A Lundi Gras story five years coming.
I was walking my bike up Rampart when I realized that the point had come. The Rubicon when I knew there as no turning back. That point when you know you’re in Mardi Gras, that you’re a part of it, and it can’t be stopped, that so much has already happened, and there’s so much more time left, and the trail of breadcrumbs is gone, and you just have to go through it, the trauma and understanding, and you pray to your gods that you will survive and that where ever it takes you will be good. Like the terror sound under the highway at Calliope.
And I knew then that Mardi Gras was frightening, that under the surface is a real terror, an evil at the bottom, that things can get out of control, that you can get lost in the world of it too much, that the momentum cannot be stopped, and you are always in a maze hopefully taking the right turn.
Some magic is good magic and some is not.
But what if the door that opens for the good magic lets in the bad magic too? The masks and the lights.
When it comes, it roars in when you're alone under a bridge, parades beating drums in your heart, and you have to wait the moment out whether you’re in it from drugs or secrets or crime or hate or passion, you have to try to make it through to the other side.
When it came, the moment when I thought I would die, it came as the snake it was.
I wanted to be in church, but church was all so far away. I was wearing Mary’s shoes.
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