The Ninth Ward of Hell

we drove through slowly, in disbelief and with every block getting worse.

Xs everywhere with the count of the dead on almost every house, and almost as many SPCA messages about dead pets. i feel it coming, the rain onslaught in the sound of the thunder and the approaching storm, as well as the storm in my throat: the tears coming out of my face. we saw a few cars here and there and people working on their houses. new orleans has a new demographic: the mexican and central american man. i told guy, "i don't remember seeing so many latinos in new orleans before." it is now apparent why.

we drive and drive. the further we go, the less cars we see, that are running, and no people. no people. no people. just broken houses left open and abandoned. i think about people who died in the houses, drowning in their lives, in the memories they refused to leave behind. i try not to cry, because i cry so much (half hormone treatment/half me), it gets to guy, but really...this is certainly cry-worthy. we shoot pictures of people's belongings in piles on the street and storage sheds on their sides, lodged in between trees, and handpainted street signs, because they are a definite low-priority replacement. guy and i have been in a fight and are not talking much. i say only, "it's so sad. it's so sad." he agrees.

we drive for a few miles in three directions. it is hideous.

i try not to hate.