Windchimes In A Rainstorm Down By The Highway

The house was nearly empty. Jason was leaving town, and there was maybe one load left to haul out to the truck when the rain started falling again in sloppy drops, accompanied by lightning and quiet thunder. It was a kind of storm we never used to see at that time of year -- it was February, and the rain was cold. The highway that can be heard just down the hill is US Interstate 44, which runs from the Missouri / Illinois border on down to Wichita Falls, Texas.

I Don't Care If It Rains Or Freezes

God Gave Noah The Rainbow Sign

Some Spell It With 2 E's

Explosives Next Door To Abandoned Home

This home, once the anchor of its block, has reached that point that all those abandoned around here eventually do. Here, nature and black market commerce conspire to advance decay. Ivy is reclaiming its facade, gnawing away while brick bandits are dismantling the rear wall, up past the second floor now, exposing the dusty guts, the piles of plastic toys and all those trashbags filled with clothes. If it doesn't fall over, someday soon a firebug will slip into one of these gaping holes and torch the place. When it goes up, the fire will burn big and bright (they always do), and let's hope that when it does, the flames don't jump that narrow alley, into the lot next door, where all the heavy equipment and big boxes of explosives are stored. It's not even 30 feet, the heat alone could set them off. Not every home on this block is abandoned. Some of the homes here are well kept, with trim lawns, neatly tuckpointed bricks. But being so close to explosives, right out here in the open, I can kind of see why the residents of this one chose not to stay.

Post Valentine's Post

Jack asked Kenya to listen to her heart; Kenya tore Jack's valentine and threw it on the sidewalk.

Sidewalk Teeth

Revision To Note Taped To Stall In Public Restroom At Corporation

The Claw Machine is embarrassed to revisit a post that (even before revisions) crossed boundaries of good taste. But we feel that the additions/revisions to the passive aggressive bathroom note above is illustrative of an adolescent sense of humor pervasive at The Corporation. It the same culture of disrespect and frivolity that enables if not encourages employees to drink heavily during office hours, tape coworkers' office supplies together, and doodle on cubicle walls. This is a publicly traded company. There is an economic storm brewing. Seriously, people.

Neglected Mission's Name No Longer Applies

Love Balloon

Reads "Love & Kisses". It was floating through a razed neighborhood on the north side of this abandoned city.

The Caution Box

This small concrete bunker can be found on the overgrown lot where the City's housing projects once stood. We call it The Caution Box. It's unclear what its original purpose was. Maybe it was used for firefighter training, or playground equipment, or enhanced police interrogation, or maybe it's some remnant of a boiler room or bomb shelter from one of the buildings that used to be here.

The Projects were monolithic blocks jutting into the sky, 33 identical buildings, each 11 stories tall, all built to house the poor and working class living in the city. When first conceived, the site design was universally praised for its simple, modern austerity. The buildings were unembellished blocks without flourishes or unnecessary details. Included in the plans were playgrounds, plenty of parking, green spaces, community centers. Residents of this city had faith in architecture and we were quietly happy that the slums had been cleared and that the poor could be housed somewhere else, unseen. We thought buildings, architects, and city planners had solved the problems of cities, poverty, social inequality. But less than 20 years after they were built, The Projects were torn down. The demolition was aired on national television.

They had to go, really. The failure of The Projects was so profound that no one person or reason could be blamed. Aesthetically it was a disaster. The simple design was seen by residents as cold, oppressive. Some thought the rectangular blocks in neat rows resembled giant gravestones, or prison cell blocks. Management of the site was underfunded and nearly nonexistent. The facades of the buildings were always stained black by smoke; curtains blew out of broken windows; the grass in the green spaces grew long and then died. The contractors who built The Projects must have been either corrupt or lazy, as the buildings were filled with their shoddy workmanship. Some apartments were never finished at all. The elevators didn't work. Neither did the heat -- it was either always on or always off. Electricity failed regularly, and the doors jammed shut. It was a hard place to live.

The Projects were dangerous. Fires and shootings were common. Needles littered the playground. The vertical design of the buildings made them hard to police, so they never were. Inside, criminal gangs, sexual predators, murderers staked out territories. Dealers dealt, users shot. The drugs sold here made you desperate, the desperation made you turn on your neighbor, and everyone else got caught in between. Those that could got out. The population declined and some of the buildings stood empty for years, unwatched hollow shells, inviting more trouble. Those that stayed struggled to stay alive, with no hope, no money, and no way out.

So The Projects were imploded. 1 by 1, the 33 towers came down, collapsing into rubble. The reaction here was mixed; people were happy to see The Projects go ("they're so depressing"), people were sad to lose their homes. The rubble is still there, on that big 6 city-blocks-square lot, under the trees and tall grass. The prairie is taking it all back. The site of The Projects is now both a forest reserve and dump, in the center of the city, in the middle of a blighted neighborhood, overgrown, unrecognizable. Jump the gate. Follow the access road inside. Be careful -- you never know who you might run into there. This is where you can find The Caution Box. We just don't know what it's for.