I refuse to own up to an avid blogger status and have here attempted to maintain an aloof sparse art-type online publication, peering through my thick rimmed glass and under sideswept bangs, keeping the reader at a distance from these very close pieces of my life. Most unethical for one who has kept her private life online for six years and counting.
But my home is burning, Southern California, from Santa Barbara past the imaginary border (much as CNN hates to admit) into Mexico. Hundreds of thousands of acres have burned, people are fleeing their homes. Ash falls like snow, smoke clouds the blood red sun, a fog that smothers, entering lungs, unwanted snakes of cigarette intrusion. I worry about my sister although I know she is safer at school than she could be anywhere else, holed up in her apartment on campus while Santa Ana winds blow fire from Santa Ana to the coast. Here, our house is the safe zone protected by two freeways, as if a strip of asphalt could stop the flames that have destroyed nearly (or perhaps more than) 100 homes in Rancho Bernardo. South San Diego, north, northeast, and we're trapped in the middle, evacuations heading towards the center, the eye of the storm, imagined safety.
"It's Mordor!" Jay joked earlier and it was difficult to smile. Truth is, black skies, red flames licking palm tree silhouettes; this is a work of fiction come to life.