It’s an afternoon with a Santa Ana. Quite a few days like this in autumn, here in LA LA Land. It’s the leaves, the leaves I love so much.
What would literature do without the wind? Writers can choose the quality of malevolence from such richness: sundowner, diablo, derecho, nor’easter, mistral, sirocco, haboob, foehn, elephanta - all are windstorms which flare through the passes and across the valleys of their respective lands. We have the Santa Anas - cold or hot offshore winds that compel excitement and fear in Southern California. “Red winds”, Raymond Chandler called them, “wind[s that] shows us how close to the edge we are”, said Joan Didion.
I don’t experience the unease the Santa Anas are said to summon up in the soul. Their gusts blow out haze and smog, and the sky and air have a hard clarity and brightness that I celebrate. Definitions seem so clear to me- the winds assist the dictionary of my vision.
I love to watch the autumn leaves arc out of the trees, assisted to release; their summer’s task is complete, isn’t it? The sycamore leaves are like russet plates rocked ever-so gently to settle on the still bright green lawns below. The crunch of footsteps through them is delicious; they crumble like crackers trod upon by racing children.
When the Santa Anas come, my spirit rises up to ride them, I am no burden to them, cause them no delay, they know I love them to carry me about, bring me closer to that intensely blue sky. I feel the delight of past bodily joys: the schoolyard swing, kayak cutting rapids, swift ski traverse down bluesnow shadows.
Clean as white bones, cut down to the triangular simplicity of a jib taut with captured wind, I am given their vibrant tumbling energy - it is mine to do with as I wish. There will be grandchild-chasing, their squeals delighting me as they are captured and tickled, jogs through the not-so-cold winter that is Southern California’s greatest pleasure, and ice-skating in a parking lot landscaped with palm trees. This spring and summer I will go passionately hunting wildflowers, delighting in their naming. And I will snorkel tropic waters again, astonished by the wonder that seeks me out when I go looking for it.
Maybe I’ll figure out what to paint, finally. I’ve been waiting a long time now. Must be like falling in love - it only happens once in a while. Perchance I’m not yet there, haven’t quite arrived. No, it’s the opposite - I haven’t started this journey, I’m still deciding where to go and what to pack. It will come to me, these answers, soon, I think.
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