What Voltaire Said Pt. II

(CONTINUED): When I stopped by the trailer I saw it'd been empty for some time. Weeds were grown-up in the yard, a rusted wagon that'd been left outside barely topped the bluegrass already gone to seed. I walked up to the door, gave a little push, and it swung wide open. Inside the memories flew at me, thick in the air, but what stopped me where I stood were the things: a matchbox car, a little shoe, a book about a cartoon train. All around were cast-off bits of a life that was once mine, that I’d come back to claim, yet in my gut I knew somethin' had gone wrong.

I drove to town, found a phone book, and looked for “McDaniel, Lois.” Nuthin'. I checked under “Harrison,” her maiden name. Nuthin'. I called information, but there was no record, not even a notice that the number was unlisted. I stopped by the city offices and asked the clerk if she knew how I might go about findin' a resident, a family member. I was referred to another office down the hall and then a second, upstairs. In the third office I was asked for some information, including my name and relation. “Husband,” I said. “And she’s my children’s mother.” The man typed for a bit at his computer, then glanced at me and excused himself. When he returned he introduced me to a social worker who led me to another office and closed the door behind her.

“Mr. McDaniel,” she said, “When was the last time you saw your wife and kids?”

“It's been five years,” I answered, looking away from the woman and out the window at the cars moving through the parking lot.

“You haven’t been in contact at all since then? With no one from her family?"

“No,” I replied, tryin' to remember just what it was I thought I’d felt five years ago in that other parking lot, the one at Eastbridge Mall. “Her parents been dead a long time and she’s an only child.”

“I see.” The woman took a short breath. “Mr. McDaniel, I’m sorry to tell you that your wife was killed in an auto accident two years ago.”

It was like fallin' through thick ice into black, frigid water. “I'm sorry?” I said, the words just a reflex, 'cause I knew in an instant that what I'd heard was correct.

“Your wife was a passenger in a vehicle heading eastbound on County Road 9 very early on the morning of June 2. At Beyer Avenue the car veered off the road and struck a bridge abutment. Your wife died at the scene. The driver died two days later in the hospital. His blood-alcohol level was twice the legal limit.”

I tried to catch my breath. I felt like I was gonna vomit. “My kids?” I asked.

“It says that your wife’s aunt took them in.”

I hadn’t known that Lois had an aunt. “Where’d they go?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. McDaniel, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. You may wish to speak with a lawyer if you’d like to find out more.”

I ran a cold hand over my face. “Are they nearby?”

The social worker looked over my shoulder, toward the door. A large poster on the wall beside me read, "Be the Bridge." She shook her head slightly.

I stood up and swayed. The fluorescent lights seemed to flicker. I heard the woman say, “I’m very sorry, Mr. McDaniel,” but I was a million miles away.

Now I see those last times so clear. They run through my mind fast, like a movie that’s sped-up. Me burstin’ into the bedroom, Lois swearin’ and wavin’ that gun, that guy tryin’ to hide in the closet. Then I see the food court and Lois’s little fist, the mascara runnin’ down her cheeks. I see those times over and over and I swear I don’t know what it is makes people act the way they do to one another, tearin’ the one’s they love most to little bits. Sometimes it seems somethin’ mean and hateful just settles on a man from the day he’s brought into the world and he can’t tell right from wrong. I’ve heard people say that they have no regrets in life and if they had to do it all over again they wouldn’t change a thing. To me, that kinda talk might as well be from outer space. If I had to do it all over again I’d change most everythin’. Not EVERYTHING, but near enough. Try to make things right. My mama used to say that it was the times that made people behave so hard to one another. It was a sign of the times, she’d say. Well, right now I think I’d like to know some different times. Just some different times is all.



A COUPLE THINGS: I'll be disappearing into the north woods of Minnesota for the next month or so, on the hunt for moonworts and goblin ferns. There's a chance I'll get something up in a couple weeks, but it's likely that the next post won't be until late September. So, have patience, skim the archives, stop back occasionally, and eventually I'll pop up again (hopefully with lots of photos of northern Minnesota).

Also, August 10 marked the one-year anniversary of City of Dust. There's been 73 posts, just a little over one a week. City of Dust was originally supposed to be a photoblog documenting the back alleys of the Central Savannah River Area, USA, but I soon started to add historical information about the places I'd shot. Then I just started to add historical information that I thought was interesting, even if it was barely related to the photos. Then I ran out of photos of the CSRA and started putting up photos from all over the place with any variety of text: song lyrics, fiction, street encounters, and whatever else occurred to me. It's been fun, but I feel like some focus has been lost. I'd really like to get back to photographing decay, abandonment, and lost places. I think City of Dust was strongest when it had a nice, tight focus, as documented in the Photoblogs Magazine feature earlier in the year. So, I'm gonna think about what I want to do over the next month and see where I think City of Dust should go. Not that it really cares what I think. Thanks to everyone that's stopped by and sent me their stories and words of support over the last year. It's really been great to hear from so many people! Stay tuned.

