The smoke is beginning to clear, but the sky shows plumes of
dark grey rising high into the atmosphere. People are breathing easier in the
Antelope Valley, but days earlier the “Sand Fire”, as the news called it,
burned in Santa Clarita and crept close to Aqua Dulce and Acton. In Palmdale it
smelled like campfire and visible pieces of ash floated in the sky like
miniature grey grocery bags. In Acton The horse people toted their horses away
in giant expensive metal trailers, and people evacuated their homes, but today,
everyone is back home and the air is clear.
“Everyone breathing better?” A chipper jury orientation
worker asked, “Crazy, wasn’t it? Much better today.” She answered herself.
A plaque is mounted in the front of the jury assembly room requesting jurors to consider giving our
juror fees to worthwhile court projects.
I’m reading the plaque and wondering why the state doesn’t keep the fees
in the first place. Nobody appreciates the value the court pays per day for
juror services. The fifteen dollars a day feels somewhat close to the insult of
a shitty tip. It doesn’t change the feeling of having lost a day in the
slightest, it even seems wasteful of the state: as if the energy to cool our
irritation creates as much hot animosity.
Regardless, never pay
someone and tell them they earned it and expect them to easily part with it.
Anything stated as having been earned quickly becomes indivisible from anything
else that had been earned in one’s life. That fifteen dollars that could have just
as easily been withheld instead gets mailed out, and made a small joke of,
before it’s undeniably signed and deposited into a bank account.
Two women are sitting behind me and one with a masculine
voice has taken the reigns of conversation. In a matter of two minutes I've
learned that she owns ten thousand VHS tapes, she doesn't believe in carpel
tunnel, she only gives out gummy candy at Halloween, and she joined the basketball
team as a teenage girl to date guys on the team but was only asked out by the
short boys. People with such rapid and eccentric stories don't actually get
excited when they are in the midst of an experience. It's like they're so under
stimulated in everyday life they take the key points of each moment and turn it
into a story. The second woman attempts to say a few things about her family to
relate but the other woman sputters with noises during each fraction of a pause
to kick-start her motor mouth.
It's a shame people
don't find satisfaction in talking to themselves. I think if they did, they would
and to avoid looking crazy they’d do it in the privacy in their own home,
laying down somewhere comfortable with the lights off. They’d go for hours on
end seeking words to express their random, uninhibited, and uninterrupted
thoughts like how an electronic toy malfunctions when it's batteries are low,
taking liberty in irrational expression as it lulls itself to death. But most
humans are in the state of living, and we need another human’s blinks and nods
and yeses to know it for sure.
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