tightrope

What you see is the trick,

the breath-taking feat.

I have earned this name--

steady, well balanced.

stayed even-handed

swaying never.

Never be silent.

Never stay alone. Always invite

man, or grace, or god.

Never alone, not for one instant

or the wind grows too strong.

a million things snapping and burning

When I walk outside, I see the moon. It is a pumpkin orange. Spooky pretty, and you can barely smell the smoke in the air. The ash on my car looks like light snow. All apparitions of peace.

I have to talk it through in my head: the moon does not always look like this, it is not always this color. And this is not peace, this is a million things snapping and burning.

I’ve been watching the expressions of people on the streets. Inevitably they are looking at the clouds of smoke. It’s the same-ness of their faces, despite age or race or station, that strikes me. The same look, as if they are seeing God in those clouds. It’s awe, and it’s so interesting that awe looks the same on everybody.

The clouds look Biblical and that makes me sad. When I close my eyes at night and try to think of God, the first thing is the pillar of glowing smoke rising over my mountains. It could easily destroy and displace all of us. I don’t want that to be what I see. It just is.

In the morning I’m like a cat—arching everything about me, skiddish, whimpering and complaining. I am staying with my parents; I left my window open up in Sierra Madre and breathed the smoke all night, and it gave me a fever of 102. I’m better now, just an old-woman cough left over.

I snap about 10 times, at everyone, before I apologize. I get this way when things are out of my control. We can’t see the sun because of the smoke, and nobody, not the weatherman, not the news anchors who enthusiastically interview evacuee after evacuee, can tell us when it will change.

But by afternoon we don’t even look up, it’s just a sort of hot fog that goes unnoticed. At school, everyone is hanging up bulletin boards and talking about summer and not one person mentions the fires, so I don’t either, because it seems too obvious, like stating the day of the week.

And at night Dad says he really wants to get better, in a voice that sounds like his old voice, almost crying. I immediately believe him, with my whole heart, which makes everyone, but mostly me, immediately angry.

That’s when I walk outside and look at the moon, which is pumpkin orange. Glitter Halloween greeting-card orange. And the smoke makes me a little sleepy and everything is so still. And I have to talk through in my head, actually speak to myself. This is not the moon. This is not the sky.

fascinating...

Last night I dreamed that I was doing really intense crunches. I was showing off for a room full of people, like an exercise class. Everyone else stopped just to watch me crunch.  I was really impressive, and even my dream self was secretly amazed at her strength and speed. 

This morning, my abs hurt. Could I have actually been exercising in my sleep? If so, how can I repeat this phenomenon nightly? 

a very happy atmosphere, a bay window

The Star News did a profile of my town. The only source quoted is the local real estate agent. I don't think it went through any edits. It makes for some jarring reading. But I've found that sometimes technically awkward things can be strangely lovely. The foremost example of this is title an eld student gave his essay about divorce: "A View of My Father's Back." 

Anyway, this writer and this real estate agent have no such excuse, but still, I love this goofy sentence about the Sierra Madre Elementary school:

"There is a waiting list of people from Pasadena wanting to transfer. 'They want in,' she said. 'It has a very happy atmosphere, with a bay window.'" 

That bay window seems to be the reason for the happiness, or equally important to the happiness, and I guess, if you want to get nit-picky, the window belongs not the to school building but to the happiness. 

But either way, it's rather poetic. 

It's like a real life I'm not Stiller! 

aria

tissue paper squares, yellow-gold 

stacked in slices

pasted to the grainyblack sky

and the moon

overhanging, wise

the warmth of kitchen walls

of major thirds,

this unnamed time

sing to it,

an aria pure

spun, spinning

speak nothing

what we've said before 

we've said wrong

sing instead

sing only of the yellow squares. 

what must be heard

is all there. 

evolution

The last day of yearbook camp I told the TC editors that I'd make a coffee run. I was in no particular hurry when I walked into starbucks. I held the door for a woman who was walking behind me. It was one of those behind-the-back door-holds, so as to say, come on in, you'll be right behind me in line. As I walked in, I stepped about one foot out of my bee-line to the counter to toss something in the trash. 

Before I could swerve back, the woman quickened her pace and stepped in line, ahead of me. Her foot twitched a little, a sure sign she'd just wrestled with the age-old question: be on time or stop for coffee? Her id had won, most likely by arguing that over-priced sugar drizzled into some probably-burned coffee isn't just a lovely treat, but is essential to survival. 

I know well this war; my swollen neurons have waged it against me many a-morning. 

You'd think I'd have had some empathy, but this cutting in line irked me. My door-holding body language had been abundantly clear. So as I walked over, I stepped firmly in front of her. No words were exchanged. Not even a locking of the eyes. I straightened my shoulders. There. I was in the technical right. Lines are lines. 

I basked in the technical right as I chatted leisurely with the barista and then rattled off a laundry list of drink orders. A Venti this, some Macchaito that, make this one a skinny and this one sweetened, yes room in the Americano, but just a teensy bit...it went on an embarrassingly long time. I was now standing so I could see the cutter's profile, and I watched it fall with each new"-ano" and "-aito". 

I finished. In a defeated voice she ordered her grande mocha. She glared at me and stalked to the bar, where she crossed her arms and stared down the lone barista. I yawned and picked up a copy of Times.

Five minutes later, my coffee tray ready to go, I noticed her again. She was still waiting. I felt sort of sorry.  Apologizing, however, seemed pointless and unsafe. She looked fully capable of throwing the precious mocha in my face. 

It's weird, but she stuck in my head all day. I wonder if she did make it to work on time. I wonder if I ruined her day, and if I ever look like her in the mornings--as desperate and angry. I have no idea why I didn't just let her cut in line. It really didn't matter. I was just in the same mode she was. It's a weird mode, really. It does feel like a desperate push for survival. And that's ludicrous. How did we all got to a place where we feel this primal pull of necessity for five dollar coffee?