The New Orleans Toulouse Street blog by Mark Folse has such great writing that we're going to highlight it for a while; here's an example from Nov. 2012--and for all Pynchon lovers, this post with our favorite trumpet led to very interesting things [... like how we await Trystero's silent empire].
I would encourage anyone who loves Umberto Eco, Poe, Joyce, Pound or Leon Forrest [a African American writer who should be more famous]. Here's the excerpt from Toulouse Street:
I am not worried about how I die so much as where, and that is the one decision about death most of us get to make. I was born here in New Orleans in a hospital on Perdido Street. I will die here and invite anyone who wishes to dispute that point to join me. I want to die where my diet is a cheap and easy contributing factor, where a wake is an occasion to shame the Irish, where a band is more essential than a minister. No bouquets for me. Just bury me when the sweet autumn clematis are in bloom, on a cool October day with someone cooking with the windows open, and the sound of the band carrying to the next ward on the apple-crisp air. Just put a pack of smokes and my Zippo in the box to get me through the day.
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