Author’s Note: Loosely continuing on from my previous piece, I offer more disjointed impressions . . .

– Marlow

The outside world seems to be saying while we as individuals do our good works let us not forget that the real solution lies in a world in which charity will have become unnecessary. In other words, they seem to suggest that government is the ultimate answer and charity is the opium of the privileged. The Savannah we’ve come to know seems offended by this.

Savannah is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. A best friend, even a lover. We don’t regret a single moment of it. It makes us feel alive again. So, we’re sorry it has to be this way, but sooner or later we’ll have to leave, so no shaking with sobs, nor any haughty funeral service stuff.

Savannah provides us more truth about the world, about life, than can be found even in the most creative non-fiction.

Savannah memories for both of us have a physical, almost living presence, as do the stars in the nighttime sky and the haunted empty spaces in between.

Too bad that this Savannah doesn’t give out prescriptions. Instead, it occasionally passes out morning after headaches.

We storytellers and observers of Savannah are a threat. We threaten the champions of control, we frighten usurpers of the right-to-freedom of the human spirit whether you find them in government, in church or mosque, at political party conventions, in media outlet broadcasts, or on university faculties.

Procrastination is a Savannah way of apologizing.

Speakeasy Savannah has a way of silently talking its ass off to us, telling us sh*t no one’s ever heard anything about, hoping that we’ll say something, like Jesus God, we gonna move and stay here as if we wanted to have sex with it. Infatuation is an insufficient descriptor, maybe ass over teacup . . . in the thrall . . . addicted . . . or perhaps better yet cursed.

It has stood calm, resolute and unmoved against the raging Atlantic hurricanes around and over it since our arrival for the 2016 storm season. So, we elected to stay during these storms in our 141-year home. It had survived the worst that long before we got here, so would we inside it. We trust it.

Savannah sporadically sounds late at night a lot like a little voice that has taken up residence in our heads but never bothers paying rent. I guess that’s a fair trade in exchange for what it provides. We trust it won’t this power to turn us inside out.

Savannah is a captivating place so enchanting that even its dead never truly depart. A spectral place for not saying goodbye — a one of a kind place in a world that mass produces everything.

It’s got a beautiful chaos during these times of foolishly pining for a well-ordered world.

We who are so charmed by it to choose it are pirates, not assholes. All it asks in return is to be left alone. No carpet baggers, please.

We are like greenhouse plants tended by our indulgent gardener — Savannah. More than occasionally, strange new blooms appear as if some of us had volunteered for a drug trial or test in its lush enclosures. Left unspoken here is having the judgement to close and lock some garden gates, no matter how nice a yard they open out onto.

Savannah is living proof that life is not only stranger than we imagine, it is stranger than we can imagine.

As dusk approaches after playing cards all day with friends across the river, we never tire of driving lazily along the route to Savannah from South Carolina, following a zigzag course that takes us through the tidal flatlands of the Carolina low country. As we approach Savannah on a county road, it narrows to a blacktopped two-laner shaded by a close-to-the-roadbed, tall tree canopy. Upon turning onto the Coastal Highway road to the river bridge, we pass by the occasional roadside produce stand and a few burned out, dilapidated, falling down buildings (two of them are strip clubs) succumbing to the surrounding native foliage. No urban sprawl — just the way it looked before any Europeans had landed on its shores. In the distance the Tallmadge bridge suddenly looms ahead and steadily grows imposing. The Coastal Empire beckons.

Atop the bridge, we see Savannah anew as if we’re on a stealthily approaching drone. Savannah doesn’t even try to look or sound arrogant, even though when first founded in the 1700s it banned things like slavery and lawyers. It doesn’t worry about yard, garden or house work. It’s got servants for that — us. In return it gifts us with clean open air and an endless night sky. The sense of being small in Savannah’s vast universe is quite soothing to us.

We never give it much thought, but every second we spend with Savannah, our yearning to connect, to know every chapter of its manifold stories, nubbles away at us. We shouldn’t and don’t pry. It’s really none of our business. But you know this feeling, doncha? Still, it speaks easily to us after sunset.

Today’s conclusory Savannah short take phrases . . . bringer of laughter. so sweet. Not a hard-ass. Not jaded but giving and generous. Smiles a lot. Makes us smile a lot. Enjoys life. No pains in the ass. No taking it for granted. Living its dreams. Encourages schemes. Tolerates us being around. Always “take a chance” o’clock. Everyone here’s a bit crazy – we fit right in. People’s houses right on top of everyone else’s — the underlying reason for gardens. Wide-eyed, but definitely not innocent.

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