What Voltaire Said Pt. I

My mama’s name was Mary and my pa’s was Joseph, but I don’t believe my conception would’ve been immaculate. When I think about it, I imagine that there was some screamin’ and some cryin’. There may have even been a little blood. It’s not healthy for a grown man to think too much about the day he was made, but I admit that I think on it a fair bit and a good deal more than I’d like. In fact, when I consider my parents, or even my childhood, I’m always drawn to that event, an event of which I have no recollection and for which I may or may not have actually been present. Voltaire said that “madness is to think of too many things in succession too fast or of one thing exclusively.” I think that’s ‘bout right. Of course, he also said that “every man is guilty of all the good he did not do” and that’s a load of bullshit. It’d be more accurate to say that every man is guilty of all the good he thought he was doin’. Now, that’s a lesson it might take a man his whole sorry lifetime to learn.



Years back I had a wife, Lois, and two kids, Mikey and Rebecca Ann, and I loved ‘em more than I loved my own life. But I was dogged by somethin’ inside and drinkin’ hard to shut it out. One weekend I was coming back from a run to Clearwater, makin’ good time ‘cause I was poppin’ black beauties to stay awake. I made it into town just after midnight and stopped by the bar to have a few drinks before headin’ home. I remember leavin’ the bar after it closed and climbing into my rig, but I don’t recall much else ‘til I stumbled into the bedroom and saw my old lady in the sack with some other fella. I started yellin’ and screamin’ and Lois started yellin’ back, tellin’ me that I was a drunk and why didn’t I go back to town and find one of my whores. I tell her I’m going to kill the prick she’s with and then I'll slit her throat from ear to ear with my pocket knife. She opens the drawer on the night table, takes out her pistol, and shoots me in the left shoulder. The bullet went in one side, out the other, and into the wall. I remember lyin’ on the floor bleedin’ and watchin’ that other guy, his pants half on, tryin’ to crawl into the closet. See, me and Lois, we was a lot alike, and neither of us would back down from a fight. If I’da been that guy, I’da stood my ground and protected the woman I was with—I’d done so before. Thinkin’ of Lois with a coward like that hurt me more than the hole in my shoulder, and I moaned, “Aw, baby, why?” just before everything went black.



Well, I got fixed up but had to stay away for awhile. It was then that I made a decision. I was finally gonna do somethin’ good, somethin’ that'd hurt me but save the people I loved. I had a friend of mine get ahold of Lois and ask her to meet me at the food court at the Eastbridge Mall. She agreed and on the day we were to meet I put on my best clothes, shaved, and combed my hair just right. I was doing somethin’ important, more important than getting’ a loan at the bank or goin’ to a funeral. This was my family.

We met outside Burger Time and I could tell Lois was excited to see me. She asked me why I was so dressed up, then started talkin’ a mile a minute about what the kids was up to and how her boss was pissin’ her off again. It made the tears well in my eyes to hear her go on like that. Then she started talkin’ 'bout us takin’ the kids campin’ soon. Finally, I had to say, “Lois, I’m not comin’ back.” She put her hand to her mouth. “We’re not buildin’ no kinda life for our kids and they gotta have a chance. I know it’s me that’s the problem. I believe it's best if I go.” Lois started to cry. “But the kids need you,” she said, frowning. “I need you. I know we had some bad times, and this last was the worst yet. But we can work it out. We can be good to each other, maybe get someone to help us. I want you to come home.” She pounded the table with her tiny fist: “I want you to come home now!” I shook my head. “Baby, I’m sorry. I love you and the kids but I just think it’d be best if I wasn’t around.” I started to stand up. “Bastard!” she hissed. “You selfish bastard.” I was afraid she was gonna make a scene and I started to back away from the table. But she didn’t get up, just looked at me, her make-up running down her cheeks. I couldn’t read what was in her eyes: sorrow, fury, fear, hate, or love. As I walked across that hot parking lot outside the mall I thought I’d just done the most noble, strong-hearted thing of my life. I figured that must be true because I hurt so bad I felt like I was gonna die. For a second I turned and looked toward the mall; Lois hadn’t come out yet. I almost went back inside but instead I got in my truck and drove away.

