The Hive
The official blog of science fiction / horror author Terence West.
William Gibson Blog
Famed author of Neuromancer and Johnny Mnemonic: The Screenplay.
The Word Foundry
Joe Clifford Faust's "blog of a working writer: tracking writing projects, musings on the
creative process, occasional side trips into music, media, politics, religion, etc."
A Writer's Diary
By Cynthia Harrison, who has the good sense to quote Virginia Woolf: "The truth is that writing
is the profound pleasure and being read the superficial."
The American Sentimentalist
"Never has any people endured its own tragedy with so little sense of the tragic." Essays by Mark W. Anderson.
Screenwriting By Blog
David C. Daniel writes a screenplay online. "I've decided to publish the process as a way to push myself through it.
From concept to completion, it'll be here."
SeanAlonzo.com
Official site of occult fiction author Sean-Alonzo, exploring symbolism, alternative
history, philosophy, secret societies and other areas of the esoteric tradition.
Crafty Screenwriting
Maunderings of Alex Epstein, tv scribe, about life, politics, and the tv show I'm co-creating.
Stealing Heaven From The Lips Of God
Writer & Artist, Dee Rimbaud reflects upon politics, religion, art, poetry, the meaning of life,
the nature of God and why toast always lands butter side down on carpets.
Robert Peake
Heart and Mind, Fully Engage ... a poet's website.
Sidestepping Real
By Ren Powell, poet, children’s writer, essayist and editor.
(Posts archived here are from 01/10/03 - 10/31/06)
Wednesday, September 21, 2005 A hurricane journal
Kat Nesbit, a former student of mine, sent along a diary of her experience visiting the gulf area after the hurricane, making the trip to rescue her grandmother. Excerpts follow:
Tuesday, Aug. 30th
The full extent of the devastation is beginning to sink in as headlines trumpet the news of death and destruction. The photographs are unbelievable. The headlines are callings this, “Our Tsunami.”
I realize now that my grandmother could very well be dead. Her house is only a few blocks from the beach, and the destruction on the news looks absolute... my uncle assures me that the church always picks her up and takes her to their shelter. But I can see the worry in his face and hear the tension in his voice. We leave unspoken our fears-that this time, in the chaos of the approaching storm, she had been forgotten. Or, that with Tim on vacation in Oregon, Grandma might have refused to leave her Akita, Boo. Boo-Boo Bear normally rides out the storm with my uncle, but with Tim gone, the dog that both of them adore would be left in the house alone. We worry that Grandma, in her infinite compassion for animals, had stayed in the house to comfort her dog, who becomes terrified in storms. If she stayed, and the house looks like the debris we are seeing splashed across the newspaper, she’s a goner.
Wednesday, Aug. 31st, 2005
6:00 am
They are saying a twenty five foot storm surge hit Biloxi and Gulfport. The aerial views of the coast show nothing left. Even the highway, only blocks from the house, appears to have vanished into the ocean. Only the shining white of the Biloxi lighthouse remains. I see it as a sign, a beacon of hope, that not all was destroyed. Tim says his house sits on high ground. I remember that it was surrounded by brick apartment buildings that may have protected it from the 145 mph winds. We pray that the water didn’t reach the house if Grandma was still inside.
1:53 pm
I’m sitting in the airport. The paper shows sections of I-10 between Slidell and New Orleans that have sunk into the water, floating away from each other like a child’s blocks in the bathtub. I’m 90% sure that Grandma went to a shelter. I guess the only way to find out for sure is to hurry up and get our asses down there.j I don’t think people up in the Northwest have any idea how bad things really are down there. We are so isolated up here! Except for those directly affected by having family or friends who rode out the hurricane, the entire disaster is completely removed from our lives, even as it has completely, and for some, permanently altered the course of theirs.
Thursday, September 1st
The violence in New Orleans grows worse. Disorder and violence prevail. There is news of rape, murder, thievery. Whispers of looting in Biloxi, but it is all hearsay. Still, my mother called and insisted that my uncles buy ammunition for their rifles and pistol. For better or worse, we’re going armed. The headlines are calling it, “The Worst Natural Disaster the United States has Ever Seen.”
Friday, September 2nd, 2005
Frustrations run high as we continue to prepare for departure. I thought we would be out of here by noon yesterday. I wanted to just load the truck and the car with water, food, backpacks, gasoline and diesel and be on our way, meeting obstacles with our brains and our wits as we encountered them, but my uncle Mike wants certainties in a situation where there are no certainties. He wants FEMA to guarantee the roads are open, he wants to know there are no roving bands of marauders, but the simple fact is that we will know nothing until we get down there.
