rain that inflicts little droplets of pain against the skin. And the aggressive rain continued into the morning. It's as though the gods had drawn their fury against the notion that 40 days of reverence was a burden, that a period of revelry was needed to counteract devotion. The rains came. The rains washed away the stain and stench of the drunkenness, the idolatry, the lust, and the gluttony that had permeated the preceding nights.

A breath is exhaled. The bed creaks. The sound of snoring rumbles throughout the room.

7:00 AM, Tuesday.

The ebb and flow of the beats and rhythms and voices and bodies works in tandem with the darkness. Trances. Hypnosis. And in one moment, everything changes.

Light.

Whereas the general flow of life moves from darkness to light, the suddenness with which this light comes offers an instantaneous glimpse into one's soul. Questions arise, about life, meaning, and how one has gotten to this state.

But no answers are to be found.

The mob begins it's movement down the street to join with another mob, to create a, well, bigger mob. But this mob possesses no viciousness, only revelry. And the mob witnesses another, more organized mob. Black men and women march through the street, throwing coconuts, among other things, at the celebrating mob. And there was much rejoicing. Or so we are told.

2:30 AM, Tuesday.

A moment is shared in the bathroom. Celebration. Excitement. Frenzy. Debauchery. Bodies tense and struggle. Shortened breaths become brief gasps. And moments later, the tension is released.

This was no celebration. This was a sacrifice.

And when the sacrifice was over, not a word was spoken. The only feeling was the trance that came with the facade of celebration.

10:00 PM, Monday.

A look around reveals solitude. A quiet lull, the silence at the eye the storm offering a reprieve from all that has come before, and all that will follow. And in a moment, the solitude is shattered. The feeling of forced celebration permeates the room. This was celebration, not earned, but rather for the sake of celebration. On further introspection, this was celebration as a ritual.

But it was a ritual that was well disguised, avoiding detection by all but the most observant. Celebration begat excitement, and excitement begat frenzy, and frenzy begat debauchery. But debauchery was there before all of it, underlying everything that was done. The debauchery was what this was really all about. Everything else was simply a facade. Meaning was lost, and probably had been lost for as long as one could remember.

Or at least for the last 5 days.

6:30 AM, Sunday.

The day of the Lord. The reason why the Lenten season begins 46 days prior to Easter. The 6 Sundays don't count as sacrifice. They were already spoken for. The other 40 days were the sacrifice. But it seemed that this was a technicality based on an old calendar.

A brief internal debate ensues. The chapel? Or sloth? This was the third day of celebration. The laziest of the deadly sins winnowed itself into the forefront of the mind.

No sacrifices, yet. Lent has yet to begin. There was still celebration to be had.

A breath is exhaled. The bed creaks. The sound of snoring rumbles throughout the room.

1:30 PM, Saturday.

There is a moment of confusion. Two strangers meet again. But neither person immediately knows who belongs, and who is the stranger. Pleasantries are exchanged. The stranger shuffles off into the day.

1:30 AM, Saturday.

Two strangers meet. A traveler on a pilgrimage from a far-away land. A resident of the destination, on the way home. Pleasantries are exchanged. Rapport is built. The traveler and the resident shuffle off from the oasis, together into the night.

11:00 PM, Friday.

Sparks of excitement dance in the air. Thousands of wondrously dressed bodies crowd the streets, and people spill into the buildings. A street party. Not just a block party. But a party that starts at Canal, and heading for about a mile into the night. The energy is contagious. Young and old alike are invigorated. Smiles and laughter are everywhere.

The gilded classes are above, looking down at the proletariat, though in actuality not much separates the two. Words are exchanged. Offers are made. A show. A kiss. Payment is given, in the form of cheap, but shiny, baubles. And smiles from those who weren't involved in the transaction spread across the streets.

5:30 AM, Friday.

Keys fumble. But the locks eventually yield. A feeling of excited exhaustion morphs into simply exhaustion. A sense of satisfaction joins with the exhaustion, while steps are heard moving upward, into the night. The door opens and closes. The only sound left is that of clothing hitting the floor.

A breath is exhaled. The bed creaks. The sound of snoring rumbles throughout the room.

10:30 PM, Thursday.

The anticipation of the event has brought expectations so high that anything less than perfection would be a let down. A decision for moderation in celebration is made. The first set of real parades were exciting. Majestic floats: men in flowing robes, women with spectacular outfits, all dancing and giving candy and beads to the masses. But this was a time for moderation, meant to be a brief reprieve prior to the sacrifices of Lent.

A sip of scotch is swallowed.

A breath is drawn in. An orange glow slightly precedes the quiet sound of burning. A breath of smokes leaves. A second later, ashes fall from the balcony down to the sidewalk below.