Feral Cat 1, Sun 0. Basking in a survivors’ victory at 7 pm…
I have no idea how they do it with a fur coat on. Nature is a genius.
The ficus didn’t do so well yesterday. Watered it on Saturday. Less than 24 hours later, the top third of the hedge withered before my eyes as though God had sent down pestilence.
All things green shall by sundown be green no more, sayeth the Lord.
Inevitably, there was another homeless encampment brush fire in the Sepulveda Basin, the second of the past month. We have normalized this like summer weather.
Feral cats and meth heads are anti-fragile. Los Angeles may fall into perdition in the next six months and they will make a slight adjustment and continue as before. The rest of us, in our green and ordered life, anchored by our need for safety and sustainability, scan the horizon line and wonder what It Portends.
In the warm, warm evening air, just before midnight, gentle zephyrs kiss the back of your neck as you cross the parking lot to pick up some nosh on the way home from the gym after a long day in which almost nothing went right. Quiet. So quiet you can hear your sneakers on the asphalt. A measure of calm in the chaos of the world. Up and down the moon-dappled streets all around you, people tucked in bed. Even the freeways are in dormition. Unexpected tranquility. One of those moments when the Valley is the absolute right place to be.
Empty fountain, hot day. Two more to go, before the heat breaks. Or so we are told. Rarely does one wish to become the statuary one gazes upon so much as here. Like Wings of Desire in reverse, when Bruno Ganz forsakes angelhood, steps off the Siegesaulle and into the quiet, desperate life of a Berliner.
Heat week continues in the Valley. 104 today, again. One ventures out only after sunset, into the stillness of the cricket thrumming air. A/C units and attic vents whir deep into the night. Televisions flicker through open windows, sound turned low. Doorways beckon with colored lights. C’mon in, Mr. Curious. No cry-babys. No sniveling.