2:00 pm
We received a call from the Mormon church in Salt Lake City. My grandmother is alive and being housed in a Mormon shelter. We breath a collective sigh of immense relief-the Mormons, after all, believe in being ready for the apocalypse, and we are fairly sure she has food and water. Our worries turn to Boo, who remained in the house. A big strong dog like that ...she should be fine, even if she had to swim for it. Tim worries that looters may have shot her even if she survived the storm. Even knowing Grandma is in a shelter, I worry. Does she have enough medication? Is she taking it? How is she handling the heat? We have read of many old people who died in the heat; we can’t help but worry.
Saturday, September 3rd, 2005
10:30 am The phone lines are up at Tim and Grandma’s house! Or at least, a persistent person on the outside can call in to the house. Beverly, Grandma’s niece, actually reached her. Amazingly, the house is still standing, Grandma is all right and staying in the house, and Boo Bear is also alive and well after protecting the house from looters for five days after the storm. The mood greatly lightened in the “rescue” party, and Tim stopped to buy a generator while I ran into the nearest Kroger’s to buy dog food.
10:00 pm
The first sign is a shredded American flag snapping in the wind. Driving south from Jackson, Mississippi, headed for the devastated coastal town of Biloxi to rescue my grandmother, the evidence of the reach of Katrina reveals itself little by little. After the flag, we begin to see downed trees, at first soldiers fallen alone amongst their comrades, but gradually the downed trees become thicker and thicker, the swathe of the hurricane widening, the power of the wind increasing the closer we come to the ocean. We pass buildings with their windows shattered, then ones with their roofs blown off. We continue our approach. The trees are thick Mississippi jungle on either side of us, all of them either bending heavily inland from the force of the wind or snapped off halfway up their trunks. We begin to see houses completely collapsed, the roofs touching the foundations, and tree trunks with diameters as thick as two feet cracked cleanly twenty feet from the ground, their pale innards white as corpses exposed within their rough black bark, jagged edges reaching to the sky like fields of matchsticks, dead crowns blown away from the rooted stumps that remain. We pass a power line pole that is suspended ominously like a predatory spider only a few feet over the center of the road, held trapped in the buzzing lines that it had once supported. We swerve carefully to the right, crossing under the lines where they are high enough to allow us passage. There are no road blocks. Nobody tried to stop us. We reach Biloxi and begin to pass houses decimated by the floodwaters, shifted on their foundations or completely collapsed. Mattresses lie on the road, plastic bags and clothing flutter in trees at ten or twenty feet above the ground, a testament to how high the water of the storm surge had reached.(In some places they are saying thirty five feet.) We pass an enormous lake of a puddle stretched across the blacktop of the street, the water bubbling up from the middle, presumably a broken pipe or water supplier the origin of the mess. We pull into the apartment building that surround Tim’s house. People who had weathered the storm in their apartments or nearby shelters talk softly from porches or merely glance disinterestedly out their windows at the new arrivals. There is a taste of shock in the air; while those we speak to are cordial, they have a look in their eyes, a certain distraction from the moment they are living in, that reveals something of the emotions they must be feeling to see their hometown so devastated. Amazingly lucky we are. Tim’s house is standing. Though many shingles have been ripped off the roof, revealing the plywood beneath, none of the windows are broken, and no flood water reached the house. Most of the apartments around us are intact as well. A neighbor tells us the wave was headed straight for us but at the last moment the wind shifted and the wave was diverted. A large crabapple tree has fallen on Tim’s pickup, but it sustained little damage. However, the entire 3/4 ton truck was literally pushed a good twenty fee by the force of the wind, so that its bed sticks out of the yard and the tree rests lightly on the cab. Other limbs and branches, some as thick as my waist, litter the yard-but remarkably, all missed the house. We hug Grandma and she tells us that there is a six o’clock curfew. Looting has been bad, but one hundred and twenty pound Boo was able to scare off any would be thieves during the days the house stood alone, and thousands of dollars of electronics and tools remain untouched. We spend the rest of the evening using a chain saw to cut up the crabapple tree and drag it out closer to the road, where it will be picked up by government contract at some vague date in the future. Ice and water are being distributed to survivors from the backs of semi trucks, but they are finished for the night by the time we arrive. We hook up the generator at dusk and collapse into our beds, mentally and emotionally exhausted.
