This is the lagoon beside my family summerhouse in New Jersey the morning after Sandy. These shots were taken by a neighbor who stayed. You can't tell bay from yards, and there's an eerie, awful beauty to that soft blue light at six AM. You don't see any stunted bushes or tackle boxes or smashed shingles or any evidence of lousy taste. We always knew that our sweet, down to earth house was vulnerable. Maybe that was one of the things that made us love it more. Fifty-two years without water inside; that in itself is a shock--and lucky, I guess. It couldn't last; we knew that. Water rose--from where? Drywall wicked up the moisture, carpets soaked, papers swelling, curling, crisping, stained. The smell so bad it makes your eyes burn, your nostrils hurt. You have to wear a mask. That doesn't mean we're about to turn our backs on water--we're finally more comic than tragic in our attitudes--but something cold and deep is in my head.
