danielle winning the southeast barista laurels — by a crushing margin, we hear — is like james winning the worlds: all is right in the earth. the axis tilteth correctly. there is a still point in the turning world, as the poet said, and danielle, it seemed, danced in it. by herself.
there was poise and polish vastly beyond what we saw last year, and significantly in addition to the confidence evident in her u.s. performance. there was, essentially, a resounding follow-through where nearly everyone, or at least all of the raucous home crowd, seemed to assume the title was likely hers to grab. there was that gelatinous cream and sarsparilla in kenyan espresso, dolloped together like stanzas in a villanelle, and the smiling, the clear belief, right out in public, that she was doing something really good.
during the finals routine, the blogchildren joined in the octane chorus — “police noises,” they called it — and savored the victory as much as tykes with the feel of a real heavy trophy and an exuberant round of hugging can savor such a thing. the culture of tony riffel’s octane, the guiding hand of the zombie and the urban sensibility of danielle herself all shewed forth, as it were. it was a win in a beautifully artistic space, by the main attraction herself. as it should have been.
the early crowd.
cool under scrutiny
‘just. like. work.’
down to the wire.
in the bag.
blogchildren are unanimous: it’s a keeper.