Essay by Su Zi: Citizens’ Alert

Many of us have already survived the rising tides of climate catastrophe. Current predictions do not include a return to paradise, and, in fact, are fair warning of future fiascos. Perhaps, it might be wise to consider that which has been written about such events to enhance, at least, personal preparedness.

Published accounts vary widely; however, a memoir of a storm by Riza Oledan-Ramos/ Walt FJ Gooding called Drinking Seawater, which was acquired at a bookfair, contains a scene of evacuation:

This wasn’t your typical storm. This was something entirely different—something of a completely different nature than I or anyone else had ever experienced. It was as if it were alive. It sounded and felt as if it were a living thing—a conscious, breathing, thinking being with an intention, and on a mission. It was trying to get to us. First it tried the front door, then it tried the side walls; then the windows, finally the roof [...] it pounded and howled and screamed at the roof[...]the howling never stopped. It pounded and shook and finally it got its way. It tore our roof off and flung it into the night as it raced inside after us (12)

The arc of the narrative is that of aftermath, personal and specific enough to include both photographs and a survival checklist.

There are professional published accounts as well, and now, although time has passed, the possibility of Gulf storms has not. While myths about storms not coming ashore was disproven by Asheville, North Carolina, aftermath can take a generation for some healing. It has been a generation, now, since the storm that directly hit New Orleans, but mention of the storm among locals is a demarcation in time. Professional accounts of Katrina include that of New Orleans journalist Chris Rose 1 dead in attic (2005), also a memoir. In this case, the protagonist returns to see what is left and return to work. 

And I’m telling you: it’s hard

It’s hard not to get crispy around the edges. It’s hard not to cry. It’s hard not to be very, very afraid.

[...]

We have a generator and water and military food rations and Doritos and smokes and booze. [...] Some of these guys lost their houses -- everything in them 

[...] 

And they stink. We all stink. We stink together (22)

Rose also makes mention of celebrity journalists, “The satellite trucks stretch for eight blocks on Canal Street. [...] I saw Anderson Cooper interviewing Dr Phil, Dr Phil’s camera crew filmed Cooper, and about five or six other camera crews [...] filmed all of that “(26).

Anderson Cooper included a chapter about Katrina in Dispatches from the Edge (Harper Collins 2006), along with accounts of Tsunami, Iraq and Niger. That an American city would be in the same celebrity catastrophe accounting ought to serve as warning as well. Cooper begins his account by counting corpses:

[...]the searchers find a body lying on a sidewalk in an empty-cul-de-sac.I think it’s a woman; at first, it’s hard to tell.  Water wipes away identity, race, even gender. I think she’s African American, but her skin appears white, translucent almost.

Someone has covered her face and part of her body with a dirty bedspread. Her feet and hands stick out.

[...]

The team takes pictures—Click, Click—then records the woman’s GPS coordinates

[...]

I never thought I’d see this here, in America—the dead left out like trash. None of us speaks. (138)

Cooper’s narrative is interspersed with personal recollections of the city, as he tells us of individual moments of aftermath. Yet, lest someone take sole hope in evacuation centers, Cooper interviews Dr Greg Henderson, who arrived at the evacuation point, “discovered that there was no medical team there, just evacuees. Thousands of them.” (161). Cooper describes the interview site as “standing on a garbage-strewn street outside the Convention Center one week after the storm” where Dr Henderson says, “This is where hell opened its mouth” (160). As for the evacuation point itself:

They were packed in everywhere, all the way into to the street, and pretty much the other side of the street; it was just one mass of humanity. No air-conditioning, just people crying and dying. Crying and dying (161)

Cooper witnessed the Katrina aftermath for a few weeks. He makes a remark that ought to be useful for us in preparation, as he asked officials questions: “Demanding accountability is no game, and there’s nothing wrong with trying to understand who made mistakes, who failed. If no one is held accountable for their decisions their actions, all of this will happen again” (191).

These three accounts of once-rare, now frighteningly possible, super storms, must give sane people pause, especially as the northern American continent is already beleaguered with drought, fires and heat in the wake of some devastating arctic storms. Whether or not we want to consider the weather might be keystone to community, if not personal, survival. Perhaps we ought to take some consideration time while we still have it.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.

               

Check out her author page on Amazon.

Essay by Su Zi: Voluntary Service

 

Voluntary Service

There is a place we sleep, and often we call that place home.

The physical area around our home is our community; although we also can have communities of interest that are not as tied to walking distance, that can be just as foundational to our lives as a safe place to sleep.

