Vista 3

            It is 5:30pm, September 24.  The clouds hang over the city today like a warning.  I stand – I cannot sit – and watch over the village of Shadyside, my new home.  All is still, but by no means silent.  Shrill sirens whine on and on, finding no relief in their distress call.  The rapping of a helicopter somewhere above me, out of my sight, echoes in my ear.  The birds are quiet today.  Are they aware they are being spoken for?

            The effect of the G-20 in Pittsburgh is almost fantastical.  Like a giant sifter, the city has been separated.  Some are hiding, fearful of the sudden surge of protestors and potential dangers, while others, inspired by the opportunity of place and time, are stepping up and supporting their beliefs in radical ways.  Before, most were indistinguishable, a community.  Now, there are labels.  “Protestors.”  “Anarchists.”

            As anxious as I am knowing that the neighborhood I am watching from upon this cliff is currently being vandalized (my friend just called me and told me there was a tank with one hundred SWAT marching past her apartment in Friendship,) I am comforted by the rain.  Today is the third wet day in a row, and the moisture has extracted various scents from the grass and dirt, the leaves that are starting to die.  As if the rain coaxes these fragrances from its earthly counterparts, their scents come forth and fill the air with such pungency and sweetness, letting us know the two elements have merged.  I close my eyes and try to close my ears – only breathe in the different aromas.  Something smells like ginger, only sweeter and rotting.  Another whiff is a fruity manure.  Not far from me, I see some smashed berries on the pathway.

            I decide to sit down.  The grass is damp, and I’ll deal with getting my skirt a little wet because today, of all days, it doesn’t seem to matter much.  Within a minute I find myself combing my fingers through the wet blades and tearing them up in quick little strokes, something I always do when I’m nervous.  I immediately make myself stop.  Why would I ever do that?

            I wonder if I should have picked a spot more hidden, more in the woods, where I might be able to escape this anxiety that I’m feeling today.  I walk down the sidewalks and I’m afraid that there will be police with guns.  I don’t like police.  Never have.  In a forest, I could hide under a tree trunk and get lost in the intricate patterns of a spider web.  But it wouldn’t be a forest; it would be a park.  And today I would still hear the pulsing of the helicopter, the blaring sirens.  Below me, the tree-house staircase winds its way down to some unknown wooded place unfamiliar to me.  I could go to Costa Rica, that amazing jungle, my own paradise.  There would be no helicopters; the G-20 would never host a summit there.