Five years later I was a different man. Things had gotten rough and I’d learned a good deal. I‘d fought myself some and studied on the battles of other men. Finally, I thought I’d earned some love and came seeking the forgiveness of my family. I didn’t know that what I’d need—what I’d spend the rest of my life lookin’ for—would be forgiveness from myself. (CONTINUED)

A Tub Shanty

I've developed a pilonidal cyst. I'll spare you the gory details, but part of my treatment is soaking in warm water and trying to drain the puss and goo out of a small hole in my lower back. Swell. As a grown man, sitting in a tub makes me feel like a chump. To boost my morale, I've composed a shanty to sing while soaking. Now, with some bubble bath, my favorite toy boat (HMS The Congaree Queen), and some rum, things aren't so bad. So, I thought I'd share my shanty with everyone. I apologize for its length, but I have to soak for long stretches. I also apologize for some of the expletives, but I've heard that life at sea can get a bit coarse and I wanted the song to be authentic. Without further ado, ahoy!



The Captain stumbled up to me; Said, “Aye, my lad, we’re fucked; The first mate, he’s been keel-hauled; The lieutenant’s gone off drunk; The hold is full of water; And the mast’s gone by the boards; So, now’s the time to kneel down; And pray out to the Lord!”

‘Cause we’re goin’ down! Goin down! We’re goin’ down! Goin’ down! We’re looking for the shoreline; But there’s water all around. We’re goin’ down! Goin down! We’re goin’ down! Goin’ down! Without some kind of miracle; The men will all be drowned.

I ran along from stem to stern; And a bell rang on the deck; Somebody yelled, “The Captain’s dead!”; So I went down to check; There below the Captain hung; His wings all shorn and clipped; “What a fuckin’ way,” I screamed; “To go down with the ship!”

‘Cause we’re goin’ down! Goin down! We’re goin’ down! Goin’ down! The men all jumping overboard; And no hope to be found. We’re goin’ down! Goin down! We’re goin’ down! Goin’ down! Wind and fear and blood and brine; The ocean’s ghastly shroud.



On for days and days we tossed; So many I lost count; Around me there lay dying men; But I dare not look about; From each great wave, we’d bottom-out; And then another swell; I heard a voice beside me moan; “Dear God, this ship’s in Hell!”

I opened my eyes and swore I saw; A strand up through the rain; But without no food or water; I was sure I’d gone insane; But, no, I spied a tattered man; There standing on the beach; A crowd came forward and then they roared; As he began to preach:

“There you see a frigate smashed; With one lone man aboard; In due time he’ll find this beach; Or be dash’d upon the shore; Let’s stay a bit and watch him come; Perhaps throw him a rope; But if at last the ship it sinks; We might as well go home.”

‘Cause he’s goin’ down! Goin down! He’s goin’ down! Goin’ down! “He’s sailed ‘cross many miles; Just to run a-ground.” He’s goin’ down! Goin down! He’s goin’ down! Goin’ down! “There’s cadavers in the crow’s nest; And a corpse there swingin’ ‘round.”

‘Cause he’s goin’ down! Goin down! He’s goin’ down! Goin’ down! “There may be one more corpse to swing; So let’s all gather ‘round; There’s one last soul upon that ship; Who prays that he’s been found!”

This is Wisconsin

It’s nearly dusk and the sand makes it difficult to walk. You don’t know where you are. The mosquitoes swarm and you slap at them blindly, little spatters of blood on your neck and arms. But the horseflies are worse. In the distance you hear an ATV, a dog, and the crack of a rifle. A woman appears farther up the trail. She is thin, with long, black hair, and her cotton dress flutters in the cool breeze. She stops and turns her wan face toward you. You raise your hand in greeting, hoping that she can provide you with some direction, but she steps off the trail and into the brush. By the time you reach the overgrown deer trail she’d been following there will be no trace of her.



You continue, looking for landmarks; a twisted pine tree in the distance, a shallow lake off to the side. “That must be Blue Lake,” you mutter. Then, farther on, “No, THAT must be Blue Lake.” A man approaches, big and barrel-chested, a flannel jacket over soiled coveralls. A rifle rests against his right shoulder. You slow and begin to speak, but the man shakes his head and gestures vaguely toward his ear with all three of the fingers on his left hand. You form a word, but suddenly realize the futility: He is deaf. Fear settles into your shoulders, making them ache. But this does not seem to be the fear of wandering further into the darkening wilderness. You have been lost in the north woods before, in more remote places than this, in worse weather, and with much more at stake. This fear is different, somehow more dangerous because you cannot identify it.

By the time you get back to the trailer it’s almost midnight. The full moon provided barely enough light to travel by, but the tangles of vegetation finally gave way to wider, more familiar trails. Your arms, hands, neck, and face itch terribly, small welts rising on your skin. You open the door to the musty trailer, top-of-the-line in 1955, and light the kerosene lantern. A few insects immediately begin to work their way through holes in the window screen. The door is warped and swings open with a gust of wind. You stand up and pull it shut, hard, then slide a screwdriver through two strips of metal that used to hold a sliding bolt. You sit on the bed and stare at the backs of your red, swollen hands. How long have you been out here now? Three weeks? A month? All night the fear has been building, growing stronger, more personal, more insistent. You turn off the lantern, lie back on the moldy foam pad and pull the ragged sleeping bag across your chest.