Just as the quality of our sleep-nest affects us, so do the qualities of our communities; however, just as there are ways we can make more pleasant our homes, there are also ways we can make our communities more pleasant as well, by the occasional lending of a hand.

Ecological disasters do bring forth any neighbor who is adept with a chainsaw, but we need not wait to meet the neighbors until the fourth day of no power.

Yes, everyone is beleaguered with worries, and there are some people who are stymied, who might circle and snort or yowl and cause tonal chaos, or worse; however, humanity has virtues, and to this, we seek solace.

In the memory of our deepest comforts, there is pleasure. Perhaps we kept that pleasure alive through hobby. Perhaps we read up on it some. Perhaps we attended events and were immersed in a group of other people who too are there to enjoy.  We gain energization, and we carry that into our next days, sharing that happiness: we had a good time.

The adage to do what you love requires economic commitment, but

what if it was just the time of day

a day

given

It might be that you arise in the dark and first light finds you at a local park, perhaps. You cannot help but see the first of the day’s rays greet the trees, and you get to stand there a minute, however long you can hold still and watch the glow. Of course, there’s the event office, and whatever you have signed up to do, whatever equipment the event coordinator is required to provide for the day’s use: a clipboard, maybe. Every event held outside relies on volunteers, and the list of local events is not difficult to locate—festivals and exhibitions, sporting events and inter-species events such as dog trials, agricultural festivals and horse shows.

I have been a volunteer since the 20^th century, since childhood when mamma allowed me to work a shift at Barb Sielaff’s recycling center. It is what one does.

 For the past few decades, I have given of myself to those magnificent, much beleaguered beasts that city folk call horsie stuff. Over time, I have become increasingly fascinated with the influence of horses on humanity, on the best of ourselves, our humanity. We shared our lives with horses—as many of us continue to do with dogs and cats and birds and aquatics. And yes, it’s true that I, too, have been down the centerline—there are trophies and ribbons and photos and certificates—but the joy of it is more than recorded service to the sport.

It might be that

On a February morning that has been now a February morning for well-nigh thirty years, you again pass through well-known gates and great your hostess, now an acquaintance after all this time, all these shared years here.

It might be that

There is, in the glowing morning, a one hundred- and fifty-year-old run about, made of trees that no longer exist, and stunningly slender and elegant of line, the original wood a soft patina in the last of dawn.    

It might be that

You take your hat and drive through the dark, and whoever is there at the gate, you still take your spot under a certain tree. Maybe there are tents and golf carts, plastic tables and urns of coffee, a t shirt with the event logo. The layout always puts the arena on a prepared hill, carefully constructed for level footing, There are international flags, there are international languages; best of all, there are horses: a Shetland and Chincoteague and a Fjord pony, Morgans and not only the big Dutch harness horses, but teams of them—a song in percussion of hooves and earth.

It might be that

You see someone you know, have known. That the years were or were not kind matters not because here you are now, seeing them, bumping shoulders, How the hell are ya?, your hats allowing a moment’s glimpse into each other’s eye; yes, we are still here

It might be that

Here comes someone you know, early for the in-gate, circling the trees in figure eights. You remember a moment decades ago, maybe before the almost gown son on the back of the carriage was out of swaddle, and you speak a sly joke, maybe and there’s a smile. Yes, we are still here, we have seen some things, and how wonderful to see you now.

And thus, go forth: lend a hand to that which is joy, which flowers from your open heart.

    Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.

Su Zi's Review of LIKE ZEROS, LIKE PEARLS by Lola Haskins

 

The Benefits of Bookfairs 

Local communities hold a variety of events, and perusal of these listings will often yield bookfairs, either as independent events or in conjunction with craft fairs, or other forms of small market. Of course, the literate person ought to attend such events: it does take quite the effort for these solo artists, or small collectives to write the book, have it in handheld form, and then transport to the event, where they hopefully sit all day, waiting for you.  The genres offered at book fairs will vary; author displays often mirrors their genre-- authors of horror might have a display of black cloth, or go as far as to costume; certainly, children’s authors might have a pirate or a puppet; and local history authors can sometimes offer a fascination of research-intensive nonfiction. 

And then, sometimes, there’s a literary author: present because that’s home turf and they are sitting at a table with a stack of books as well. At the 2026 Sunshine State Book Festival, among the half a dozen tables for poetry, there was Lola Haskins. Unquestionably a citizen of the literary community in poetry, Lola was there with many books, including the 2025 Charlotte Lit Press release Like Zeros, Like Pearls, a trade-sized, perfect bound, full-length collection—a volume that includes two pages of acknowledgments and a bibliography.

