La femme sans pitié......she slept the world (cuntishness) wrote,
La femme sans pitié......she slept the world
cuntishness

Love Letters on August 29

My Love,
7 years. Has it been so long? So long since the event when so many of your children lost their lives, were failed, were flooded, were heartbroken, were scarred, were alone. In my memory like yesterday, and a thousand years ago at once.
7 years is a lifetime of the human body, shredding and growing anew. 
7 years to learn and change, grieve and be brave, leave and resent, leave and reminisce, become complacent and remain the same. Have we done enough? Of course not. But we have danced. We have danced, and laughed, and sang, and costumed, and second lined, and drank, and died, and been born, and held together while pulling so far apart. We have loved one another and forgiven above all else. Above ego and pain we have banded together and though we are short on patience, we are long on compassion.

A sideways wind blows tonight, Grandmere. A little boy named Isaac is throwing a little tantrum, like little boys do. Pulling at your skirts and being an unreasonable pest. Rain stings against my skin as I stand out in it and looking at me you can't differentiate the tears on my face for the water falling from the sky. I have listened to the fears and shaky voices of people who have never gotten over what happened 7 years ago. The betrayal, the loss. Not of things but of a sense of safety. 

Wind whirls and spins and shrieks outside of my home. Sirens fill the air as your children feast on one another. It all sounds like the mournful, panicked wailing of a lost woman and I lay here in the darkness, holding you close to me on this anniversary. Loving you madly, with an irrational loyalty, in completion.

New Orleanians, I love you. New Orleans, I love you.
Tags: hurricane, katrina
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  • 3 comments
Thanks for callin' bebe. I was getting a massage. Though you're probably awake, I'm getting ready for bed. I'm glad to know you're unscathed. I figured, on account of not seeing anything about NOLA on the news feeds. But it's nice to hear directly.

I didn't leave because I couldn't recover a sense of security. I left because I couldn't afford to stay , *and* get back on the road where I ultimately belong. Not that I'm doing a stellar job of it at the moment. But it don't mean I ain't tryin'.
It's unfortunate that such a thing occurred during a transitional period for me. Major shit and transitional periods happening simultaneously have unpredictable results.
Now I'm left with this weird limp in my brain and feeling like I should be stronger. Better. Not so weak as to be semi crippled by some thing that happened once in a life filled with things that happened once or twice. Or more. Why this thing. Why this effect.
I don't mind being crazy, for the most part. But I do mind being hobbled by circumstances being sneaky in how they fuck with you.

I am unscathed. In fact, I had to ask people to tone down the concern after a few days of this thing being over. It was too much. It was incredibly uncomfortable to have so many people be so worried for me when New Orleans is fine, I only lost power for less than a day and a few downed trees on my backyard. Woohoo :/ From what I've heard, Plaquemines parish is screwed. St. John the Baptist parish is screwed. I'm fine.

I know that isn't why you left. And truthfully, I don't think many left for that reason. They may have decided not to come back for that reason but they, and you, left for the same reason that everyone leaves. Opportunities elsewhere. You came here for school and hated school, you were never going to stay. Even if you'd loved school and graduated... Then what? You can't do archeological digs here.

And maybe it only effects you so because of the transition but I doubt it. It happened to you, Crow. And though you retained your belongings and your apartment was undamaged... It happened to you. No amount of you shrugging that off verbally changes how it felt and what it was. I'm not fucked up about it because I lost my sari collection, my antiques keys and furniture. I'm not fucked up about it all the time but it happens. 
The way it stops being sneaky is that you stop acting like you don't have a right to feel like a New Orleanian who went through Katrina. Or whatever, fuck having a right to or not to. Just accept that it is a factor in the fabric of who you are and then it stops being sneaky.
It's like a rape victim who is changed by their rape. It makes their view the world differently. It doesn't make them frigid or freak them out daily but it is a part of who they are now. And it only happened once. So big deal, right? It's not like they were kidnapped and beaten and tortured and held and raped over and over like some people. So why do they get so upset about it sometimes?
Eh, better to have people concerned about your well being than wishing you ill. I guess. You're just a popular gal, m'dear.

Incidentally, faire site up in Hammond is also screwed. It's currently under about two feet of water, but I saw pics and the water line is roughly three to four feet high. Eesh. That show was gonna be crap enough this year without potentially having half the site needing to rebuild. The problem isn't so much the water as the sandy ground the site is built on. Most rennie booths are pretty easily recovered once the water gets drained. Hell, our booth at Bristol sits over a creek that floods the bottom floor every spring, and that thing has been standing for near 20 years now. Looks like crap, but it's standing.
But how many of the buildings will need to be re-leveled is the question. None of these people have the money to rent the equipment to do that.