back in the life-style

Michelle had a look of quiet desperation that seemed to fit her like a silk chemise even though she was always dressed in some kind of “what ever I can pick up off the floor and doesn’t stink too much” style. Tattoos adorned her body from various vantage points and she was festooned with cherries and dragons and a bit Celtic art. Her black hair was dark as a raven out of a bottle of Miss Clairol. Her favorite hobby was drinking and every time she would climb on her old bike and head back home you were thankful that somewhere a guardian angel was watching her.


Michelle was always there for her friends in need unless she needed a fix. It was not that she was irresponsible she was lost in the fog of alcoholism that seemed to keep her safe in her own reality. Working as a bartender at Molly’s on Decateur Street she managed to keep her bills paid and even when broke another bartender at any bar up and down the street would always make sure her glass was full. Michelle had come from a good family and her education was always evident in her conversations. Michelle left town one day because of a death in the family. Rumor had it she had inherited some money and went into rehab and then back to school where she completed her college education.


It was a few years later when I heard about Michelle again. She had been drawn back to the Quarters again and was back in the life-style. All her inheritance spent she was now caught back into her addictions. While at a convenience store near her home in the 9th Ward Michelle was attacked as she came out after buying a pack of cigarettes by a crack junkie. A claw hammer tore off half her face. She tried to get the owners to let her call the police or get help. They rushed her out of the place. Crawling, bleeding and in extreme pain for a couple of blocks and she found a pay phone. The police arrived and took her to Charity Trauma Center.


The doctors did an amazing job. Her face was repaired and there was only a scar at the top of her head which could be covered by hair. However, the deeper scars of fear and desperation could not be healed by the doctors only by spirit. The attacker was free on the streets and was going to find more victims. Every corner she would turn she thought that she saw him only to face the illusion of recognition that her fear put on a face.


I was also traumatized and shocked by this news about Michelle. I went to a group that I belong to on the net that is populated by shamans and light workers. When I told them what had happened, there was an immediate rallying of allies to discover and bring the perpetrator to justice. Using the tools of the magic trade shape shifting astral jaguars and dragons began to comb the city of New Orleans.


Two days later I received a call.


The perpetrator had been found and arrested. He had been using the same m.o. (modus operandi) and quite a few other women had been attacked and ravaged like Michelle. The police caught him in the act and arrested him. Bringing pictures to the house, Michelle was able to select him from a gallery of photographs. He would no longer be attacking those who walked the streets of the Quarter.


But in the wake of Katrina when prisoners escaped and created havoc on the streets and those poor souls who could not evacuate, one has to wonder – is he free?

Jaguar Soul -- a fable about New Orleans

I could feel my body flush when I glanced from behind the bar and across the room at a young man who had just entered Sin City. I could feel that shiver rush up my body as I felt called to the hunt by the jaguar that lived within my soul.


Tall and dark, he seemed tense and ready to explode from carrying his power to close to his chest. As he sat down at a stool at the end of the bar, I felt myself walking toward him with a deliberate and sensuous movement toward what might be a very interesting prey.
My voice was almost guttural as I looked him in the eye with my body poised slightly toward him so that my breast appeared to welcome him and asked: “What would pleasure you today?”
He ordered a shot of Jägermeister. I bent down into the cooler and I could feel my nipples harden maybe from the rush of cold air or maybe from the rush of energy as I watched him throw back his head and swallow the cold, herbal elixir.


Yes the hunt was definitely on.


I could feel my pupils dilating and my lids becoming more slanted as if I could focus more on sending him the energy that would call him to be mine. I rubbed my hands together with an instinctual sense of a well-prepared dinner waiting to be enjoyed till there was nothing more that I could do but collapse into the abyss of contentment that comes when a passion is indulged in fully.