That the book has “A Modest Bibliography” (71) belies the arc of this work, which is divided into three sections, occasionally adorned with a discrete illustration, and which sometimes cites these sources in the poems of the text. That the poems employ research might remind an astute reader of biographical poems, and these poems are biographical; however, the lives portrayed here are more than marginalized, to many readers these lives are invisible. Haskins addresses the invisibility of these lives in a four-paragraph prose preface that states,” [...] the only time I noticed insects was when they called attention to themselves by being beautifully marked or by attacking me “and then says “suddenly realized that ignoring whole worlds wasn’t okay”. With an epigram from the 14^th Dalai Lama about teaching children to “love the insects”, and much cultural information about the key-to-life species to our life on earth being bees, Haskins dedicated volume causes us to consider immediately what sort of worlds we notice, want to read about, and how that consideration can be meditations in poetry.

The work’s title is the last line of the poem, “Poem Ending with an Image from ‘The Mustard seed Garden Manual of Painting (1782)’ ” and begins with, “Only after the twelve instar are/ the ears of her legs ready to listen” (28). The assonant repetition of “instar are” has both a slant repetition in the poem with the stanzas ending ‘her/her/herself” but echoes with ancestral recognition of Ishar—she of the eight-pointed star, the planet Venus, the Mesopotamian goddess (in a general definition) of love, beauty, sex and war.  That this, and many of the poems in the text, concern themselves with insect reproduction rituals gives the poems here both beauty and a sense of the macabre.

Meditations on the lives of insects throughout time and culture are considered in these poems. In “Cricket, Vietnam”, a single stanza poem of two sentences, we cross both the globe and cultures:

Snowy tree crickets

synchronize their songs

until leaf, branch and core

are one repeating

 tremble. When Yen

was asked

to define moonlight,

in pearl and dim blue

she painted this.

                         (56)

While the poem’s opening lines include four consonant repetitions of  S, the repetition through the poem is on the assonant E of “tree/leaf/repeat” that also includes “crickets/ tremble” and the rhyme of “when Yen” that shifts consideration from sound to color and the meditation of listening to that of painting.

Ekphrastic considerations are fully at play in this work: Haskins begins at personal observation, delves into research, and considers the juxtaposition of lives in each poem. The author’s biography includes collaboration with other artists in music, and it ought to be no surprise thus that the auditory world is a strong element in this work. Haskins has long been a literary light, and the author website has prompt delivery.  As we consider our beleaguered planet, our extreme storms and images of homes washed away, Haskins asks us to consider the other lives, small and without much notice by our gargantuan doings, that are nonetheless cohabitants of our world as well.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago. Check out her author page on Amazon.

"For We Who Love Our Critters," essay by Su Zi

For We Who love Our Critters

Uh-oh. One morning, Grace is walking crooked, head tilted, although the smile upon seeing you is always genuine. Then, there’s the staggering, that is laboriously righted because you are watching. When you sneak a peek, you see a furrowed brow and a distant look that might be pain.

Now, you are in a veterinary clinic. Grace cowers behind your knee—no excitement at new friends. There’s a waiting room and it’s filled with beings: humans and their nonverbal family members. The staff seems harassed, impatient and the wait to be seen has you shifting and looking, vigilant.  It is not a quiet place. By the time you both take some moments with the doctor, there’s lots of talk, a blood draw, a prescription; but Grace is still walking sideways, head titled. You are in an agony of helplessness.

But, what if when you went to seek help, the clinic is quiet; there’s a collection of pottery in a subtle and elegant display in a nook next to a large window. There are multiple examination rooms, doors closed discretely. This clinic is decorated in art, carefully collected pieces of furniture, of sculpture inside and out. A dog comes in, creamy locks wafting with a stiffly perky stride, and despite the taut leash, comes to greet you—you look into a worried face, slightly aged, with eyes that are beseeching. The humans tugs taut the tether, making boisterous sounds to the human receptionist.