You wake sweating in the night, traces of a nightmare like wisps of dark smoke on the horizon. You sit up and look out the window at the yellow moon; in a few minutes it will sink behind the pines. In the distance, a loon. A coyote. A gunshot. You get up, light the lamp, and pull a suitcase out from under the bed. You remove three thick stacks of twenty dollar bills from the others and weigh them for a moment in your palm. You pick up a pen and two crumpled manila envelopes from the cracked formica table. The addressee on the first: Mrs. Anna Lund. The addressee on the second: Mr. Bill Nichols. One stack of bills goes in each envelope. You take a few bills off the third stack and stuff them in your pocket, then throw the remainder back in the case and kick it under the bed. You’ve just turned off the lamp when you hear a wet snuffling from below the window, followed by grunts, and a series of bumps against the side of the trailer. You freeze until the noise fades into the distance and there, in what remains of the moonlight, you laugh grimly. One problem solved, another created. As you lay your head back on the damp pillow, eyes following the willowy shadows on the ceiling, you decide to wait for dawn. This is fear. This, then, is Wisconsin.

Heat Wave

Las Vegas, Nevada: 117 degrees F. Death Valley, California: 129 degrees F. My old home, Augusta, Georgia: 100 degrees F (heat index=110). Twenty-four people dead in Phoenix, Arizona, where it's now been 100+ F for as long as anyone cares to remember. The Weather Channel running a story entitled, "Save your pet from heat exhaustion." Man, it's hot. So, here are some photos from cooler times. This is Grand Marais, Minnesota, up by the Canadian Border, sometime last February. Looks good now, doesn't it? I was cold as hell when I took these photos, a brutal north wind coming at me right off Lake Superior. But, let's forget that for now and just admire the ice. Actually, up here we didn't even make it to 70 degrees F today, so I'm not entirely sure what the rest of the country is complaining about. If you want further frosty photos I posted some others here awhile back. Just remember to keep your head down when those thunderstorms start rollin' through.

Land's End

The land begins to fall away, slowly at first, then more quickly. At ever-increasing intervals patches of dark blue flash off the horizon, somewhere beyond the trees. Two strips of blacktop lead in either direction, the rolling southbound lane initially providing the traveller with no reason to believe the road will ever end. Towns rush by, their names riddles: Happy Jack, Port Sulphur, Nairn, Empire, Triumph. Clusters of small homes punctuate miles of dense foilage, refineries, and debris. Nearby are ghosts: of the Civil War, of Mardi Gras, of the Mississippi Delta. From the depths of the Delta call the ghosts of The River, as it has always been.



To the west, the Gulf of Mexico stretches out, to the east, the Mississippi River, kept in place by a tall levee. Beyond that, a slip of land and then the Gulf again. It's disorienting to look into the distance on every side and suspect that there is nothing but a vast and sultry, if unseen, expanse. Yet it can be difficult to tell land from water, the boundaries transient and mutable. When, inevitably, land and water meet, land occasionally seems to gain some slight advantage. But water waits, patient, knowing it will finally win. It always does. On Easter Sunday, 2005, the ground was in retreat as far as Venice, Louisiana.



Five hundred miles north and three generations previous a blueswoman from Louisiana looked at the black water of the same river and saw similar earthworks built against it. Staring into the roiling depths that flowed through her country, her body, and her soul, she moaned, "If it keeps on rainin', levee's goin' to break." Rivers, towns, levees, and lives may seem fixed and permanent, but they are not.Memphis Minnie knew this 76 years ago and was moved to sing about it. We forget, yet, someday, we will not.

Man Versus Himself

It’s 7AM and I’d like to be somewhere else. Instead, I’m standing behind the geology building on the campus of a Big 10 University. It’s Saturday and a few of us are drinking coffee or eating donuts. Almost everyone is grumbling about the apparent waste of a perfectly good Saturday. It’s only late spring, but the morning is muggy and I can feel sweat on my forehead and upper lip. As I listlessly pace up and down the sidewalk I wish I was back in bed. At one point, I’m at the far end of the walk, just about to turn around, when I see a man on the other side of the parking lot. Our eyes meet for an instant and he immediately begins to shuffle toward me, not quite limping, but not walking with complete ease, either. I stop and wait; I’ve got nothing else to do.

