Harbor Transitway-37th - The LA Flood Project (sitios de interés)
Descripción del sitio
37th St. Transitway, Harbor Freeway
(bus stop)
Stage I
We watch the weather, we who stand and wait. And after awhile, those who can afford it don hunting suits, the kind designed for slogging about with ducks in the wetlands, or put on the great slickers and oilskins of the wild sea fishermen. The rest of us cut holes in garbage bags and duct tape ourselves against the gale. We had abandoned umbrellas weeks ago.
Stage II
No buses come. A muffled yet thunderous rumble tumbles from the west. And then the horrific crack as the great steel skeleton of Los Angeles buckles around us. A wave hits a big rig. The jackknife picks up four more cars and a taco truck, slamming them across the lanes. Shriek of wind, howl of tires. We huddle beneath the shaking bus bench, saying prayers to concrete and all our wayward gods.
Stage III
We are a little island of alive. The crushed carcasses of the freeway creatures are piled around us. Smoke and flames and wails rise. Another gas truck explodes and we know we are sitting on the bus bench at the end of the world. Yet he sun breaks through. A pigeon lands. Then, two drenched policemen drag themselves up the stairs, collapse against the railing, and just stare.
-- NET
(bus stop)
Stage I
We watch the weather, we who stand and wait. And after awhile, those who can afford it don hunting suits, the kind designed for slogging about with ducks in the wetlands, or put on the great slickers and oilskins of the wild sea fishermen. The rest of us cut holes in garbage bags and duct tape ourselves against the gale. We had abandoned umbrellas weeks ago.
Stage II
No buses come. A muffled yet thunderous rumble tumbles from the west. And then the horrific crack as the great steel skeleton of Los Angeles buckles around us. A wave hits a big rig. The jackknife picks up four more cars and a taco truck, slamming them across the lanes. Shriek of wind, howl of tires. We huddle beneath the shaking bus bench, saying prayers to concrete and all our wayward gods.
Stage III
We are a little island of alive. The crushed carcasses of the freeway creatures are piled around us. Smoke and flames and wails rise. Another gas truck explodes and we know we are sitting on the bus bench at the end of the world. Yet he sun breaks through. A pigeon lands. Then, two drenched policemen drag themselves up the stairs, collapse against the railing, and just stare.
-- NET