(Near) Catastrophe

By Jennifer Schneider

1.
When paparazzi chased the Sussexes
with (near) catastrophic consequences
in midtown New York City,
the media was quick to capture
the offense and question
its potential severity – 

Traps. Scraps. Snap pursuits.
Cars. Stars. Startled suits.
Fractured family trees.
Red means STOP.
Click. Clack. Whack. Don’t.
Don’t GO.

Viewers surely made connections
to Princess Diana,
trapped in a car in the Pont de l’Alma
tunnel under the warning
sirens of a big city and the tired
wars of a dynasty. 

Breaks. Brakes.
Sedans in reverse. Matter near spirals.
Faraway recollections. Years prior – 
and the loss of Princess Di

On August 31, 1997, 
I wore denim cut-offs, spent
the night
on a worn corduroy couch
in an undersized
basement,
and struggled to breathe. 
I laid horizontally,
knees to nose, and consumed
horizontal updates
served on ticker tape as reporters
with accents
covered the highly doctored
catastrophe.

Red and Green make NO.
SLOW. Headphones on.
Inhale. Exhale. Consume
the melody.  

Billy Joel warned of the risks
of flight and fantasy.
Storm Fronts approaching.
Not only streets swell with the rain.

Acid-washed fabric,
metaphors,
and strangers loved from afar
can all provoke flooded memories – 

The river of dreams understood.
There is no modifier for
catastrophe. What’s Near and what’s Far,
synonymous with movement
and memory.

2.
Later, amidst widespread fears
of nuclear anxiety, I’d think of how
Three Mile Island suffered a
partial meltdown – another accident,
another catastrophe. Wrapped
and warped of twine and told-you-so’s.

My nine-year-old body
stayed awake for days that hung
like melted plastic
beads to ascertain the likelihood 
of relocation
all while Joel sang
of uptown bigshots riding in limousines.

Distance meant everything. A
mile in or outside of a marked
perimeter designated vastly different
fates. Mornings watching Tom & Jerry
cartoons in familiar queues or
chasing mice in a
month-to-month rental forty
miles down the interstate --
asymmetrical versions of reality.

3.
This past Spring,
a grapefruit-sized meteorite
crashed through the ceiling of a bedroom 
in a New Jersey home, and people are barely  
talking about the circumstances of the intrusion.

In the same news cycle two inmates
escaped from a Philadelphia correctional
center through a hole in a wire fence
about the same size as the meteorite.

Both approximately 4-by-6 inches,
give or take approximations
and satellite imagery.

One hole
required
viewers look to the stars.

The other
demanded
a glance towards Earth.

Rarely do infractions or offenses,
Near or Far
occur at eye level –

triangular roof             frames
rectangular                  cages
compacted                   soil
search dog                   barks
chains of multiple       dimensions

Do moving objects
flee or generate (near) catastrophe?

As the black rock slipped from the belt
of asteroids somewhere between Jupiter
and Mars, neighborhoods in Philadelphia
were searched and put on lockdown. All
while the new Taylor Swift
played the old.

Residents
in need of        safeguarding

the meteorite slipped
from gravitational arcs

as the men slipped
out of manmade cells

(s)paces           untraced 
(s)oiled            no tells 

The 2.2-pound rock
from another world is approximately
4.5 billion years old.

Of the pair that escaped in Philadelphia –
one is 24, the other a mere 18. Held for gun
violations, narcotics, and murder charges. 

Belts and budgets strapped.
Negotiations outside rowhomes.
Objects, Near and Far, in need of ID.
Reputations and relocations marred.
Too many crash landings.

4.
I think of meteorites and space
and Rocket Man, pre-flight,
and a TV celebrity weatherman --
Channel 6’s Dave Roberts 

a star of the pre-dusk hour
and camera angles,
loved by a city; lost to a parachute.  
Near safety, too Far to be saved.

news of the catastrophe broke,
as I lay on a patchwork quilt,
freshly laundered,  
fully planted, in an upstairs bedroom.

a twelve-inch black and white TV
called from the downstairs kitchen
my fingers pressed pause
on the boombox resting on my knee
Joel’s Scandinavian Skies howling.

5.
And as I drove to a funeral for an uncle, 
four-times removed, in Queen’s -- 
across the Horace Harding Expressway
via 79^th Street,
Uptown Girl streamed on the radio.

Only I’m from a faraway downtown
and was headed to the unknown.
Plots unearthed while relations
from near and far took
rare pauses from feuding.

Black robes.
Bodies draped in dark fabrics.
Single strands of pearls.
Chipped teeth. Clipped hellos.
Offspring suddenly with no home.

Miles from home and all familiar islands,
I remember the melodies of Prince and Bohemian
Rhapsody. I sat in the back of a rental sedan,
as talk turned
to burgers and dinner plans,

Billy Joel warned of heights
Barry Manilow continued to turn.
Chances taken -- again and again
as what was unexpectedly Near
turned Far in the rearview
mirror.

6.
Mirrors aren’t allowed at
Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour,
now in full swing. 

Along with country, folk,
and the blues. Nearby, Martha
Stewart’s image graces Sports Illustrated’s
bathing suit issue, face heavily painted,
body fully draped. To celebrate the
reality of Near and Far in any other way,
a sure catastrophe.  

I’m transported to a window
just off Washington
Square where I ate a bologna
and mustard sandwich
while I applied makeup in a compact
space and listened to Bon Jovi scream
Livin’ on a Prayer when a driver,
about the same age as Martha,
lost control of the future.

Her tires burned on isolated islands.
Catastrophe unfolded at the foot
of my fifth story apartment –
windows locked. Unable to
go back to the future
-- whether Near or Far.

7.
Like the piano man who sat at the bar
just off Union Square and pretended
to Be somebody everybody might know.

Now, at Madison Square Garden, Joel
belts we didn’t start the fire
as the forests burn
and the malls turn to ashes,
all fountains dry – with pennies
rusted and all seeds turned.

Which comes first, I wonder,
and why --

the tragedy or the memory,
the catastrophe or the cruelty,
the lyrics that linger or warp,
the ways in which destiny is captured,
and the stories of (near)
catastrophe are retold

in beats and pauses

where deception and inception tango
and knotted strands of DNA waltz,
then knock like a Hungry Man
on the other side of the microwave
door. 

8.
if near catastrophes
can be reconciled as no harm
done, no wrongs spun,

and

if space allegedly belongs
to all mankind,

why is safety only an idealized
version of reality

and

if security remains the
subject of
random occurrences
and persistent paparazzi,

why doesn’t everyone
break free of existing beats
and off-tune (s)paces

in the small pockets
of air between Here & There
and Then & Now

as lyrics transcend
time and space and distance

to recreate

I wonder –

how have we traveled so far
only to unravel so wrong

what’s a (near) catastrophe,
anyway?