New Orleans is under water. For a city whose identity is so closely tied to its architecture, I imagine this is a tragedy.
I have images, now immortalized figments of what the city was and may never be again. Glimpses of a time when the only moisture was the choking humidity. Perhaps the last time the only people floating were those too drunk to walk normally down the French Quarter's devilish artery, Bourbon Street.
Annie Liebovitz photographed a landmark there called the Preservation Hall. I stood within the crackling, roach-travelled walls there and listened to the best jazz I've ever heard in my life. Now I suppose all that's left is the crumbling shell of a place once thriving in the glow of a million musical notes, a million beads of sweat, a million souls crashing together for the appreciation of preserving jazz the way it used to be.
And now jazz isn't the only thing needing to be preserved. So I'll do my paltry best, and offer up a few preserved moments of my own.