It was midnight and my son was coming to take over the night shift at our bar. We had opened Sin City on St. Phillip Street in the heart of the French Quarter about a year ago. The name is not about Las Vegas but remembers Basin Street down by Congo Square where all the swells would go to find the best whores and jazz. Located in the building that was the oldest standing mortuary in New Orleans, we attracted our share of those men and women who liked to walk on the dark side – they are like those swells of old who wanted to wander down to Basin Street for a little of the other side of life. I had a feeling my young visitor would be very open to sharing that walk with me.


My young dark prey was still sitting on his stool as I picked up my things and walked out. I could feel that this was definitely the start of an interesting amusement. As I stepped outside the oppressive wetness of the air heated by August made me feel even more in the mood for a moon lit hunt. But, after all, I am the jaguar. I stalk and I wait and I strike with time is perfect. I had never lost a prey and I was not going to now in spite of the passion and desire that I could feel filling me to the brim waiting to be released.


Even though our apartment was upstairs over the bar and the balcony certainly was tempting on this exquisite evening, I decided to take a walk to cool down my passions. I wandered up St. Phillip toward the old blacksmith shop that now housed the Lafitte Bar. I could feel the ghosts of New Orleans walking beside me and keeping me company.


Priestess Miriam said that I was protected by Bridget, the loa or spirit of the bride of the Baron. They protected the cemetery where Marie La Veau was buried and were the only ones in the Voodoo pantheon that could walk in both the dark and the light. You could not live in New Orleans without the blessings of these ghosts of the old religion. You were either protected by them or taunted by them.


I went to my regular seat at the piano bar and it seemed that the piano man knew my mood. He slipped easily into the rhythm of That Old Black Magic. Every pore of my body was oozing the energy and passion of the dark magic that seemed to sometimes capture my spirit. And it had been evoked by that sensual young man who ordered his Jägermeister. I knew I would have no sleep tonight.


My altar called to me for a sacrifice to my loas. The ancients were demanding that I prepare to walk on the dark side.


It was easier when I was younger. 13 moons created 13 rituals. My blood ran warm and thick and smelled of the jaguar goddess. Now, while on the outside I appear younger than I am, inside I have joined the ancients. However, those old primitive rites, passed down mother to daughter, for centuries without end still have meaning even if the means to evoke the spirit may have changed with the times.


I put a CD on with ritual drumming which stirs my spirit even more. I light the candles and taking a sharp knife I quickly draw a line down my arm and allow the blood to drip down into a stone bowl. Just the smell of the warm blood heats my senses even more. I find myself moving with the drum beat and as I crouch down I can feel the jaguar mount me and take form. As we merge into one, I take my finger and dip it into the blood and mark upon my forehead ancient symbols that bring me into oneness with my matriarchy. I am the high priestess incarnate of the Jaguar goddess and my time for feeding has come. The pitch and fever of my dance rises. I can feel myself moving through the jungle of the Quarters and searching out my prey. He is sleeping in a hotel just around the corner from where I am evoking my power. I can feel his pulse in my soul and as I look at him resting but restless I put out my hand over him and he becomes calmer. I speak the words: “Give me your soul!” and then I find myself back in my body standing on the balcony overlooking Saint Phillip Street and I see over the roof tops a shadowy image of the jaguar formed as the moon plays against the clouds.


It is morning and while I may spin my web darkly at night, come day out walks a woman of the light. As my mother had taught me, I swept every corner and pushed the negative energies and memories out of the door. I lit my incense and let the smoke curl around the room bringing the clearness to the house. I make my coffee rich and dark with a little Chicory. I walk outside with a cup and offer it to the Damballah who resides in the banana tree growing on the balcony. My friend the Raven flies by and tells me good morning. I know that my magic has been accepted.
I am hungry so I quickly dress in a red silk shirt and jeans. I sometimes find it hard to believe that my body still is so lithe and sensuous. The silk feels good against my body and the naturalness of it handles the humid winds coming off the Mississippi delta. A pair of sandals and off to the pastry shop on Urselines where I love to sit in the back garden where I can smoke, drink coffee, and a fresh roll with butter. I got to turn left on Royal and suddenly change my mind and head down to Decateur Street and the Café Dumond. A little powdered sugar on a begnets never hurt anyone and I like to feed the birds.