Sunday, September 4th, 2005
We walk down to the beach in the morning. On the way the interior of houses stare at us from gaping holes, walls ripped out from the inside so that looking in, it is possible to simultaneously view the living room, a bathroom, a bedroom, a kitchen. There is what looks like garbage everywhere; in the roads, in the ditches, on the sidewalks, dancing from tree limbs and fences. Here and there, people alone and in couples still pick their way through the debris, perhaps looking for those items that are unreplaceable, photo albums and hand made gifts, perhaps merely curious, or perhaps searching for closure. The private belongings of families are strewn across the beach for all the see. Lives exposed. Mattresses water logged and covered with sand. Children’s toys, cars and dolls, lie in piles in the sand, flung haphazardly at the whim of the storm surge. Tim suggests that we not walk along the beach, in case we find something we don’t want to see. I suggest that we do, in case we find something that should be found and carried away. The human bodies are gone by the time we get there. But bodies still remain; a small terrier dog, its stomach bloated, its eyes misty, with insects crawling from its mouth and anus, is crumpled beside a tire and a plastic bag. A rabbit, a child’s pet, its fur thick with sand, lies stretched alone on the beach. A cat, once a lovely siamese, is curled almost gracefully in a grotesque semblance of life, its nose tucked under a tail, gaping holes where its eye sockets had been. I notice birdcages and dog leashes littered on the beach. I realize that many beloved family pets had met their end in the surging floodwaters, and I wonder how many of their owners had been with them when they drowned. Most people had fled for shelters, but some had stayed, and many had died. I was glad the human bodies were gone by the time I got there. A young woman from my grandmother’s church who had decided not to seek shelter was brought in after the hurricane. She had been clinging to a tree for over four hours. When the tidal surge hit, she watched helplessly as her two children and her fiancé were swept away by the broiling water. My thoughts wander to that woman, her children. Had they been among the bodies left on the beach by the retreating wave? Yet as we walk we also see remarkably normal things. The lighthouse we had seen in aerial photographs does indeed still stand, but the buildings, roads, stoplights that I remember surrounded it have all vanished. A couple walks their dogs, a border collie and some sort of hound, along the decimated street. Workers in orange vests and hardhats swarm amongst the wreckage of the once rich casinos and hotels. I begin to become desensitized. At first I photograph everything, searching for the best angles, the best light, in a strange desire to share this experience with friends and family who are not here, knowing instinctively that I will hardly believe my own memories without recorded proof. But soon I am no longer lifting the camera. I simply walk, taking it all in. The scope of the destruction is too vast. I do not continue to photograph the ripped out guts of museums and hotels or enormous live oaks ripped out by their roots because there is just too much of it; it is no longer remarkable, no longer newsworthy. I imagine what it would be like to see Portland, my home town, the place I was raised and the keeper of thousands of precious memories from my life, destroyed the way the gulf coast communities have been destroyed. But I can hardly comprehend it. Things that normally would seem shocking have become ordinary; we are stopped and given a flyer advertising an important meeting at the local morgue, where friends and relatives are encouraged to drop by and list identifying marks on missing or dead loved ones; tattoo's, scars, piercings, etc. We in turn spread the word to those we meet, chatting pleasantly with people about damage to houses and cars and then waving the flyer, titled, “Urgent Notice” in their face and asking, “Is this relevant to you?” We pass the flyers out and ask them to spread the word. One man says casually, “Oh yeah, I know someone, my friend Reggie Oswald. He done floated away.” He says it with apparent nonchalance, but he turns away from us for a moment as he speaks. When he turns back his face is carefully composed. He takes the flyer and thanks us, walks away without looking back. Not everything is gone. A two hundred year old hotel in the heart of downtown remains standing, shielded by the lee of an enormous concrete building. Mary Mahoney’s, my Grandma’s favorite cafe, stands nearby, gutted but rebuildable. In fact, in the bright light of sunshine it is easy to picture the streets as I last saw them six years ago, when I visited my uncle at his Biloxi home. We talk softly as we walk. My uncles think it will be rebuilt within a couple of years, and to my surprise, this isn’t hard to imagine. The utter devastation we expected from the media reports is not the reality of the situation... while the damage is catastrophic, it is not unfixable. It is amazing what we take for granted. Every few blocks we pass trucks distributing water and ice, people walking away with their arms full, saying gracious thank you’s over their shoulders. I am surprise by how thoughtful people have become... we pass one young black man, walking with his arms full of empty milk cartons. Tim asks him if he needs water, offers to drop some off at his house. The young man shakes his head, and tells us he plans to fill the cartons with water from a leaking hydrant, untreated, to be used for bathing. He says he doesn’t want to use the “good” water to wash, in case others need it for drinking. He flashes us a cocky grin, “I’m just makin’ the best of it, just tryin’ to make the best of it just like everyone else.”
