A bit about the bit below: Brushfires in Southern California seem like an almost yearly event. In 2003, however, there were unprecedented fires that demolished entire neighborhoods. Especially wealthy areas in the hills went up like tinderboxes. Everywhere was covered in thick, thick ashes and you couldn't go outside without choking. This bit was written during those fires.
The accompanying photograph of the sun was taken outside my parent's house in Tustin, California at around noontime at the height of the fires. You can almost feel how thick the air was.
Fires Within.
The little pieces of memories scattered over my car making it look like that granite-effect counter top material that folks in the 1980s were so fond of. It hurts to breathe outside. Scrap books, photos, roofs, family heirlooms, nothing now but particles covering my car and causing me to die prematurely of black-lung. Crouching in the rubble, they weep, tears pitting the ashes below them like tiny moon craters. Sifting, per chance coming across a semi-burnt notion of their lives. Innersprings of mattresses, charred kitchen utensils, a blackened doll's leg. It's like a reverse death: The person remains but everything else is destroyed. Homes, cars, back-yard tire swings, garden gnomes, watches, beds (how useful WAS that tag?), dogs, cats, the brave, the old, the weak, the strong. Everyone is equal now. Everyone owns the ashes of their lives. Apologies, condolences, promises of a brighter tomorrow won't stop the fire.
