Chi Novak - The LA Flood Project (sitios de interés)
Descripción del sitio
Recovered excerpts of PIspectral blog of Chi Novak, paranormal investigator
based in Venice, CA.
Initial Introductory Notes (B. Vega, Western Group Monitor):
Physical location of events believed to beLos Angeles International Airport, and specifically, Tom Bradley International
Terminal. However, linguistic indications present suspected post-trauma
memory re-interpretation.
The Entries:
Stage 1: 1700 hours
There was no leaving LAX that night. The Coven of the Lost Angels held the radar
screens, held nearby Hyperion, and plugged the drainage pipes, plugged the
runoff tunnels all along L.A's concrete riverbed. Subterranean the brew swirled
backing up plumbing from Bakersfield to Burbank to Baja to the Bay of Whales
beyond. And I was chasing those brujas because I heard Maristela say again as
she sat faithfully at the reception desk, “It’s brujas, for sure.” Her family
had come here by way of Van Nuys. Mine were still all by their TVs in Torrance.
I tried to ignore her, but I could hear her gum snapping in the back of my
brain. It was my job not to believe but the Santa Anas came late and every crazy
west of the 405 rolled into my office to complain. So, Maristela called her
abuelitas and got the scoop and it was brujas and they were mad.
Stage 2: 1900 hours
This time I was too late. No cell. Nada. All I could do was feel it coming,
like bugs running up my arms. The brujas were laughing--three of them, so Macbeth and
so portentous. I’d traced those creatures to Tom Bradley. I 'm good when I’m on
my game. But they weren’t going to talk. They were laughing in at least eight
languages. They were laughing out incantations and omens: the scourge of
conspicuous consumption is coming! Better than brooms and vacuums! Better than
blood! The runway began to rattle. Small tornados of dust and feathers and paper
napkins rose all around. And I watched the world go black, then old coke-bottle
green and algal brown. I closed my eyes as the mountain of coffee grounds and
orange rinds, of beer cans and burger boxes, of stained diapers and pages and
pages and pages of bad screenplays swept across the airfield.
Stage 3: 2100 hours
All praise the secret life of engineers! The glass held. The backup generators
sent out frizzly fits of light. And I could hear Maristela saying, “Watch for
los gatos, a good thing.” And I saw the brujas’ cats weaving all around their
skirts. Maybe Maristela made it to the hills. Maybe now I believed. Baffled
tourists sunk down and stared at a sideways 747 as it flapped its broken wing
just beyond the glass. I heard the brujas laughing and in a swirl reeking of
brimstone and Cinnabon, they were gone.
based in Venice, CA.
Initial Introductory Notes (B. Vega, Western Group Monitor):
Physical location of events believed to beLos Angeles International Airport, and specifically, Tom Bradley International
Terminal. However, linguistic indications present suspected post-trauma
memory re-interpretation.
The Entries:
Stage 1: 1700 hours
There was no leaving LAX that night. The Coven of the Lost Angels held the radar
screens, held nearby Hyperion, and plugged the drainage pipes, plugged the
runoff tunnels all along L.A's concrete riverbed. Subterranean the brew swirled
backing up plumbing from Bakersfield to Burbank to Baja to the Bay of Whales
beyond. And I was chasing those brujas because I heard Maristela say again as
she sat faithfully at the reception desk, “It’s brujas, for sure.” Her family
had come here by way of Van Nuys. Mine were still all by their TVs in Torrance.
I tried to ignore her, but I could hear her gum snapping in the back of my
brain. It was my job not to believe but the Santa Anas came late and every crazy
west of the 405 rolled into my office to complain. So, Maristela called her
abuelitas and got the scoop and it was brujas and they were mad.
Stage 2: 1900 hours
This time I was too late. No cell. Nada. All I could do was feel it coming,
like bugs running up my arms. The brujas were laughing--three of them, so Macbeth and
so portentous. I’d traced those creatures to Tom Bradley. I 'm good when I’m on
my game. But they weren’t going to talk. They were laughing in at least eight
languages. They were laughing out incantations and omens: the scourge of
conspicuous consumption is coming! Better than brooms and vacuums! Better than
blood! The runway began to rattle. Small tornados of dust and feathers and paper
napkins rose all around. And I watched the world go black, then old coke-bottle
green and algal brown. I closed my eyes as the mountain of coffee grounds and
orange rinds, of beer cans and burger boxes, of stained diapers and pages and
pages and pages of bad screenplays swept across the airfield.
Stage 3: 2100 hours
All praise the secret life of engineers! The glass held. The backup generators
sent out frizzly fits of light. And I could hear Maristela saying, “Watch for
los gatos, a good thing.” And I saw the brujas’ cats weaving all around their
skirts. Maybe Maristela made it to the hills. Maybe now I believed. Baffled
tourists sunk down and stared at a sideways 747 as it flapped its broken wing
just beyond the glass. I heard the brujas laughing and in a swirl reeking of
brimstone and Cinnabon, they were gone.