| Current mood: |  discontent |
| Current music: | rainy day jazz |
wildfires
Yes, I’ve been away for a while: Fires in the hills, and fires in the heart—all of them running wild and out of control. Makes it damn hard to write, because the fires make it damn hard to hold onto a single thought, let alone put two or three thoughts in some coherent sequence. It’s also kinda hard to get on-line when the power and phones are out. Yes, I thank God that our home and farm still stand; and, while we evacuated, I understood the important things: The children and animals were safe—terrified, naturally, but safe.
When the time came, I found it almost unnaturally easy to choose what I would save and what I could afford to lose; in its way, the challenge was a good, healthy thing, because it showed exactly what mattered. At crunch time, very little "stuff" matters. I took the laptop and the disk with all our important papers scanned into it; I took the zip disk that stores my novel. I took very few clothes—mostly the ones I would need for work; I forgot to rescue my old letterman jacket. I took all the photos and all the family’s artwork—lots of that; I did remember to rescue the two heirloom chairs. Family history remained pretty-much intact. Shows all anyone needs to know about what matters. Family. History and right now; kids and animals. And my tools—the carpentry tools, so that I can go on supporting the kids and animals; the computer so that I can go on pursuing that impossible dream.
Going without power and phone for a few days really was a small price to pay. So many families have lost so much more, and more stories come out every day as people sift through the ashes of their lives and dreams. I guess the journalists and broadcasters have used-up just about all the words for the fires’ ravages; I don’t know if I really can add any more—not in this context anyway. My imaginations and insights will get woven-into the brush fires episode in Chapter One.
But there’s still the stuff about fires in the heart. They’re contained but not controlled. And I wish they were the good kind—you know, like a warm, comforting snuggle-fire on a snowy night. But they’re not. These are not the fires of love and romance; instead, they’re the destructive, ravaging, overwhelming and terrifying kind that leave only scorched earth behind. The landscape of my spirit looks hellishly like the landscape along Highway 52, where everything burned-down to bare dirt. Not virgin wilderness, but just blackened and scarred earth.
And, ya know what? I am sick and tired of bitching, moaning, lamenting, and brooding about it. Darkness and sadness do not suit me; neither does passivity. I also am sick of fake resolves and quick-fingered effusions that come from dancing the qwertyuiop across the stupid keyboard. I like some genuine, practical conviction, courage, and determination. Yeah, I walked around the farm, and I walked through the house, feeling completely overwhelmed and discouraged with all that must be done. I can imagine the challenge of rebuilding; but I can hold it in perspective, too. We can toss-up a building in about six weeks; some of these people will be choosing carpets and drapes in just about a month. Maintaining this silly acreage and all its structures are a lifetime enterprise, and we could keep busy around this place almost indefinitely—sunrise to sundown day after day after day. And, while the people choosing flooring and window treatments enjoy the thrill of recovery and renovation, we see eternal sameness; nothing new, nothing learned, nothing especially cherished…just simply maintained. Holding our own against time’s onslaught, but not really progressing. It’s the progressing that matters. If there’s nothing to which we can look forward, then why should we try? And if we don’t choose the stuff to which we will look forward, then why even bother? I just read a "Vanity Fair" profile of Ali McGraw, who commented "no choices," the complete absence of will and wish, dominate her vision of perfect misery. Amen to that! "Love Story" girl. Amen, Mrs. McQueen. Amen!
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