Nice job on this. Thanks for sharing it...
FollowingDarkness wrote:
> I found this essay on a blog site. It has a Gonzoish feel to it, I
thought those here might appreciate it.
>
> FD
>
> Return to New Orleans Feb. 2006
> -L. Christian Mixon
>
> New Orleans has always been a part of my experience. From going there
as a kid to partying there on many long strange nights as an
> adult. Lots of unaccounted for time and strange occurrences. But that
is fodder for another story. What we are trying to get our
> collective minds around today is my first trip back to New Orleans since
the big one hit.
>
>
> It happened that I needed to get a car to Slidell Louisiana in late
February 2006. This was a nice piece of machinery, a 1967 Ford
> Galaxie with a 335hp "Z" code Big Block 390 V8. A young man in Slidell
had purchased the car to replace his previous muscle car
> which had been lost to the storm. Through a series of events that
started with the insane rise in fuel prices and ended with a Ford F-
> 150 that burned to the ground while impotently trying to start itself in
a parking lot, I was left without my normal means of having a
> vehicle delivered from my location in Temple, TX.
>
>
> While I was pondering how to make this delivery happen, I got a call
from my good friend Hans in Baton Rouge, LA. Hans it should
> be noted was my compatriot, partner in crime, and alibi on many of the
previously mentioned adventures in New Orleans over the
> years. As a native, he had grown up in the city and was therefore a
good guide to have when one needed to navigate with less that full
> command of ones senses.
>
>
> Hans informed me that he would be coming to Austin, TX in a few days to
attend a concert and wanted to know if we could get
> together for dinner while he was here. AH HA, I thought. Here is an
answer to my problem. I got the scheduling details from him,
> and after a few phone calls and e-mails, I discovered that I could drive
the Galaxie to Slidell and have Hans pick me up and return to
> Texas with him. Problem solved.
>
>
> The trip over was pretty uneventful. The big 390 V8 performed well, and
the deep bellow of the dual glass pack exhaust was a
> beautiful thing to behold. Which was a lucky thing since the AM radio
wasn't functioning. We arrived in Slidell around noon on
> Sunday. Already the utter devastation of the landscape was apparent.
Piles of rotting vegetation were everywhere. 100 foot wide
> piles of uprooted trees had been pushed around to provide some access.
Signs were still in ruin, and many of the businesses in this
> city on the north side of Lake Ponchatrain were still closed and boarded
up. Several had banners attached announcing the dates of
> public auction that were planned to dispose of the remains of their
endeavors.
>
>
> The "Blue Roofs" were everywhere. For the uninitiated, this refers to
the blue tarps that are attached to the roof of a damaged home to
> keep the water out. When we arrived at the delivery address it was one
of the damaged homes, blue roof and all. There was one of the
> famous FEMA trailers on the front yard, a small ****ch built onto the
front of it to provide access. The street was called "Defiant" and
> all around us people seemed to be just that, defying the damage and
continuing to live.
>
>
> The car was dropped off with its new owner and Hans and I turned his
Honda SUV back toward Interstate 12. It was sometime during
> the return to the main road that Hans proposed we head further east
rather that west and take I-10 back through New Orleans. Though
> he lives only 60 or so miles away, he had not been back since the storm
hit. He wanted to see what happened to his childhood home
> and to the rest of the city we once claimed as our own. Having seen
what Slidell looked like, I had a grave feeling about the condition
> of New Orleans, but this was 6 months later in the largest city in the
state. At least we would get to see how the rebuilding was
> progressing.
>
>
> We made the turn from I-12 onto I-10 and our trek began in a
southwesterly direction toward the city. Crossing the "Twin Span", we
> were able to see evidence of the recent repairs. Large sections of the
bridge were of a different type of construction. They looked
> like they had recently been set in place and had a none to comforting
tem****ary feel. As we progressed the city came into view. A
> sea of blue and brown. Blue tarps and brown exposed wood. We drove
past closed malls, destroyed fast food restaurants, apartment
> complexes boarded up with plywood and s****ting "Do Not Enter" signs
where "Covered Parking!" advertisements had once lived.
