So I recently moved to New Orleans. Bought a gutted house in the Lower 9th Ward. Not sure what I’m doing here … but at least it’s something different.
An hour outside Moblie, on the way down the I-65 from the East Coast, the land gets a lot flatter really quickly. Swaths of stumpy ex-forests line the highway, clear-cut by hurricanes Katrina and Gustav. The trees have grown back some, maybe all for naught — maybe just to get swiped clean again.
Then, on the I-10 right before the big scary Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, the roads rise above the terrain, a sure sign we’re coming to the end of the earth. “Marssshhh” is the sound of land hitting water.
Why the F am I moving here? Will any one of the rainbows I chased end in a pot of something, anything, or will I drown first? … More practically, is it wise or folly to ride out a recession in the most recessed place there is?
perhaps something to do with this being the view a few steps from my back yard
There is no desire or strong grasping. Ideally, anyway. There is only the hope of survival in the now-here. Safety in the eye of the storm. Farewell to the family who still do amazing stuff way far away. I’m setting up a satellite camp. The well ran dry, but the river never will.
Whether I rise to the top and float is another matter entirely.
Lovely, lovely filth. Chaos provides.