“I’m Richard,” the man says as he approaches me. I can see that his faded blue eyes are watery and pinkish and a bit clouded. “I lost half my penis in Vietnam, but that doesn’t make me any less of a man than you.” He offers me his hand, as if to affirm his manhood, and I take it, if only to hide my sudden alarm. Richard clasps my palm, squeezes, and shakes it vigorously. “You ever read Dostoyevsky? Fyodor Dostoyevsky.” I reply that I have, and yank slightly on my arm, trying to extricate myself from the man’s grip. “Good. Good. Which of his novels do you like most?” Another tug and Richard lets go of my hand. He makes no sign to acknowledge our brief struggle, just stares at me intently, waiting. For a moment it occurs to me that he looks too old to have been in Vietnam. Then I reply: “Crime and Punishment, I suppose.” “Ah, yes, of course. It’s common to hear that, but the book is indeed very fine. Very fine. Have you ever read The Idiot?” “Yes,” I say. “Where the prince loses his mind at the end? I have read that.” “Ah,” sighs Richard. “Prince Myshkin wanted to save his friends and it drove him mad. The impulse to save is not of love, but foolishness. No one has ever written about the conflict between man and himself as well as Fyodor Dostoyevsky.” He pauses for a moment, straightens himself, then looks me square in the eye: “I lost half my penis in Vietnam, but that doesn’t make me any less a man. No, not at all.” Again he offers his hand and again I take it. I notice my classmates are staring. Again Richard won’t let go.



“Have you ever read The Demons? You may know it as The Possessed.” I tug but his grip is stronger this time. “Um, no. I haven’t.” “Politics, you know. Politics is horseshit. It makes liars out of men. And worse. I’ve seen it. Know it to be true.” I’m concerned about my hand and give a hard pull. Richard finally releases me, but is quiet for several moments. “I’d like to ask you to buy me a cup of coffee,” he eventually says. “We could talk for awhile,” “I’m sorry,” I reply. “But I have to go on a field trip. The van will be here any minute.” “I see. That’s too bad. I’ve enjoyed our talk.” Richard holds out his hand and I’m reluctant to take it, but do. “I lost half my penis in Vietnam, but I’m a man. Yessir, a good man.” By way of getting loose I turn abruptly to where the van has just pulled up, saying, “Take care,” as I do. Halfway to the van I look behind me. Richard is about to go around the corner of the building, but sees me and waves. I wave back. At the van a classmate asks me, “What was the deal with that crazy guy?” “He just wanted to talk about Dostoyevsky,” I reply. The student is puzzled: “Talk about what?” I climb into the van, the instructor already beginning a monologue about karst topography and limestone sinks. I close the door and the van pulls away.

Steve McQueen's Mustang

"Hey, remember Steve McQueen? Bullitt?!" I look over at the man on the next bench. I can see that he's tall and missing several teeth. He's holding a 40 ounce can of malt liquor in his right hand and pointing at me with his left. "1968! What kind of car did he have?!" "Car?" I mutter, turning back to glance at the Willamette River, wondering if anything good can come out of a conversation that begins as this one has. "I don't know," I say, frowning. "A Mustang, man!! A damn Mustang!!" He takes a long drink from the can, crushes it in his hand, then reaches into a bag for a fresh one. "Hey!" he exclaims, gesturing toward the woman next to him, "This girl's nothin' but trouble. She's gonna be the death of me. She gets us kicked outta every place we go." The woman, who could be 35 years old or could be 55 years old, laughs, a thin hissing, like air leaking from a tire. She has fewer teeth than her boyfriend, who says, "Shit, the river's the only place we got left. If things don't get better I might haveta throw myself in the drink." I start to say something, but the man smiles broadly and begins to roar with laughter.



Then he suddenly becomes serious: "When my old man died my brother and I got the cabin. Wisconsin. I went up there to drink. Wasn't hurtin' no one. Not hurtin' NO ONE! Then they changed the damn locks. I broke the window and got back in. Shit, it was MY PLACE. They can't keep me outta MY PLACE. Called the damn cops. My own brother. I had guns, but what am I gonna do?! Shoot cops?!" He cackles loudly and begins to imitate a shoot-out: "Bam, bam, bam, rat-a-tat-tat, kaboom!" Then louder, meaner: "Bastard! I'll kill him! If I could find him, I'd kill 'im!" A jogger runs by, glances toward us for an instant, then looks ahead, expressionless. The girlfriend begins hissing again as the man takes another pull on the can. He points at me: "I swear, if things don't start lookin' up, don't get better soon, I'm gonna throw myself in the drink. Jump right in." "That seem's a bit drastic," I offer. He roars again, "Shit, yeah! That's fucking HARSH!" We both look out at the Willamette River. "But I might," he says, quietly. "I just might." A long minute passes. "Steve McQueen!!" I turn away from the river, startled. "Steve McQueen!!" he repeats. "Man, Bullitt!!" I smile and say, "1968." "Yeah! You remember that car?" "That Mustang?" I ask. "Shit, YEAH," he says excitedly. "That's right!! That sweet Mustang. That's DAMN RIGHT!!"