…
Monday, September 5th, 2005
7:00 am
The precise whop of helicopter blades has become almost a constant the past few days. It was the first sound I heard this morning and the last sound I heard last night. Fred and I also heard what may have been gunshots late last night; however, it m ay also have been the transformers on the power lines popping as the rain began to fall, the water pushing the electrical current over the edge of what the already overloaded transformers can handle. This apartment complex is the first place in the whole city to get electric back. Most of the town still does not have water or electricity-which means no air conditioning, no plumbing. We thought they were going to bring in portable toilets, but the only toilets we found on our walk yesterday were set up downtown, in the areas of the worst devestation. I guess everyone else is going in yards, behind bushes, or in their toilets, which fill with waste.
8:00 pm
For the first time in my life, guns are a natural, in fact invisible, part of the household. By “invisible” I mean that nobody pays much attention to them, they are not a source of comment or excitement; a pistol lying on the dining room table, a rifle in the trunk of the car. Yet we brought them, and the ammunition that goes in them, for the express purpose of defense. I’ve never been anywhere in my life where we thought we might actually need to defend ourselves. I feel quite safe though. The people of Biloxi do not seem violent, nor joyful, nor anything. They walk the streets as though in a daze. A fight breakes out in the street. A large crowd, a woman’s chilling scream, “Stop! Stop! Stop!” I watch from our yard. The fight breaks up quickly, and nobody appeared to be in need of medical attention, so with relief I go back to what I was doing. Tim’s only comment is that tensions run high in the heat. The heat sucks the vitality and soul out of us. It is so hot that we drink constantly and are always thirsty. By noon I feel drained; not overheated or exhausted exactly, but as though my eyes are glue in my head and I am moving very, very slowly. I pity the people who have no air conditioning to escape to. A spontaneous game of football breaks out in the street after lunch. Young men holler enthusiastically and the ball rockets through the air. For a few minutes everything seems back to normal, and then as quickly as the game began the group vanishes.
…
We are trying to find tarps to put over the holes in the roof, the hardware stores are sold out. We are told that FEMA is supposed to supply tarps and other emergency building supplies to people whose homes have been damaged in the hurricane, but FEMA’s presence here is non-existent. We ask relief workers from every organization we pass; the Red Cross, the Salvation Army, a Lutheran church, police officers, uniformed army and national guard, where we can find the FEMA distribution locations, but NOBODY KNOWS WHERE TO FIND FEMA. We are told the same thing at each stop: we need to call FEMA. We are given phone numbers for FEMA everywhere-in the paper, on the radio-but the irony is, nobody in the area can call out. We can’t call FEMA, or anyone else. The ridiculousness of the situation frustrates me. It is absurd! …
One the other end of the spectrum, the rescue workers, volunteers, and private organizations are doing wonders. Despite my frustration, I am convinced that most if not all of the people in the area now at least have access to canned foods and breads, water, and ice. There are shelters set up at fairly frequent intervals along the roads, and the workers consistantly give warm smiles of encouragement and support, asking if they can do anything to help or if we need anything they can give. Luckily for us, we do not need what they can give us. By luckily, I mean, we have food, water, and shelter. The failure of FEMA is unbelievable, their lack of presence in this disaster zone shocking. My uncle Tim’s comment is, “I think you can find FEMA where the unicorns graze. I think it is a mythical organization.” Finally we find tarps at Lowe’s. We spend the evening nailing tarps to the roof, finishing just after dark. Exhaustion is setting in. I’m as tired as I’ve ever been in my life.
Tuesday, September 6th, 2005
The whole area around us reeks worse with each passing day as the chicken and seafood in local stores and distribution centers rots. When I first smell it, it makes me nauseous, but the nausea passes within a few minutes. We still can’t use the water from the pipes. I woke up with a sinus headache this morning and have gotten increasingly ill throughout the day, with aching joints and a feeling of lightheadedness. If we were to have a true emergency, we would be shit out of luck, because we have no way to call for help and probably no-one to call even if we did have a phone. Tim’s friend’s wife is a nurse working in the hospital. She said the body count is nowhere near accurate-it’s far worse than the reports are saying. Also, people who came to the hospital for “help” tried to take it over and had to be forcibly contained.
…
Wednesday, September 7th, 2005
In America we grow so used to seeing scenes of destruction in the news, on movies, all around us. But always when the movie ends or when we turn off the television, the catastrophe is over and we can go back to our normal lives. Not this time. We see it every day, every hour. We are living in it. It becomes almost monotonous, but it is that very constancy that is at last driving home the realness of the situation and provoking an emotional reaction out of me. I can’t turn this off, and it doesn’t end. But is is getting better.
_The Writing Life