Trembling Between Plagues in Los Angeles

But first, a plug. Starting now, and for the month of October, new paid subscribers to That Ellipsis… will get 25% off a yearly subscription. That’s 40 dollars for a yearly subscription instead of 50. Even better, those who opt for a Founding Member subscription will get a half-off price, paying 100 up front rather than 200. So if you’ve been waiting to read my Barbenheimer review, my thoughts on movies about terrible rich people, or if you’re hoping to get access to my upcoming post on the rising of the bears, now is the perfect time. And now, read this poem. Shana Tova.

1. Ink

Walked outside today, past a row of crumbling homes, observing the new year. Cracked paint, rotting wood, broken windows and dead, overgrown lawns. The street here is easy to miss, its signs obscured by freeway overpasses, its twists blocked by blinding glass.

Those who’ve sat here long enough will know the lives that have washed through. She knows she’ll always feel them (though is less sure of others). Some arrived after months floating aimlessly at sea, vague stories of tank treads that swallowed people whole.

Some came through deserts or rivers, the water cooling their blistered skin. Others were born here and never had any plans to leave, until they did. They raised children, mourned parents, wore scuffmarks into the linoleum and hardwood floors. Made meals for each other. Babysat their children.

She takes a book from the shelf, pen in hand, and makes another inscription on the title page. She leaves the words to dry on the table before walking out the front door.

2. Breath

There is only so much oxygen to go around nowadays, most of it hoarded by faulty ventilators and fires on the chaparral. Anytime it rains, neighbors rush out their front doors to breathe it in, gasping cool, fresh, and rare. You can hear the air hiss as it evaporates.

It’s been so long since she went outside (though not as long as it’s been for others). Everything is exposed in the light, vulnerable. The sun blinds, but it also sterilizes. At least for a time.

The hot air rushes into her lungs. She knows it will only get hotter as the ground keeps opening. But as always, there are people out there, shuddering and waiting, their necks craning upward in prayer for another storm. Quietly to herself, she recites the shema, then patiently sets off down Vine.

3. Sand

I heard of the ‘stone tape theory,’ the idea that ghosts are just pain and trauma, trapped in rocks. So I traced my finger along the concrete sidewalk for as long as I could, up to the end of the street. I strained hard, tried to listen, asked questions.

What is the difference between prayer and incantation? I couldn’t tell you, but I chanted both into the ground. Nobody answered. For five thousand years, nobody has answered.

Some call my reaction terror, but it was something more. Some places you can dig, but not here. We need the soil to soften. Claw at it hard enough, squeeze the cold layers of deep time between your fingers. Just don’t breathe it in. Valley fever lives in the dirt.

4. Ash

There’s smoke above the Hollywood sign. At night it glows orange and red. Come morning, it still somehow stands, ready to survey new catastrophes. It will be ten days before flames stop, and the sign will still stand, waiting for some new stranger to look up and wonder why this landmark manages to endure while so many others have become memories.

There’s a man dragging his swollen feet up Fairfax, a guitar slung over his shoulder. His stomach is empty today (though no emptier than it normally is) and his name is crumpled in a nearby tent.

Catching the eye of a rabbi walking past, he frantically renounces everything he’s had to remember, flinging verses into the future like upbraided cobblestones, against the door of every holy house that’s been slammed in his face.

Unfazed, the rabbi looks at him. ‘What took you so long?’ she asks. Then she smiles, her wrinkles framing her gray-green eyes as they light up. ‘We’re always in need of people like you.’ She touches his arm. In that instant, he sees what he’s always hoped, but never searched for.

5. Wax

This city… This monument of exquisite talking corpses, Babylonian trials, and dried-up rivers. There are few places to grieve, and even fewer to repent. Anything that might exist long enough is quickly cordoned off and forgotten. By the time we remember it’s just been paved over.

Closing the front door behind her, the rabbi takes a moment to notice the shadows cast through the window. Outside, the color of cracked paint continues to fade, and tree branches burrow through concrete. In here, everything remains beautifully still.

Outside, every scream is an audition, every grave diagnosis a chance to build an audience. In the midst of this, she can’t tell him whether the fires or the sickness will get him, the swords or the police batons, stupidity or old age. Will he grow roots or wander? Have peace or torment? Music or hunger?

Somewhere, searching, she knows, but can’t say. Gently, she blots the ink, closes the book, and places it back on the shelf to collect dust for another year.

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