January 8th, 2025
The emergency alert, accompanied by its nerve-shattering screech, jolted me awake at 5:18am.
LA COUNTY OFFICE OF EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT: FAST MOVING WILDFIRE IN YOUR AREA. AN EVACUATION ORDER HAS BEEN ISSUED FOR YOUR AREA. LEAVE NOW.
Half-conscious I stared at my phone. Asked Jenn if this was for real. As if Jenn saying “no, it’s bullshit,” would give me permission to roll over and go back to sleep.
Another difficult dilemma when one has issues with authority.
“Fuck.” I get up and walk through the apartment to the back balcony.
The Santa Ana winds have been pounding our building all night, shaking the windows, and bending the majestic palm trees almost in half. I push open the sliding glass door and step out into a whirlwind of dust and debris. Our once beautiful garden of succulents and palms is now a total disarray of upturned plants, terracotta shards, broken off trunks that used to be small trees.
We’ve been out of town, in New York, vacation, time away, our return was horrendous, dealing with snow and delayed planes. While away, we had left the large patio umbrella up. It’s gone. Taken away by the fierce winds that are battering my face as I scan the hills behind us. The mountains are engulfed in flames, racing through the trees and sagebrush, fueled by the intense wind. A dark billowing cloud of black smoke clogs the sky. It feels like Armageddon. Or at least what I think Armageddon should feel like. This is devastation. Horrific and impressive at the same time. It’s fucking intimidating and we should probably take heed of the warning and leave.
The prevailing concept of fleeing natural disasters is one should pack a “go” bag. With immediate necessities; survival supplies, things that are important, stuff that’s irreplaceable, shit you can’t part with. But what does that mean to me? My pile of guitars, basses, cello, and keyboards are not going to fit in the damn car. I’ve got artwork, photos, recording equipment, books, comic books, records, computers, and vintage everything. Lugging any of that downstairs to our car in the garage doesn’t really fit into the LEAVE NOW emergency alert we just received.
I should have never left New York… freezing to death beats burning up, any day…
It’s all too much. I’m good in emergencies. But right now, I just don’t care. As of late I find myself slipping back into that old familiar loop, a perpetual recycle/rehash, here I am, back in the same place, doing it all over again, this can’t be happening (again), what-the-fuck kinda head space/time warp.
On the one hand life is good. I’ve got no complaints (outside of wildfires). There’s a lot to be grateful for. I have amazing people in my life. I’m 195 pages into the new book. My cats are lumpy and lazy, and Jenn is probably happier than I am (well, not with the fire, but you get the point). On the other hand, the future looks dark. Morons are soon to be at the helm, steering the proverbial ship into the abyss. When I think about where it is all possibly going, anxiety torques my chest, curtailing my air supply, and whatever spark of enlightenment I once had woefully dims in my brain.
I’m not exactly getting younger. No matter what I feel like, or what my brain tells me, I’m pushing through the 60’s at a speed I’d rather not acknowledge. Friends and family are dying. In a city like Los Angeles, anyone over 25 is so goddamn old, practically invisible, and about as relevant as yesterday’s iPhone.
It’s hard not to embrace the darkness of reality. But living in fear of the future is no way to live. It is much better to stay in the present. Although I must confess, being present is not my forte. I spend an inordinate amount of time in the past and future. The past being that old depression, from deeds once done, catching up to me, and the future is the aforementioned anxiety of not knowing what’s to come.
I used to say karma was payback on the layaway plan. Although now no one under 25 even knows what “layaway” means. Only it turns out that karma is how you fare as you prepare to step away from this mortal coil. I can admit to doing some incredibly fucked up shit, and in return I’m receiving damning consequences as payback for all I did. Finances are never enough. Health deteriorating. The body just stops working. Retirement becomes more and more an elusive dream. The future, a vision of a 90-year-old asking, “do you want fries with that?” and trudging the treadmill of repetitive insult to injury.
Why the fuck did I use heroin in my 20’s and 30’s? I should have saved it for now.
And then, as the dark cloud of uncertainty accumulates on the horizon (see what I did there with the fire analogy?), a new variable (albeit an old one, really) starts mucking up the equation and bam! I find myself asking, “do I really want to do this?” How much longer do I want to complain about being an indie-indie-indie-off-indie author? Fucking up that “niche-market,” stumbling through something that could be called a career, but really looks like another sad “struggling writer” hustling books on the internet.
Take my writing class so you too can get some of this…
The only thing I can truly say I haven’t fucked up is today I have 24 years clean off drugs and alcohol. Which is pretty amazing (especially if you knew me when). Even through the goddamn pandemic, when we all went to the internet for meetings, my recovery has endured, and I am surrounded by supportive people I can depend on, and I hope they know (feel) they can depend on me. Even if everything I have turns to ashes; if I was still using, I wouldn’t have anything anyway. My “go” bag back then would’ve been a Gun, Needle, Spoon. And I would have been fucked trying to score in a city on fire.
The phone vibrates in my hand and it startles me.
LA COUNTY OFFICE OF EMERGENCY MANAGEMENT: An EVACUATION WARNING has been issued in your area. Remain vigilant of any threats and be ready to evacuate. Gather loved ones, pets, and supplies. Continue to monitor local weather, news, for more information.
What-the-actual-fuck?
Gratitude shows up in a lot of ways. I can be old as fuck, despondent, penniless, unpublished, neglected, avoidant, irritated, and grumpy. But I am still here for a reason. I don’t always know, or agree, with still being here. Yet in a world where most everyone I know, and came up with, are dead. I’m still alive and can’t help but think I’m supposed to make a difference (damn that sounds egotistical), be of service to others, and try to add to the collective good, not take away.