O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
— Alfred Lord Tennyson, Exerpt From The Splendor Falls, 1848
Dear Avalon,
I have attempted repeatedly to illustrate my state of mind at this year’s genesis. I have concluded, however, that it is simply impossible to put into words — honestly — without coming off as a raging psychopath to a substantial percentage of the population. In my past, my sporadic-but-still-recurring role as a mad wordslinger has fulminated in such a way that some particularly dense individuals at a certain institution failed to differentiate between grandiloquence and making threats… no matter how impossible the ideas and images expressed would have been to act upon. I still hold a lot of resentment over that ordeal… almost as much resentment as I hold towards handling (by both parties) of the 2020 elections and abnormalities that followed. As a result, I try to lay low(er)… on public postings, anyway.
My current state of mind is probably best illustrated, not by my own verse, but by that of the great bard Tennyson (above). Much of Tennyson’s work features an underlying somber theme subtly (and sometimes not-so-subtly) resonating through line after line of elegant lyrcism. The Splendor Falls is no different. I remember first being introduced to it in English class senior year of high school, which I am embarrassed to say, will be twenty years ago come spring of 2022.
Tennyson speaks of memories, like these past two decades, that are left behind when someone leaves, moves on, or dies, and how some things are passed from person to person, as are echoes bouncing off ledges of mountains. Sometimes, however, these memories are lost, just as these same echoes can eventually wane into silence. Curiously, though, by the last stanza (which appears atop this post), the echoes do the opposite — growing “forever and forever.” That they “roll from soul to soul” suggests a different type of echo than those of the bugles that are “flying” in earlier lines — these echoes evince (perhaps) a message or story, passed down from generation to generation. This makes the ending, culminating in the refrain of “dying, dying, dying…” almost paradoxical.
His sentiment seems strangely relevant today, perhaps with a new and twisted meaning. “Cancel culture,” and the numerous wars being waged on information and misinformation come to mind. I could speak at great lengths on that subject, but instead have found greater meaning — at this time, anyway — in the preservation of echoes rolling “from soul to soul,” beginning with those of my own existence.
At my core, the things I always wanted, valued, and believed in have been steadfastly the same since infancy. Though if I had to point to a time when all of who I was first started to come together into one (albeit somewhat neurotic) package, it would be around my sophomore year of high school. I’d started taking creative writing (mostly because I was upset that I couldn’t write descriptively, only straightforwardly), I’d been able to join the pre-company ballet at my studio, and I’d launched my first website after years of experimenting with the idea on Print Shop and Netscape Composer (shout out to anyone who remembers those programs!), thanks to finally having what I perceived a wide enough array of content ideas to fill it with. I’d also created my first alter-ego named “Jane Bond” (she’s exactly what you think she is). My biggest fears included: never being allowed to go en pointe in ballet (I started “late”), getting bad grades, and the Y2K computer glitch that was supposed to ensue at the turn of the new year and bring forth — or so the news would have you believe — a dystopian state of affairs. Cassandra Harris was, of course, my role model, and her image was inserted into all my school binders as a reminder to keep my head up, come what may.
The thing I remember most about Christmas break that year, oddly enough, is the enfolding sense of serenity in the air as the clock ticked down to 12:00 am, January 1, 2000. I’d been expecting more of a foreboding and panic-inducing drag. But something told me the end of the 1900’s would bring about a new year just like any other. Sure enough, nothing happened… not even a power flicker.
The following afternoon, I passed by the family room where my parents had left the TV on. On the screen was a news segment chronicling the Y2K celebrations from around the world. The first to celebrate, it turned out, was Sydney, Australia (which I, of course, immediately recognized as Cassandra’s hometown).
The scene was so breathtaking that I clipped the image of it out of our local newspaper (which I still have to this day) and used the spectacle as the backdrop for the beginning of the first (and last) installment of my “Jane Bond” saga that I would spend the following semester writing.
Standing there, frozen solid, she [Jane] sort of swayed as if she didn’t know what to think, her eyes stuck wide open under the brilliant luminescence atop the bridge leering off into the distance; it appeared to be on fire. And when the smoke had finally cleared the distant avenue, there it was — perfectly spelled out in gold lights — a cursive, flowing script that read, “eternity.” Her face lit up at her first guiding light to form a new year…
Written Spring, 2000
What was missing in my soul for what seemed my entire life, however, was pride in my own heritage. I’d always shunned — and even expressed a great abhorrence for — my New Orleans origins because I was sick of being the only one regarding every detail about myself (everything from vanilla-over-chocolate-type preferences to a lifestyle in which creative energies flowed more freely than a frequently-running TV). To be forced to add “only one born in a different state” to that always-expanding list was too much, especially amid the abundant culture shock I’d endure with everywhere and everyone I would visit outside of my own household.
That abruptly changed during my college years. Perhaps these are the years during which you find yourself for most, but the sojourn through “higher learning” had the exact opposite effect on me. I entered college with a profound sense of identity, which the whole experience led me to lose… piece by piece. I began soul searching one particularly distressing night. In the past I’d heard my parents mention the name “Louis Grunewald” — my 3rd great-grandfather, famous Crescent City mover and shaker in his day — so I Googled his name. Retrospective of that impulse was the realization that I had sought something forever intact that no one could take away. My maiden years as an amateur genealogist of sorts began as the scholar of Louis’ beloved hotel on Baronne Street, originally opened just before Christmas in 1893. Louis had announced he wanted to have it “in full readiness for the Carnival of 1894” (Mardi Gras).
Upon my findings, I came to unearth a bountiful wealth of information that even the citizenry of New Orleans, by and large, doesn’t know. One rather intriguing tidbit is that the Roosevelt Way construction, now the main building, was originally an annex to the much smaller original hotel and was completed in 1907. It was unveiled to the public at the flash of midnight in 1908, and its 400+ rooms were open to guests shortly thereafter.
The events are chronicled in such publications as the old Music Trade Review magazine (music was the Grunewalds’ original trade), and the book “Huey Long Invades New Orleans.”
Among the first of pictures I saw of the family Hotel was an early photo taken of the grand lobby. I could have sworn I’d traipsed through there in a past life. Or perhaps it was a repressed memory from my earliest years, spent in the sub-tropical metropolis.
Years later, I was fortunate enough to make my own memory, traipsing again through the gilded entryway, fully caressed by the spirits of my provenance. Though I am not a “big city” breed, and floods and hurricanes have always made me recoil frenziedly, I’ve never felt more at home than I have here.
This opulent edifice has seen the birth of jazz, floodwaters abound, the German-American oppression of two world wars, and over 125 years of carnivals of myth and fantasy… the evolution of king cake and the creation of sno-balls to beat the summer sweatbaths… echoes rolling from soul to soul.
And just as they grow forever and forever… this reflection of heart and mind may never fully end. But for now, it will fade right here… as fireworks thunder.
Happy New Year, everyone! Here’s to eternity…
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