> Though I had heard it described as such many times, seeing it in the
rotten flesh I could think of nothing other than a war zone. A
> bombed out city, abandoned to the scavengers after a vicious round of
carpet bombing. Even now something was ablaze in one of the
> neighborhoods just off the interstate. Thick, black smoke was roiling
into the sky, rising fast on a thermal wind created by the flames.
> As we got closer the white tint of steam joined the black as the
firefighters arrived and added water to the mix.
>
>
> We exited the interstate at Elysian Fields and headed into one of the
many now abandoned residential districts. The first thing that
> struck us was the lack of electricity. 6 months later and still most of
the traffic signals had been replaced by stop signs on stands on
> the ground. It didn't matter. There was little to control anyway. A
few lone ambulatory vehicles traversed the filthy streets. Most
> were work trucks, drawn there with the promise of fat government paydays
for "Cleaning Up". Others were rental cars with pie faced
> tourists pressed to the windows. Perhaps they were there for the same
reason we were. To see what had become of it all. Maybe they
> had been there before on a honeymoon, a Mardi Gras or a vacation to the
Crescent City. But now the crescent was broken and its guts
> had spilled out. Only the buzzards weren't interested and the entrails
were left piled about along with the mud soaked cars that
> congregated under the interstate awaiting the crusher. The tourist were
not prepared for what they saw. It would scar them, leave
> them with a sense of unease that only long draughts from the vodka
bottle hidden under the kitchen sink would dull, and even that
> would be tem****ary.
>
>
> As we drove on I noticed that a garbage bag had split and its contents
of household waste had been spilled. Only this garbage bag was
> apparently 40 miles wide and had been lifted by some titan who didn't
realize there was something sharp in the bottom. The garbage
> had been strewn far and wide, and in the absence of someone to clean it
up, had been left where it fell. This was probably the same
> titan whose bratty offspring was responsible for the boats. Did I
mention the boats? No? Well, there were boats. Scattered
> everywhere. Not the flat bottom jon-boats favored by rescue workers,
but fan-tail center console fi****ng boats from the gulf. Deep
> Vee boats made to handle large waves in big water. Boats that didn't
belong in the middle of neighborhoods, tossed haphazardly
> against houses. This near feral child of a giant had tired of the boats
and tossed handfuls of them over his shoulder as he tottered off
> to pull the wings off of airplanes at the hobbled MSY air****t.
>
>
> We turned off Elysian Fields and into a small neighborhood. All along
the way we had seen the markings on the houses and buildings.
> Spray paint pictographs, X's with numbers, letters and symbols in some
places. Plain English in others. "Cat Found", "Dog DOA".
> Rescue workers for two legged and four legged alike, marking the places
they had been so that in their sleep deprived trek through this
> nightmare wasteland they would not have to visit the same scene of
horror twice. One more turn brought us onto the street where my
> friend had grown up. We stopped in front of a blue painted house. A
converted duplex as it were.
>
> There was a moment of hesitation before we exited the vehicle. Nothing
so clear as to be spoken, or perhaps it was I don't remember.
> But there was risk here. There was a risk that came with breaking the
seal of the door and stepping out into the street. We were in the
> war zone. The rules didn't apply here. How could places like this and
houses like this exist in any place where the rules were still in
> effect? We were clearly out of bounds here. But we were here and we
had to proceed. Hans opened his door first, he exited and
> approached the house. I stayed in the street for the time being.
Keeping watch, looking for any signs of the imminent approach of the
> denizens of this muddy, desolate landscape. They would not be pleasant
and any incursion would have to be met with swift and brutal
> violence. Residents of this landscape would respect nor accept any
less. I watched, but they kept their distance. They didn't force
> our hand. And that was good, they had been through so much, it was good
to let the two interlopers gawk and be gone without incident.
> Just better that way.
>
> There were two flood destroyed cars in the yard. Piles of tree limbs
and whole trees dominated the back yard and the front of the
> house next to it. The house was gutted. That is the correct term
apparently. There were signs everywhere. "House Gutting" "Gut-
> Busters" listing phone numbers and prices, all claiming to be "Local".