The Desert, Night

It was night. The desert spread out in all directions. A darkness had fallen so thick that he could no longer see his own feet as they moved steadily under him. How many miles had he come? He didn't know. It was growing cold now and the beads of sweat on his brow stung him as the wind picked up. Above, there was not a star to be seen, the moon nothing more than a memory, or possibly a dream.

A mistake had been made. Recently, or perhaps a long time ago. He couldn't be sure anymore. But not taking the easy way out had at some point become no way out at all. And this felt not like a crossroads, but a dead end. He turned up his collar against the rising gusts and sat down in the sand, which held a last trace of warmth from the vanished sun. He felt a stone under his hand, lifted it, and threw it into the inky distance. Nothing. He would wait.

Holocaust Memorial, Portland, OR

On a wall of the Holocaust Memorial in Washington Park, amongst the pine trees which overlook the city of Portland, Oregon, a short verse is inscribed in stone. Written in 1943 by a nine-year-old girl imprisoned at Sachsenhausen, the four lines read:

Once upon a time there was Elzunia
Dying all alone
Because her daddy is in Majdanek
And in Auschwitz her mommy.

AUGUST 2016 UPDATE: Below is a sketch of a young girl submitted by Jules D. The drawing, bearing the name "Elzunia," was found in an antique store in Kraków, Poland a couple decades ago. It seems likely that it is a tribute to the girl whose poem is inscribed on the Holocaust Memorial, and thus is a moving accompaniment to this post. I thank Jules for allowing me to post it here.

Hurricane Ivan

On September 16, 2004, Hurricane Ivan slammed into the Gulf Coast of the United States. The Category 3 hurricane had lost some force by the time it made landfall at approximately 2 AM, but that was little consolation for residents of coastal Alabama and the Florida Panhandle, who had to contend with 125 mph winds and a 16 foot storm surge. The center of the hurricane came ashore near Mobile, AL, but Pensacola, FL, about 35 miles east of the eye of the storm, got hammered. Over 7 months later, the damage done by Ivan could still be seen up and down the Panhandle Coast. Construction was proceeding all around, but destruction lurked in every corner. Countless blue government issue tarps were still nailed to roofs and many windows remained boarded.



It is, of course, the beach communities that bore the brunt of Hurricane Ivan. Shifting sand and tides make life on these strips of land precarious under the best circumstances. Ivan made life impossible. These photos were taken just west of Fort Walton Beach and, while the hurricane stilts helped to a degree, the devastation was widespread. The majority of homes were badly battered, with shutters hanging loose, stairways gone, and roofs ripped-up. While a few hammers clattered here and there and a power saw or two rang out, many residents had obviously not yet returned to what may have been vacation homes. Most haunting were the broken stumps of hurricane stilts that were visible every so often, the gorgeous homes they had once supported nowhere to be seen.



A few feet beyond where these photos were taken, access was impossible. The road remained buried under several feet of sand and not a structure was visible on the horizon. On this beautiful late-March evening, with a light, warm breeze blowing and the ocean gently lapping at the shore, it was hard to imagine the fury that had torn this neighborhood apart. Some residents might tell you that living in such a place made the risk worth it. Gazing out across the ocean, ankle-deep in perfect sand, gulls wheeling overhead, wrecked homes in every direction, I wouldn't have tried to argue with them.

The King

The icon. The hero. The superstar. The one who is everything we desire to be, yet cannot be. Will never be. In kinder, gentler times, we allowed our heroes to scale great heights, saw in their climb some hope for our own victory. We cheered them on, their fame a mechanism for our own transcendence. It was only when we realized that their success would be of no use to us, that our redemption through their stardom was a lie, that we began to throw stones, to knock down those we had idolized only moments before. If they could not bring us up to their level, we'd bring them back down to ours. Then we went searching for a replacement. Now, humiliation is the price of admission. Paris Hilton, Ben Affleck, Jessica Simpson, The Bachelor, The Swan, The American Idol. We demand celebrities we cannot respect. It is as if we finally understand that the superstar will never free us from the mundanity of our own lives. And we hate them for it.



We still create stars, but only after the candidate has relinquished their dignity, something we, of course, would never dream of doing. Unless and until we get the opportunity to take their place. Most of these poor, unfortunate souls will be quickly discarded, their future the final degradation offered by tabloids or scandalous courtroom drama. But for those select few whose stars burn brightly and continuously in the collective consciousness, who can truly do no wrong--for it is not allowed--the price is highest. They must allow us to deify them. For, as Harry Crews has written, "Men to whom God is dead worship one another." The cost is far too steep, the lie far too big to be sustained. The price, ultimately, is death. And in that death comes the greatest fame.

In the House Where Elvis Lived

FROM GALWAY TO GRACELAND: Oh, she dressed in the dark and she whispered amen; She was pretty in pink like a young girl again; Twenty years married and she never thought twice; She sneaked out the door and walked into the night; And silver wings carried her over the sea; From the west coast of Ireland to West Tennessee; To be with her sweetheart, oh, she left everything; From Galway to Graceland to be with The King; She was humming Suspicion, that's the song she liked best; She had "Elvis I Love You" tattooed on her breast; When they landed in Memphis, well her heart beat so fast; She'd dreamed for so long, now she'd see him at last; She was down by his graveside day after day; Come closing time they would pull her away; Ah, to be with her sweetheart, oh, she'd left everything; From Galway to Graceland to be with The King; Ah, they came in their thousands from the whole human race; To pay their respects at his last resting place; But blindly she knelt there and she told him her dreams; And she thought that he answered or that's how it seemed; Then they dragged her away--it was handcuffs this time; She said, "My good man are you out of your mind?"; "Don't you know that we're married? See, I'm wearing his ring"; From Galway to Graceland to be with The King; "I come From Galway to Graceland to be with The King." Beautifully written by the one and only RICHARD THOMPSON.

The City of the Dead

"(St. Louis Cemetery #1) is the mother cemetery...the Vieux Carré of the dead; as confused and closely packed a quarter as the living metropolis." Grace King, author, 1895.

On my last evening in New Orleans I decided to go visit the oldest boneyard in New Orleans, St. Louis Cemetery #1, founded in 1789. Yes, on my last EVENING. I'm not sure why it didn't occur to me that the cemetery would be CLOSED at night. Maybe I thought I'd be able to peek through a fence or something (it's actually surrounded by a tall, white wall). In any case, the cemetery was outside the safety-circle the desk clerk had drawn for me, but I wouldn't realize this until I got back to my hotel room. So, I set off, crossed Canal St., and kept going. I soon passed a man who bid me a very hearty "Good evening!" I responded in kind, and thought, "Very friendly folks around here!" About a block later I caught the vibe. Abandoned grocery store on one side, boarded-up building on the other. Very few people on the streets. My antennae went up. Way up. But I was pretty close, so, sun going down, I pressed on. Another guy walked past, and he, too, offered a friendly "Hello!" Only, this time, I thought I detected a trace of amusement in his tone. When I made it to the cemetery it was, of course, locked up tight as a drum. I circled it, just to feel like I'd accomplished something, and found a hole someone had bashed in the wall. It was large enough to crawl through and, incredibly, I actually considered squeezing in. Luckily, I realized that other people may have recently done the same thing and I didn't want to meet them under the circumstances. So, I turned around, kept my head down, and quickly walked back to my hotel in the dark. Failure.



But, if at first you don't succeed, try, try, again. On my most recent trip to New Orleans I went to the cemetery first thing in the morning. This time it was open and there were plenty of tour groups out and about. A very different atmosphere. But I did appreciate the sign out front: "Visitors are welcome but enter these premises at their own risk." The graves are above-ground because the water table is so high that a heavy rain would have buried coffins popping up left and right. When space is needed, a coffin (at least 1 year and 1 day old) is removed, burned, and the remains pushed to the back of the tomb or set in a space below the vaults. Homer Plessy (1863-1925), a black man who sat in a "whites-only" railroad car, leading to his role as plaintiff in Plessy v. Ferguson, is buried there. Remember, Plessy lost his case and the ruling put into law the "separate but equal" doctrine in the US. Also buried in the cemetery is Marie Laveau (1794?-1881?), the Voodoo Priestess. She and her daughter reportedly haunt the cemetery, and return fully to life on St. John's Eve (i.e. Midsummer's Eve), when they lead followers in a wild celebration (i.e. orgy). People requiring a little voodoo in their lives leave coins, stuffed animals, "X"'s--ANYTHING--to get Ms. Laveau to help them. Then, those in need turn around three times, knock thrice on the tomb, and their wishes are granted. Tradition has long held that the Laveau tomb is the one in the middle shot there, but the grave itself has always been unmarked. Did I try to get a little voodoo going on? Wouldn't you like to know. The statue in the top shot is "The Weeping Woman." This last photo features the ubiquitous beads of New Orleans. Thanks to Grave Addiction for providing some info on the Voodoo Queen. They've got lots of interesting photos and facts at the site if you want more. 'Til next time.

