Berkeley with rose and daffodils and tulips and irises all blooming at the same time, so that there was never anything to look forward to."
Birds of America, Mary McCarthy, p. 10
The air has turned. I felt its slight shift when I walked outside this morning. It’s cooler—not cold maybe, not even brisk—but a much welcome change from the oppressive heat of summer in Los Angeles, which almost always climaxes in a volcano of extreme temperature and humidity during the month of September. But it’s now October, and fall is finally here. The days are getting shorter, but the sun shines warm, vivid and clear, not glaring, bright without blinding.
and stories and zines, but I wanted to make things I wasn’t any good at making, too. Sometimes it’s sad not to have a mother, but for me it also means not having anyone who will say, “that’s not good enough—you really shouldn’t try to do things you have no talent for, Ariel.”
So I started drawing little cartoon pictures, too. And making food. Lots of food. No one said my drawings looked professional or anything, but they said they made them feel like maybe they could try to draw something, too. And no one said I should open a restaurant or anything, but they came over and we shared some nice pie.
I was low in the wild lilac, attempting to compress my spine into a progressively smaller form. My feet were rooted flat to the ground, pulling stiff, old hamstrings tighter than they wanted. I looked down to the ground, concentrating on keeping my breath to a dull roar, my pulse to something less than a drumbeat. I hoped the sun would stay behind the clouds long enough that it wouldn’t catch a bit of my watch, my bike, my sunglasses. I was starting to lose feeling in my lower legs.
