New Orleans, August 2005, During. Episode VI, preparatory
New Orleans, August 2005, During. Episode VI, preparatory to K'ville
Anticipation. Of what, you ask? Of everything. Anticipation of wind and water, of flying debris, of food and drink. Of darkness, without electricity. Of toilets that don't flush. Anticipation of neighbors in need, of wading through muck that doesn't bear analysis. But anticipation is a pale and wan thing. Like a shadow in the forest that never materializes. But a hurricane . . .
Anticipation. You always forget something. No mental checklist includes every thing you'll need. You may have been through storms, through gales, through hurricanes or cyclones or tornadoes. But you never can be ready for everything. It's just the way of it, of life. Mother nature is, after all, a real mother.
A sealed apartment, as sealed as a New Orleans apartment from the 19th Century can be, during the month of August is a terrible thing indeed. So I kept a front and back door open as long as possible. And I stood on the balcony, waiting, as long as possible. We were under a mandatory curfew as of 6:00pm but I saw no police cruising the streets. I heard no warning announcements, saw no officials checking my neighborhood. It was curiously relaxed. Another Sunday evening waiting for another summer rain. It was a long, anti-climactic night. Friends calling until the a.m., scattered from Houston to Pensacola. From Detroit to San Francisco - some by plan, some by fate or fortune. Dawn came and I wondered, where are you?
Nope, you can't anticipate everything. I didn't anticipate that my landlord would fail to secure the windows in the attic. That for hours on end I would be under a sieve, looking for every available container to collect water. Every pot, pan, bucket and towel. Anything capable of storing, slowing or absorbing water. Of hours moving furniture, wiping furniture, listening to falling plaster, watching water drizzle down the chandeliers.
From my kitchen window I could see the tile start to loosen and lift from the slave quarter. Carelessly I decided to watch through my rear glass door as trees in the patio pried and wrenched at the roof until a large chunk flew through the air directly at me. It crashed into the door, shattering in a rain of glass.
To be continued . . .
Anticipation. Of what, you ask? Of everything. Anticipation of wind and water, of flying debris, of food and drink. Of darkness, without electricity. Of toilets that don't flush. Anticipation of neighbors in need, of wading through muck that doesn't bear analysis. But anticipation is a pale and wan thing. Like a shadow in the forest that never materializes. But a hurricane . . .
Anticipation. You always forget something. No mental checklist includes every thing you'll need. You may have been through storms, through gales, through hurricanes or cyclones or tornadoes. But you never can be ready for everything. It's just the way of it, of life. Mother nature is, after all, a real mother.
A sealed apartment, as sealed as a New Orleans apartment from the 19th Century can be, during the month of August is a terrible thing indeed. So I kept a front and back door open as long as possible. And I stood on the balcony, waiting, as long as possible. We were under a mandatory curfew as of 6:00pm but I saw no police cruising the streets. I heard no warning announcements, saw no officials checking my neighborhood. It was curiously relaxed. Another Sunday evening waiting for another summer rain. It was a long, anti-climactic night. Friends calling until the a.m., scattered from Houston to Pensacola. From Detroit to San Francisco - some by plan, some by fate or fortune. Dawn came and I wondered, where are you?
Nope, you can't anticipate everything. I didn't anticipate that my landlord would fail to secure the windows in the attic. That for hours on end I would be under a sieve, looking for every available container to collect water. Every pot, pan, bucket and towel. Anything capable of storing, slowing or absorbing water. Of hours moving furniture, wiping furniture, listening to falling plaster, watching water drizzle down the chandeliers.
From my kitchen window I could see the tile start to loosen and lift from the slave quarter. Carelessly I decided to watch through my rear glass door as trees in the patio pried and wrenched at the roof until a large chunk flew through the air directly at me. It crashed into the door, shattering in a rain of glass.
To be continued . . .
posted by Piety Research at 1:13 PM
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