Journal 1.21
“sometimes i don’t feel like writing because everything is connected and i can’t get into all that right now” - ancient tweet by charlie
There was a tiny library in the prison firehouse, and I pulled an old copy of Sherlock Holmes off the shelf. Just a year prior, I didn’t have access to any library for months. I wrote a blog post about it and it won an award. At the event, they printed a copy on a tall posterboard1 and I walked around a lobby of tall poster boards and writers, trying to understand how they kept all of this away from us, and why.
This week, the Palisades Library burned down in Los Angeles county. It had a circulating zine collection that I was trying to contribute to. I live hours away from the fires, but my neighbors still find scraps of papers in the air. Small sky offerings of what survived.
On the hills, devil wind on their shoulder, are people wearing the same orange turnout gear I wore while I did time, while I sat in that firehouse. They took the same tests. Ran the same miles. Some of them probably ran their fingers along the same shelf, and pulled down the same book. Everyone is talking about them.
Well, everyone is talking about the men, at least. As usual, they’ve mostly forgotten the women and children.
Years ago, I picked that particular book from the firehouse because I wanted to tell my husband about the foreword, which delved deeply into Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s relationships with the writers around him. I didn’t know my husband was already dead when I started reading on the back of my fire apparatus, or when I finished the small book and tucked it back on the shelf.
Most of the time, you don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Most of the time, you can’t see what today has swallowed whole.
I injured my hip in the firefighting training camp and walked with a cane for many years after, at the request of the doctors on the outs who finally treated me. I met my first hip surgeon at a hospital that burned down this week, and last month, I told the man I am dating about the foreword of the Sherlock Holmes book. I think everything is connected somehow, and though I’m not sure if everything individually has a time or place, I am certain we do collectively.
I don’t know when I can talk about who we are burning with prison labor camps.
These days my friends melt into my arms in grief for what we’ve lost, and the sky carries the scraps of writer dreams to our windows, and even where I am— safe from the fires that still blaze— the air itself is dangerous, and we carry hygiene products preciously in a way I have not seen since prison.
Somewhere out there, someone is lacing up my old CDCR fireboots and saving what they can of this state, for people who will forget how we burn them up as the wind stops. People will forget how there are no protections— no guaranteed medical, no guarantee of pay, no guarantee of safety, no guarantee that we don’t slide into labor camps of other states where humans are leased to who can pay.
People will forget what we do when the fire comes for prisons and the people who home in them. How we look away.
When we can talk about what we look away from?2
The same week I told the man I am dating about the Sherlock Holmes book, a small group of us hosted the Biggest Little Zine Fair, holiday edition. I walked around stacks and stacks of writing and art, and thought about how they kept this from us, and how there’s never a right place to talk about it as much as I do.
How I’ve never really known a right time.
How prison broke something about my relationship with time, and my perception of freedom, in a way I still cannot explain, despite being a reader, despite being awash in communities of writers.
I was put on s-time3 after I learned that my husband died.
It was mostly coincidence, and partially due to the care of my fire captains. S-time is when you are laid off of your prison job two weeks before you go home, so you can prepare. My captains rushed to get my credits settled so I could get home early, and I ended up not having to work during my early stages of grief4.
I was laid off this month, the now second time in my life to deal with a lay off. I put together a ko-fi shop5 to raise a little money and then haven’t been able to talk about it, because so much of what I have to say is about the same burning that has melted my friends into the arms of our communities6.
I can’t find the right place.7 I don’t know if I’ll ever see time as right again.
I’m looking for it anyway. I’m looking for a new job.8 I’m looking forward even when everything feels like it’s pulling me back.9
I stretch my repaired hip in the sunlight I was once locked away from10. I remind myself that don’t know what tomorrow will bring.11
BlogHer 2016, Voices of the Year: https://www.instagram.com/rawra.avis/p/BIv74gugdSI/
I don’t know what this stands for, or if it’s the official term or just an expression we use, or if everyone gets two weeks or if it’s just a certain amount of time depending on your job. Many prison rules and terms are wishywashy.
Artifact from that time: https://www.instagram.com/rawra.avis/p/CAhcLNwh3DD/
If you ordered someone when I first mentioned this happening, thank you for your patience. Items went out this week. https://ko-fi.com/rarasaur/shop
Long Beach centric resources for LA Fire Relief: https://www.lbprotest.com/la-fires
Some things never have a right place. https://www.instagram.com/rawra.avis/p/BI3uU_Hg-fT/
What I do all day at my job. When I have one.
Today has brought a house full of goods to go out for LA Fire Relief, and a landlord inspection, and I can’t find my microphone or iPad to make an image or voiceover for this. It’s going out as is. Sorry, thank you, I love you, please forgive me. <3