Gutting means that all the life had been stripped from the
> structure leaving just bare boards and a few pieces of plumbing inside.
Well, that and a lone chandelier hanging in the entryway next
> to a child's toy car that was dangling from the rafters. The chandelier
had one arm broken and hanging. Perhaps from the flood, but
> more likely from a ham-fisted worker tearing the walls out of the place.
>
>
> Hans pointed out the original topography of the house. "My room was
there, kitchen there" etc. Like me he has no real fond
> recollections of childhood. It was a wretched period best left behind.
But in the structures of childhood, one cannot help but see the
> things that defined them as existing. Apart from the people and
experiences that we feel we are well rid of, there are the places where
> we became who we are now, for better or worse. The walls that witnessed
our private moments of defeat and triumph. Our moments
> of satisfaction and outrage. I was sorry for the loss, I am not sure
the loss of what exactly, but the loss was palpable none the less.
>
>
> Let us not forget that this is still the war zone we described earlier.
New Orleans, post Katrina is not a safe place. So in accordance
> with this, I stood watch while Hans attempted to get some photos of the
house and neighborhood. I looked up and down the street as
> Hans fought with a thoroughly uncooperative new camera-phone. (It
should be noted that we both thought about and decided not to
> bring real cameras since we would see nothing on the trip to Slidell).
There was a lone crow, cawing in a tree at the end of the street.
> Hans continued to navigate around the house through the debris,
alternately cursing at the phone, and identifying things that used to be
> there. After about 10 minutes we decided we had pressed our luck far
enough and we got back into the Honda and drove away.
>
>
> Next we traveled into the 9th ward. This was a venture to see the
school Hans had attended while living there. The devastation was
> much the same. We were getting used to it by now, which in itself is a
disturbing thing. We saw a house that had floated into the
> street. We drove around it. We saw more boats. Many more boats.
Boats in the street ceased to be a strange thing. Then we came to
> the school. A Catholic school, built largely of brick. Despite the
damage of the flood it still stood. I realized then that Hans had
> hoped to see it raised to the ground. This monument to childhood
torment buried beneath a pile of still steaming swamp mud. Alas,
> as most vastly evil things do, it remained. Perhaps we will return
someday with sledgehammers, but that is probably just a fond dream.
>
>
> It wasn't until later, during a discussion of where we had just been
that the most im****tant point became apparent. We had both been
> plunged into a sense of the surreal in its most ****d, raw form. But
there was a core, a nasty, virulent core that escaped us as we stood
> there in the desolation of the city. We finally realized what the
specter was, or in this case wasn't. Standing on a street in New
> Orleans at Three O'clock in the afternoon, it was silent. Not just
kinda quiet. There was a silence that came into the space like a
> predatory beast. It didn't attack, it just pushed its way in and made
sure you felt that it was there. New Orleans thrived on noise. It was
> a LOUD city. Raucous noise. Drunken blabbering, shrieks of joy and
pain, lamentations of the loss of innocence, joyous cries of the
> ones who had claimed that innocence. Blatting trumpets, wailing of
saxophones, ok enough waxing poetic. There was the cursing of
> drivers cut off at a turn, the epithets hurled at a car that cut through
a crosswalk, the harsh, crude description of a young girl walking by
> in a mini skirt. There was SOUND, and lots of it.
>
>
> But not now. We realized later, there was silence. A hard, cold,
brutal silence. There should have been traffic, horns, tires scraping
> on asphalt, voice of the groups of people walking by. Arguments,
laughter, noise. But there was silence, save for a lone bird, cawing
> away in a nearby tree. The life had been drained out of the city, a
catheter was inserted by an act of nature and the life blood was
> drained away.
>
>
> We drove out of New Orleans on I-10, in silence. Not the grave silence
we had experienced on the street. But the silence of
> knowing. Knowing that something that had been alive, that had been an
integral part of the formation of the beings we were to
> become, was gone. New Orleans will return. There are plans. There are
machinations in the works. But not the one we knew. And
> we can't help be grieve it. We will miss the noise.
>
>
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