“There is a strange hum in the air, an unsettled spirit that hasn’t passed through. I fear all of my lamenting in November has become tangible in flame and ash in these early weeks of December. That sadness I could not touch has materialized.
I read in the news, “a perpetual tinder box” and I think of home and the hill behind our house and the matchstick scorched palm trees. And I think of how ash-black your hands are at the end of the day.
Not far from you, and the fires, there is Christmas music playing and a couple discussing traffic. Because to be a Californian is to be perpetually immune and always at fault. To never be unaware and yet always at ease. We are edged to the edge of the continent, a place we inhabit by choice. And by the promise that the winds will die sometime soon.”
Every time I sit to write I cannot write about anything else.