DescriptionCopyright 2016 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
It was another sleepless night, the claustrophobia of hot July closing in with the fog rolling in from the gulf. Dark thoughts blotted any hope of rest. Abandoning my cheerless bed, I rose, dressed, and left to visit Tom. He wouldn't mind; the hour means nothing to him.
The air was soft as velvet; somewhere a nightbird called. I melted into the mist on the deserted streets of the Vieux Carre, but I was not alone. Unseen but felt, old ghosts emerged to mark my progress toward Dumaine. I could almost hear their murmurs, a pastiche of the swift sibilant syllables of Creole French and the soft drawl of the lowlands. I wasnt afraid. I've often shared these streets with spectres; they're merely curious - nosy neighbors from another time.
Soon enough I was standing outside the door to Tom's house. I wouldn't go in, but with any luck he would come out to meet me. A gentle rustle and there he was, behind me, with his usual retinue of the crazy, the genteel, the anxious to please, the rebellious.
We never speak, but stand in silent communion, sharing genius and pain, our thoughts swirling between dimensions. I have no idea what he thinks of me, but when we stand in the embrace of timelessness I am bathed in the brotherhood of the misunderstood, and this, somehow, comforts me.
And when he fades, accompanied by the immortal cortgecreated from his brilliant soul, I know when I climb the stairs to my aerie under the shrouded stars I will be ready to lie down again and, finally, sleep. ~ copyright 2016 RC deWinter
A view of the Tennessee Williams house at 1014 Dumaine Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana.