A cold and broken hallelujah.
May. 16th, 2011 03:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
takatsukishioriI hesitated, for almost three weeks, to put that night into writing. Awkwardness ensues upon hearing the t-word, though M and I make jokes about it, in retrospect, just to ease the lingering disquiet. Now, I'm so terrified of forgetting. I need something to remind me that it was real. But, just as Tori sings, that's not the way it feels...
Bad weather was expected, anticipated, and realized, very early on Wednesday morning. Apparently, I slept through tornado sirens, as I was informed by M much later. This was not wholly absurd, as I had stayed up rather late Tuesday evening, and was at work by 9 o'clock in the morning, an ungodly hour for such a night owl. Across the city, trees and power lines had been downed by straight-line winds, and the morning commute was spent playing dodge the debris.
At work, the usual activities commenced: Gchat and AIM, and Wikipedia. For a while. I checked the Alabama weather blog, for the thunderstorm ETA; in Cullman, it had already started.
Bad weather was expected, anticipated, and realized, very early on Wednesday morning. Apparently, I slept through tornado sirens, as I was informed by M much later. This was not wholly absurd, as I had stayed up rather late Tuesday evening, and was at work by 9 o'clock in the morning, an ungodly hour for such a night owl. Across the city, trees and power lines had been downed by straight-line winds, and the morning commute was spent playing dodge the debris.
At work, the usual activities commenced: Gchat and AIM, and Wikipedia. For a while. I checked the Alabama weather blog, for the thunderstorm ETA; in Cullman, it had already started.
I muted the weather blog's streaming coverage, and watched that particular t-word form on live television. In essence, Cullman was devastated. Tornadoes were moving through Mississippi and into southwest Alabama at a rapid pace. I was fascinated, and horrified.
Lunch came, and I met M, who'd been occupying herself in Graves Hall, working on GRA work and fretting about her family, who reside in Cullman. She was not able to reach them. We "checked into" the Quad via Facebook, stating that our current "what are you doing?" was "Looking for the tornadoman." M was obviously tense, however. After all, not even a week ago, a t-word had ripped through the southern edge of Tuscaloosa proper, which I watched, in tears, on live stream, as I was in Birmingham at the time. It passed not very far from M's house.
I went back to work, sated on bad popcorn and too much caffeine, and continued to keep an eye on the live stream. As the clock pushed closer to four, the live stream became more riveting, and soon I abandoned my farm and any pretense of working. At 3:20, the weather radio went off, just as James Spann, our venerated meteorologist, announced a tornado warning for Tuscaloosa County. According to my text messages, a tornado had originated in Pickens, and was making its way toward Tuscaloosa. At 3:46, our tornado siren went off, and I packed up my stuff, shut down my work computer, and texted Jen's brother, who had been texting me, "We have to evacuate."
Downstairs, around the flat-screen mounted to the wall, everyone gathered as a tornado ripped its way from Reform, Alabama, in our direction. No one knew what to do. My coworker left; my boss meandered around the crowd. My phone, cursed BlackBerry, was nearly dead, but I had my iPod touch, which still had a bit of battery. I switched it on, connected to Facebook chat, and waited.
ETA: I can remember debating, as I stood there, and as my friend C joined me. (He subsequently grew distracted with ennui, stated that "he didn't have time for a tornado, since finals were next week," and went into the basement to finish a text. I can't say I blame him.) I said to myself, I'll go home. I'll go home, put the cats in their carriers, and settle them into the bathroom or beneath the dinner table, which was guarded by the outer wall and two thick interior walls. The past few times this has happened, I've followed these steps: put the cats away, call my grandmother, and go outside to watch. The way Charleston Square is arranged is such that all apartments face the courtyard, and so I imagined it'd be difficult to determine how to see the tornado. Hence, each time it's happened, I've taken a position in the breezeway, stood at attention, and scanned the sky, waiting. I just don't know what I would have done, if I'd gone home, followed the usual tornado warning routine I've developed, and seen that thing barreling toward my house. Regardless, I told myself: I'll go home, because James Spann says that if anyone wants to go home, they'd better do it now. Then, after a moment of internal wrangling: No, no. I'll stay at the library. I'll stay here. I still don't know how I made that decision, but I believe it was the right decision. I would have been outside, and who knows where that thing would have thrown me, or dropped me, or with what sort of debris I would have been bludgeoned.
(I read a story about a girl who was thrown from the top floor of my apartment complex. Her L1 was shattered, and her spine was severely displaced, and she was paralyzed from the waist down, as neighbors tried to get her (and themselves) away in enough time, as we'd heard there was another tornado. University of Alabama at Birmingham doctors, brilliant as they are, were able to give her intensive surgical repairs, and she hopes to walk by fall, just in time for classes.) /ETA
Lunch came, and I met M, who'd been occupying herself in Graves Hall, working on GRA work and fretting about her family, who reside in Cullman. She was not able to reach them. We "checked into" the Quad via Facebook, stating that our current "what are you doing?" was "Looking for the tornadoman." M was obviously tense, however. After all, not even a week ago, a t-word had ripped through the southern edge of Tuscaloosa proper, which I watched, in tears, on live stream, as I was in Birmingham at the time. It passed not very far from M's house.
I went back to work, sated on bad popcorn and too much caffeine, and continued to keep an eye on the live stream. As the clock pushed closer to four, the live stream became more riveting, and soon I abandoned my farm and any pretense of working. At 3:20, the weather radio went off, just as James Spann, our venerated meteorologist, announced a tornado warning for Tuscaloosa County. According to my text messages, a tornado had originated in Pickens, and was making its way toward Tuscaloosa. At 3:46, our tornado siren went off, and I packed up my stuff, shut down my work computer, and texted Jen's brother, who had been texting me, "We have to evacuate."
Downstairs, around the flat-screen mounted to the wall, everyone gathered as a tornado ripped its way from Reform, Alabama, in our direction. No one knew what to do. My coworker left; my boss meandered around the crowd. My phone, cursed BlackBerry, was nearly dead, but I had my iPod touch, which still had a bit of battery. I switched it on, connected to Facebook chat, and waited.
ETA: I can remember debating, as I stood there, and as my friend C joined me. (He subsequently grew distracted with ennui, stated that "he didn't have time for a tornado, since finals were next week," and went into the basement to finish a text. I can't say I blame him.) I said to myself, I'll go home. I'll go home, put the cats in their carriers, and settle them into the bathroom or beneath the dinner table, which was guarded by the outer wall and two thick interior walls. The past few times this has happened, I've followed these steps: put the cats away, call my grandmother, and go outside to watch. The way Charleston Square is arranged is such that all apartments face the courtyard, and so I imagined it'd be difficult to determine how to see the tornado. Hence, each time it's happened, I've taken a position in the breezeway, stood at attention, and scanned the sky, waiting. I just don't know what I would have done, if I'd gone home, followed the usual tornado warning routine I've developed, and seen that thing barreling toward my house. Regardless, I told myself: I'll go home, because James Spann says that if anyone wants to go home, they'd better do it now. Then, after a moment of internal wrangling: No, no. I'll stay at the library. I'll stay here. I still don't know how I made that decision, but I believe it was the right decision. I would have been outside, and who knows where that thing would have thrown me, or dropped me, or with what sort of debris I would have been bludgeoned.
(I read a story about a girl who was thrown from the top floor of my apartment complex. Her L1 was shattered, and her spine was severely displaced, and she was paralyzed from the waist down, as neighbors tried to get her (and themselves) away in enough time, as we'd heard there was another tornado. University of Alabama at Birmingham doctors, brilliant as they are, were able to give her intensive surgical repairs, and she hopes to walk by fall, just in time for classes.) /ETA
Fifteen miles southwest of Tuscaloosa. We watched. James Spann made amazing facial expressions. I was excited. The news came: closer, closer. The estimated path: Alabama's campus and downtown. My mother wasn't answering my messages; in a panic, I messaged my cousin, "Please call grandmother, and tell her to pay attention to Facebook. There's a tornado." So it was written, and so was it done. At 5:13, it moved down Kauloosa Ave. and 35th St., and across 10th Ave., unbeknownst to Lena, who lives there, and wasn't as familiar with the streets south of her street as she should have been.
The electricity fizzled, started, and died. We still had wifi. Jen texted me, and I texted back that I wasn't able to talk; my phone was about to die; please log on to Facebook chat. She didn't appear to be listening, and I didn't know, at the time, that she wasn't receiving my texts in a timely manner. My hands were shaking so terribly that it was a wonder I didn't drop the phone completely. I texted, verbatim: "Its here$ / Hear it / Lost tv / Can ytou read this / I love you"
Naturally, I went outside. I was able to snap a photo of the t-word, which I have long since deleted, as I keep staring at it. The trees obscured most of the shot, but I believe I received twelve gallons of sand and debris particulates to the eye. Waited, waited, until I grew tired of waiting, and walked to my car. The last words my mother received from me were: going home, sick of waiting, I want to check on the cats and hide in the bathroom, in case something else stirs up.
I was in traffic for two hours, as I attempted to make a five-minute drive. First, down University toward the hospital: bad idea. Second, back down University, left onto Hackberry, right onto 15th through police-directed intersections. Left onto 10th Ave. Home was so close. At the intersection of 10th and Hargrove, a police barricade awaited; I had no idea why. Mobile phones weren't working; there was no electricity; the sky was a froth of cirrus clouds, trailing the tornado as it moved toward Birmingham; to the southwest, ominous darkness was brewing. I parked my car in an abandoned lot, and trudged down 10th, so close and so far away.
A little perturbed, a little shocked, at crossing downed power lines, but what was strong enough to keep me from my cats? Not that, or broken glass, or trees, which I manfully traversed, in my dainty fabric flats and vintage plum dress. My eyes were gritty, and I wanted to change into my glasses, and perhaps take a PopTart into the bathroom with the cats and I, as we cuddled in the bathtub, awaiting the end of the beast.
I walked down 10th. Everyone else trudged up, hollow-eyed, carrying belongings in makeshift bags created from bedsheets, headed toward Hargrove. Sluggish movements. Tired. The air hummed with humidity, and the clouds continued to gather.
Princess L: "Why was the intersection blocked?"
Stranger: "Wait, where are you trying to go?"
Princess L: "Charleston Square."
Stranger: "It's gone."
Princess L: "What? 8D;;;"
Stranger: "It isn't there anymore."
I sprinted the rest of the long way down the avenue, not bothering to say goodbye or thank you, leaping downed power lines in a single bound. Adrenaline had kicked in, at this point; a tight ball of dread was sitting in the pit of my stomach. Didn't "Kauloosa Ave." and "35th St." sound familiar? Hadn't you driven by those places, on the way to M's house? Aren't they just...right down the street?
I skidded to a stop and attempted to view Charleston Square through a miasma of dust and encroaching crepuscular haze, and I didn't recognize it. I didn't recognize anything. I don't even know that I would have remembered my own name, in that moment. I suppose I just stood there, staring, bottom lip trembling. Eventually, I put my hand over my mouth and sobbed into it, and a sobbing woman came to me and embraced me, and we understood one another very well. She permitted me to use her phone, but nothing doing; no calls were getting out.
I wiped my face on my hand, and wandered down the street, taking in the scent of natural gas. Eventually, I approached a gathering of firefighters and officers, just at the turn-off to my street. I asked them what we were supposed to do, and they asked me if I lived there. I said, well, yes, and my cats were home, and I had nowhere else to go. I said my cats are in there and I need to get in to get them. They said no one was allowed because there was a gas leak. I asked what would happen if I went in anyway, and they said they’d detain me for my own safety. I was told to go to a church, because another t-word was coming. In other words, I had to go somewhere, but there was a gas leak, and I couldn't stay there. I circled around the area, but there was fencing topped with barbed wire, and I couldn't figure out how to sneak in.
The walk up the street was the longest walk I have ever walked, I think. Not an inconsiderable amount, as I was hurdle-jumping all the while. Thunder was rumbling, and the humidity was choking, and I was thinking, I'm going to die. This is it. I have nowhere to go. My car is overheating, I have no gas, I'm certain that no gas stations are operable, my cats are probably dead, I can't call anyone, and another tornado is coming. I hummed quietly to myself, to keep from thinking, as I reached my car and drove back to campus. Everyone says they remember the smell of sap from broken trees; I can almost taste it now.
I went to ten Hoor, firstly, to see if any of the history folks were around and to see if I could sleep in the TA office for the night. The building was deserted. I mean, yes, no one was there, but it was Silent Hill deserted. The entire world was, as far as I was concerned. I derped around the building, for a while, which was only lit by red emergency lights, and scared myself shitless by singing Kings of Leon's "Closer" as I tried not to shatter.
I went full-circle, back to Gorgas Library, where I'd been working only hours earlier. A kind police officer took pity on me, and I gracelessly sobbed all over him as he drove me to the campus rec center, which had been set up as an emergency shelter for students, complete with cots, food, water, and a working landline phone. One quick phone call to Jen's mother, and she was on her way to pick me up. I knew it would be useless to call Jen, as she didn't usually answer her phone to unfamiliar numbers, and I didn't know how she would handle what happened or how she could even help me. I knew her mother would let her know I was okay, and take me to the house that she had with her friend in downtown Birmingham. I posted a general message to Facebook and was inundated with comments, including M's "PLEASE CALL ME ASAP" and "Where are you? I'm coming to get you." She and B came by, and I was never so happy to see two familiar faces in my life, I think, after hours of blank, shell-shocked stares. Jen's parents arrived, amid my worries that they were driving into something nasty, or weren't able to find an open route to Tuscaloosa.
ETA: I called my grandmother. They had had storms of their own, and because of their worry for me and their electricity having gone out, they were going to drive out to see if they could get cell phone reception to try and call me. Little good it would have done, of course. When I called, they were in the drive, fixing to get in the car. I told them what happened, and it was the hardest thing I'd ever done, because I knew how bad it would hurt her. She would feel so powerless, so far away, knowing that I had been in danger and knowing that there was no way to help me. I didn't want to hurt her like that, to let her know that something terrible had happened that she couldn't fix, and that it would just cut her into pieces. But I told her anyway, because I had to let her know I was still alive, and that Jen's mom was coming to get me and help me find the cats. /ETA
Back to 10th, and the journey was of considerably shorter duration, this time. Our goal was to find the cats, and once more, I traversed the labyrinth of debris, and trekked up my street. Locating which apartment was mine was difficult, amid the chaos of fallen and broken things, but we climbed through my back window, as the breezeways were blocked with a wall of trees. It took about half an hour to find Vesper, who was situated behind the refrigerator, beside the sink, stiff and terrified. A quick check of injuries turned out positively and, once the carriers were located, in she went. It took longer to find Mr. Bond, and it was the most terrifying chunk of time of my life. We ventured into the courtyard, and I thought that overturning a sheet of plywood or a segment of tree and finding a furry, lifeless body would certainly be the death of me. Regardless, we found him inside the box-spring mattress, silent and stiff but very, very alive. Thinking my drawers were untouched, I grabbed a change of clothes (little did I know that the interior of my dresser was coated in pulverized tree and dirt and asbestos and glass), and left the wreckage of my once beautiful, cosy little nest.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best,
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under the roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall 'ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lie.
Adieu, Adieu, All's Vanity.
— Anne Bradstreet
The electricity fizzled, started, and died. We still had wifi. Jen texted me, and I texted back that I wasn't able to talk; my phone was about to die; please log on to Facebook chat. She didn't appear to be listening, and I didn't know, at the time, that she wasn't receiving my texts in a timely manner. My hands were shaking so terribly that it was a wonder I didn't drop the phone completely. I texted, verbatim: "Its here$ / Hear it / Lost tv / Can ytou read this / I love you"
Naturally, I went outside. I was able to snap a photo of the t-word, which I have long since deleted, as I keep staring at it. The trees obscured most of the shot, but I believe I received twelve gallons of sand and debris particulates to the eye. Waited, waited, until I grew tired of waiting, and walked to my car. The last words my mother received from me were: going home, sick of waiting, I want to check on the cats and hide in the bathroom, in case something else stirs up.
I was in traffic for two hours, as I attempted to make a five-minute drive. First, down University toward the hospital: bad idea. Second, back down University, left onto Hackberry, right onto 15th through police-directed intersections. Left onto 10th Ave. Home was so close. At the intersection of 10th and Hargrove, a police barricade awaited; I had no idea why. Mobile phones weren't working; there was no electricity; the sky was a froth of cirrus clouds, trailing the tornado as it moved toward Birmingham; to the southwest, ominous darkness was brewing. I parked my car in an abandoned lot, and trudged down 10th, so close and so far away.
A little perturbed, a little shocked, at crossing downed power lines, but what was strong enough to keep me from my cats? Not that, or broken glass, or trees, which I manfully traversed, in my dainty fabric flats and vintage plum dress. My eyes were gritty, and I wanted to change into my glasses, and perhaps take a PopTart into the bathroom with the cats and I, as we cuddled in the bathtub, awaiting the end of the beast.
I walked down 10th. Everyone else trudged up, hollow-eyed, carrying belongings in makeshift bags created from bedsheets, headed toward Hargrove. Sluggish movements. Tired. The air hummed with humidity, and the clouds continued to gather.
Princess L: "Why was the intersection blocked?"
Stranger: "Wait, where are you trying to go?"
Princess L: "Charleston Square."
Stranger: "It's gone."
Princess L: "What? 8D;;;"
Stranger: "It isn't there anymore."
I sprinted the rest of the long way down the avenue, not bothering to say goodbye or thank you, leaping downed power lines in a single bound. Adrenaline had kicked in, at this point; a tight ball of dread was sitting in the pit of my stomach. Didn't "Kauloosa Ave." and "35th St." sound familiar? Hadn't you driven by those places, on the way to M's house? Aren't they just...right down the street?
I skidded to a stop and attempted to view Charleston Square through a miasma of dust and encroaching crepuscular haze, and I didn't recognize it. I didn't recognize anything. I don't even know that I would have remembered my own name, in that moment. I suppose I just stood there, staring, bottom lip trembling. Eventually, I put my hand over my mouth and sobbed into it, and a sobbing woman came to me and embraced me, and we understood one another very well. She permitted me to use her phone, but nothing doing; no calls were getting out.
I wiped my face on my hand, and wandered down the street, taking in the scent of natural gas. Eventually, I approached a gathering of firefighters and officers, just at the turn-off to my street. I asked them what we were supposed to do, and they asked me if I lived there. I said, well, yes, and my cats were home, and I had nowhere else to go. I said my cats are in there and I need to get in to get them. They said no one was allowed because there was a gas leak. I asked what would happen if I went in anyway, and they said they’d detain me for my own safety. I was told to go to a church, because another t-word was coming. In other words, I had to go somewhere, but there was a gas leak, and I couldn't stay there. I circled around the area, but there was fencing topped with barbed wire, and I couldn't figure out how to sneak in.
The walk up the street was the longest walk I have ever walked, I think. Not an inconsiderable amount, as I was hurdle-jumping all the while. Thunder was rumbling, and the humidity was choking, and I was thinking, I'm going to die. This is it. I have nowhere to go. My car is overheating, I have no gas, I'm certain that no gas stations are operable, my cats are probably dead, I can't call anyone, and another tornado is coming. I hummed quietly to myself, to keep from thinking, as I reached my car and drove back to campus. Everyone says they remember the smell of sap from broken trees; I can almost taste it now.
I went to ten Hoor, firstly, to see if any of the history folks were around and to see if I could sleep in the TA office for the night. The building was deserted. I mean, yes, no one was there, but it was Silent Hill deserted. The entire world was, as far as I was concerned. I derped around the building, for a while, which was only lit by red emergency lights, and scared myself shitless by singing Kings of Leon's "Closer" as I tried not to shatter.
I went full-circle, back to Gorgas Library, where I'd been working only hours earlier. A kind police officer took pity on me, and I gracelessly sobbed all over him as he drove me to the campus rec center, which had been set up as an emergency shelter for students, complete with cots, food, water, and a working landline phone. One quick phone call to Jen's mother, and she was on her way to pick me up. I knew it would be useless to call Jen, as she didn't usually answer her phone to unfamiliar numbers, and I didn't know how she would handle what happened or how she could even help me. I knew her mother would let her know I was okay, and take me to the house that she had with her friend in downtown Birmingham. I posted a general message to Facebook and was inundated with comments, including M's "PLEASE CALL ME ASAP" and "Where are you? I'm coming to get you." She and B came by, and I was never so happy to see two familiar faces in my life, I think, after hours of blank, shell-shocked stares. Jen's parents arrived, amid my worries that they were driving into something nasty, or weren't able to find an open route to Tuscaloosa.
ETA: I called my grandmother. They had had storms of their own, and because of their worry for me and their electricity having gone out, they were going to drive out to see if they could get cell phone reception to try and call me. Little good it would have done, of course. When I called, they were in the drive, fixing to get in the car. I told them what happened, and it was the hardest thing I'd ever done, because I knew how bad it would hurt her. She would feel so powerless, so far away, knowing that I had been in danger and knowing that there was no way to help me. I didn't want to hurt her like that, to let her know that something terrible had happened that she couldn't fix, and that it would just cut her into pieces. But I told her anyway, because I had to let her know I was still alive, and that Jen's mom was coming to get me and help me find the cats. /ETA
Back to 10th, and the journey was of considerably shorter duration, this time. Our goal was to find the cats, and once more, I traversed the labyrinth of debris, and trekked up my street. Locating which apartment was mine was difficult, amid the chaos of fallen and broken things, but we climbed through my back window, as the breezeways were blocked with a wall of trees. It took about half an hour to find Vesper, who was situated behind the refrigerator, beside the sink, stiff and terrified. A quick check of injuries turned out positively and, once the carriers were located, in she went. It took longer to find Mr. Bond, and it was the most terrifying chunk of time of my life. We ventured into the courtyard, and I thought that overturning a sheet of plywood or a segment of tree and finding a furry, lifeless body would certainly be the death of me. Regardless, we found him inside the box-spring mattress, silent and stiff but very, very alive. Thinking my drawers were untouched, I grabbed a change of clothes (little did I know that the interior of my dresser was coated in pulverized tree and dirt and asbestos and glass), and left the wreckage of my once beautiful, cosy little nest.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best,
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under the roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall 'ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lie.
Adieu, Adieu, All's Vanity.
— Anne Bradstreet