The Big Easy

The first time I visited New Orleans the desk clerk at the hotel I was staying at took my map from me, then drew a thick, dark circle around the downtown area. "New Orleans isn't really a dangerous city, as long as you stay inside this circle, especially at night." I appreciated the advice, but he needn't have bothered. If there's a seedy part of town, some place where no tourist has any business being, then I will automatically, magically, find myself there. The first time I went to Chicago I got woefully lost and drove right up to the notorious Cabrini Green Housing Project. (This was before muggers on crack were replaced by joggers who've had too much frappuccino.) In Charleston, SC, I took a few wrong turns and found myself in the only place I was expressly told not to go. As darkness fell, a man trudged down the sidewalk, past burnt out buildings and overflowing trash cans, a TV hoisted on one shoulder, the power cord dragging behind him. My first night in London was spent in a basement hovel in Earl's Court, complete with pre-dawn knife fight outside the window. ("Aw, c'mon, just put that thing away before the police come," one guy finally pleaded. Surprisingly, it seemed the suggestion was taken, and I listened to their footsteps ricochet off in different directions.) And on and on. Trust me, I'm not showing off here. There's nothing particularly fun about winding up on the toughest street in town. You're grateful if all it takes is a little spare change to secure safe passage through some of these neighborhoods. I'm only relating this as a set-up for the next post. But don't get your hopes TOO high--it's probably not what you think. Anyway, the top and bottom photos are from Bourbon St., early on Easter Sunday, 2005. (The guy with the crown wants stuffed animals from the ladies in the carriage.) This middle shot is from the Garden District during a wait for the trolley.

Hotel No-Tell

Sometimes things just don't work out. The interstate is built 20 miles to the east. There's no money coming in. You can't cover your loan. Your wife says she's had enough. Anything. Disaster. Whenever I'm in an old house, particularly one that's still furnished, I can't help but wonder what happened. Death? Disease? Divorce? A litany of potential transgressions and illegalities. But, in each case, whatever occurred had to have been powerful. For this event, or sequence of events, transformed something that once must've meant everything--every hope, dream, or aspiration--and turned it into less than nothing. A rotting shell, the decaying objects inside, once cherished, now hardly the worst of it. A home become a place to flee. When I came across this motel in south Georgia, a little off I-75, I took the broken glass and shattered wood to be proof of calamity. Each room individually decorated, a children's playground out back, a laundry facility. Evidence of plans and passion. Now, nothing of use remained. To understand, to feel what might have been, you have to get close, and risk seeing something of yourself reflected back at you.

Neon Night

I don't know what it is about old neon signs that I find so romantic. Of course, neon is best late at night, in a light rain, the bright colors reflecting off wet pavement. Extra points are awarded to signs with a few burnt-out letters. Bonus-extra points go to signs that blink on and off, molded glass tubes winking ambiguously in the darkness. We're not talking about signs advertising Subway sandwiches or ATM machines. No, we're talking about signs that evoke moods, memories, and movement, somehow flashing the cracked ambitions of generations of Americans back at you. This is a shot of the Prince Murat Motel, Tallahassee, FL. They sell alcohol at the front office in 40 oz. cans. I'm reminded of the Thunderbird Inn, Savannah GA. The Thunderbird is across from the Greyhound station, where the most reasonably-priced accomodations in any town can be found. One night, I was staying at the T-bird when I heard the door to my room open. I sat bolt-upright in bed and immediately my eyes locked with those of another gentlemen, who was halfway across the threshold. He stopped dead in his tracks, whispered a hoarse apology, then quietly backed out. Did he mistake my room for his, the locks on the doors, for some strange reason, the same? After all, I was sure I'd turned the deadbolt before going to bed. Or did he pick the lock, hoping for a free room for the night? I didn't ponder these questions (nor a couple others) for too long, as I quickly fell back asleep. Hey, he seemed like a nice person. Unlike the woman in the parking lot who, later, towards dawn, screamed for a solid hour about her lost comb. Oh, and I'm not disparaging either the Thunderbird or Prince Murat. They beat a corporate chain any day. Hell, it seems everyone I know has spent at least one night at the T-Bird.

Phirebrush, an on-line magazine, has posted 5 photos of mine, which is quite nice of them. The shots are in the new issue, #28, in the photography section. All 5 are from the CSRA, including shots from the Phinizy Swamp, Sand Bar Ferry Rd., and even the spooky honky-tonk/mission. Yup, all the old haunts. Also, the other night, I caught Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys at Lee's Liquor Lounge. Now, I'm no fan of nostalgia or revival, but Big Sandy brings enough personality and flair to rockabilly and swing tunes that they seem wholly contemporary. "Chalk it up to the Blues," a song off the last record, can be found here. It's a good soundtrack for neon in the night, I think. This is Walker Radiator Works, Memphis, TN. It's dark, letters are burnt out, I only regret that a fine mist wasn't falling. But, if you listen closely, you can hear heels clicking down the sidewalk and off into the night.

I feel like I'm cheating a little bit, since this shot was taken right next door to the radiator works. Yup, Sun Studio, Memphis, TN. But, it goes well with the shot from Snaps Magazine, which was taken from inside (during the day, of course). So, yeah, sure, this post was written under the influence of too much Dashiell Hammett, too many Veronica Lake movies, and my apparently unquenchable desire to hop in a car and drive to a city--any city--with no regard for what happens once I get there. I don't know about where you live, but if it's not pouring with rain and you aren't subject to extended power outages, you're better off than I.