A clown is making balloons for children. A saxophone horn warms up the scene with “Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?” The gypsies and artists are lining Jackson Square. I find a seat and order. And as I look around seated next to me is the dark young man who drank the Jägermeister. I smile and inside thank my Goddess.


I look at him turning my head in that typical southern way and ask: “What would pleasure you today?”


That same energy begins to rush through my body as he smiles back and stands up and walks over to my table.


“It would pleasure me to spend the day with you.” He sat down and I knew the hunt was on for sure. Remember Jaguar wait till the right time to pounce.


“I am Marinette Chamani and I enjoyed having you last night – at my bar.” I could feel my eyes becoming slit again and I almost purred. My long red nails pushed my blond hair back from my face and I just listened to him never taking my eyes away from his.


We walked over to Jackson Square where the Goddess was giving readings. As usual there was a line of people waiting for her advice. My young man, whom I learned was Tony from Texas, sat down. The Goddess looked up at me and gave me a knowing look. Goddess was born in Haiti and was one of the few initiates that I knew in Haitian voodoun. She had him shuffle the cards and place them in three piles. She picked up the cards and started to lay them out.


First, she laid the Lovers Card on the table. Then she lay the Empress down. Then the tower being struck by lightening crossed the top. She was truly working her magic.


“Love is coming to you or is near you,” she said and continued: “You have in your energy an older woman who is powerful and is a part of your destiny. Beware there could be danger and you will never be the same again.”


As we walked away, I looked up at him, tossed my head as we southern women tend to do winked and said: “Sugar, are you ready for a dangerous older woman?”



Night was coming and the jaguar was about ready to strike.

With every joy there is a sorrow.

There are times when we feel that life is slipping into a dark cave and we are trying very hard to find a handhold that will keep us in the light. But grasp as we might the joy keeps slipping through our fingers and we are drawn further and further away from it.


It is the comedy and tragedies of life that when we are in joy we worry about when it will end and when we are in sorrow we worry about when it will go away. Ever since I can remember the advent of what I call the New Age (and always with a smile on my face) presented a mantra that always repeated this chorus: Be here now! This almost seems to be the ultimate Zen of Life.


This morning I awoke and my mind would not leave me alone. It just had to go there. I said, hey Myriam, I have been there and done that. But Ms. Myriam would not listen she had to drag me down memory lane to painful issues so I realized that I can try and fight it or I could give in to these thoughts that needed to be healed.


It is all about being a mother and my sense of loneliness that my children and I do not have the fantasy relationship that I thought we would have someday. Some people are so lucky that they have moderately dysfunctional families where there are a few buttons implanted to keep one within a family norm but when one has mental illness in one’s families the buttons all seem to be bigger than life.


My son Jimmy who lived in New Orleans and is now a refugee in Texas with my granddaughter Joliet, his wife and Joliet’s mother is a drug addict. I want to figure it out. I want to blame me. I want to blame his mental illness. I want to blame my ex-mother-in-law the wacko from hell. I want to blame God or Goddess or Mother Nature. I am so into the blame game now but the truth is I am pointing fingers to keep from feeling the deep, deep sorrow that breaks my heart and stifles me from rising from that cave of depression into the light of joy.


The recent events in New Orleans has not only flooded the Old City, but has flooded my mind with images of people that I met and knew there. I have realized today that each one of those lost souls that I met also had a mother. Many of those mothers are probably feeling the same sorrow that I am feeling as I look at how easy it is to loose a child perhaps to an act of nature but often to just the circumstances of life which can be the rampant drug abuse in our community, the increasing rise in diagnosed mental illness, and the social pressures that are changing us at an accelerated pace.


I think rather than lost souls, the folks I am remembering are wounded souls. Perhaps we are all wounded and the magnitude of recent events are a clarion call that it is now time to heal ourselves individually and collectively so that we can finally climb out that deep pit that has kept us from becoming the manifestation of good that was planted within with our birth.