This is the Chi University Small Animal Clinic in Reddick, Florida—although there are locations in Australia, Germany, Japan, on six continents, with the AI search note of “making TCVM [Traditional Chinese Veterinary Medicine] accessible worldwide”. This quiet place with sculptures and paddocks is a school where western-educated veterinarians get a Master’s Certification in Chinese medicine for our nonhuman compatriots. Located on a lovely, still-rural county road, the facility is run almost exclusively on solar power. There are 90 acres preserved as green space with minimally intrusive, but decidedly no-skimping building construction. There’s a separate building for horses, and plenty of room to swing a truck and trailer behind the covered arena and basketball hoop, and rarely is there not some gorgeous equine arriving or departing with a slight glow.

The Chi is, in undeniable fact, a world-class facility. Phone calls are handled off-site to maintain quiet and to “minimize stress in pets, owners and staff” according to the receptionist. It is intentionally a place of peace. Treatment utilizes the luxury of time. 

While Traditional Chinese Medicine might be utterly foreign in concept to many, it is a classical art, and as such has history, lineages, and complexities. All this is irrelevant to your unwell, nonverbal and potentially furry family member. For you, who loves and must pay the bill, TCM has many explanations. As a human who too has been schooled thoroughly in western thought , but who has found the seed of health by allowing acupuncture upon me, it is a remarkable experience in both personal body awareness and that too-rare sensation we have now of just taking some time being in our bodies and aware of it; the reality for all of our nonhuman companions.

Grace had continued to stagger sideways with a tilted head and what looked to be increasing nausea and vertigo after the chaos of the standard clinic experience. Despair haunted us. Then, fortune smiled in the form of Dr Xie, the founder of the Chi, who put gentle and deft hands upon her, began a single treatment of acupuncture while Grace seemed to be both watchful and dozing. Afterwords, she seemed very introspective, but her steps were steady—a respite of the crooked stagger and tilted head.  The next morning, she looked at me square on, and gave me a smile that glowed—glows in mind still—the glow of pure love.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.

               

Check out her author page on Amazon.

The Last Tattoo by Su Zi

 

The Last Tattoo

It might be that some of us have scars—surgical or experiential—as souvenirs of where we have been. Certainly, as children, some of us might have been privy to those intimate histories of where the scar was born, how it came into existence, how we grow around it if we are lucky enough to become old trees.

It also might be that some of us have tattoos—one or many, faded or still fresh—and these too ride shotgun to every moment ever after. For those you have considered, but yet to have encountered the tattoo experience: it is intimate. For those with a few tattoos, we know of what sense of resonance we must have with the totem to choose it.

And also, it might be that there are a few tattoo collectors—people who have many tattoos. Sometimes we might see a sleeve—an entire arm—in a swirl of markings, some intricate, some boldly graphic, a personal totem of the body.

I have many tattoos. Some of them I can only see with multiple mirrors, or in photographs. There are some in places few people will see ever, although there are photographs. As a tattooed person, you will be photographed—first by the artist who takes a picture for their portfolio, which is only of your fresh tattoo prior to bandaging. It might be that you attend events specifically for tattooing, and these have a history unto themselves, as all ritual events do. At one point, there was a convention of women tattoo artists only: Marked for Life. At such conventions, there are photographers. Some of the photographers exhibit through galleries and publication. I am told that I, as a tattooed person—in addition to specific tattoos—have appeared, perpetual apparition, me—in Italy, a place I shall never see.

Eventually, it might be that some of us grow into health issues. It might be that a surgeon scars a tattoo, or that life scars a tattoo. When we wear a tattoo for years and years, it is no longer a totem on our skin, it is our skin. While archeologists have found tattooed bones, our eventual future, we are still in our skins.

But, it might be that the rigors of that intimate ritual are eventually beyond us—perhaps there is only skin on bone now.

No more new tattoos.

And so, what of what is now the last one—

For me, it is a shared tattoo with someone no longer in my life

For me, it is a mark made in grief for a life lost

It is a standard flash broken heart that can only be seen if I am warm enough to wear short sleeves. We were walk-ins right before closing, in pre-plague times when every shop had to smell of green soap. The tattoo is on my forearm, right between the elbow and the crook with visible blue veins. I cannot remember the name of the artist. The shop is now closed.

But the tattoo rides with me in everything I do—because the grief it totemized rides with me in everything I do. People might see it riding my arm between Kimo’s forearm rose and the upper sleeve done long ago by Patty Kelley; there’s rich history in all the arts, and this includes tattoos and their artists. 

And while there are many opportunities for remembrance in our ordinary days, some ritual holidays might echo deeper for our own personal ghosts. We all honor our own histories in our own ways; for some of us, we wear them as well.

Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.

                     

Check out her author page on Amazon.