As natural disasters go, floods in particular are hard to react to. Not to say that any disaster is easy.
With tornadoes or other storms, there is a (relatively) localized
amount of damage and, after a couple of days, only a (again,
relatively) few people who can help. For those fortunate not to be
directly affected, it's a quick rush to help thy neighbor.
But with floods, after a week, the disaster may still be there. For the
lack of a better analogy, I've felt like the cartoon character
screaming in freefall who has to take a comically awkward deep breath
in order to keep screaming. (Though my situation has been nothing
compared with that of the people featured in our and the rest of the
country's news sections).
I'd imagine sandbaggers were asking themselves most of last week: "When is it OK to relax?" "Should I relax at all?"
There's an uneasy, guilty excitement that comes with the realization that no one has time to enforce the little rules.
When walking down to Benton, I was clearly breaking the curfew, but I didn't know what that meant.
I found out when a cop car crept by me but only seemed able or willing
to give me a malevolent once over, as if trying to simultaneously
discourage me from continuing and judge whether I looked stupid enough
to get in the water.
This lack of definition has produced an unusually high number of
contradictory moments. After passing the light, I stood on the bridge
to watch the river and feel the debris pass underneath.