what fresh hell

And I’m going down
Where the waves will surround
To the roll and the pound
Of the wild wild sea
Talking sweet to me

A.A. Bondy, A Slow Parade




There were big, mean dogs at the beach this morning.  Lily told them off, but they didn’t listen.  Still, we persisted.  We will not be run off the beach.  We will just run.  We are very fast.  (One of us is.)  Lily is now lying against me in our chair, all tuckered out.

Otherwise, a beautiful morning.  An egret in the surf, five pelicans flying low over the silvery water, one otter on its back in the waves.  The tide out and the beach long.

We’ve been watching in horror as southern California burns.  I have a lot of family in Ventura.  One of my cousins lost her house and everything in it.  The others have spent the last days evacuated.  Yesterday a group of them arrived up here for a while.  They came with stories and nightmares.  Some of the footage online is simply unbelievable.  My son tells me the sky is full of ash and the horizon is a deadly orange.  A hellscape, is what he says.  We will take a moment from our national outrages to mourn.


Moment over, mourning ongoing.  Also outrage.


Mitch McConnell is lecturing democrats on responsible government.  Sarah Huckabee Sanders is lecturing John Lewis on the importance of the civil rights movement.  Donald Trump is lecturing Al Franken on sexual misconduct.  Irony has taken to her bed with a cold compress and a bottle of gin.