The missive irritated me.
I was not in the mood to fathom a catastrophe.
I went back to work.
The view from our backyard as we packed our car to leave early this morning.
Our flagrant doomism always trumps our denial.
I ran inside and grabbed my kids swimming goggles.
The dust cloud took on an iridescent blue as I fumbled around the yard.
Our view Tuesday night, at sunset, from the back of our house: the coast in flames.
A couple of hours later, the dust was mixed with ash.
The Palisades are on fire, she told me.
The winds picked up more; we lost the connection.
A view of the Eaton fire from the front of the house.
I felt the first neck-stiffening panic then.
It couldnt be that bad; theyd get it under control.
Do the laundry before we lose power, I told myself.
We would need clean towels in the dark, for sure.
Our view Tuesday night, at sunset, from the back of our house: the coast in flames.
My young daughter came home from school.
We ran her bath as the sun set.
Theres a fire, mommy, she told me, looking out the bathroom window.
In the dark the coastline had turned electric orange with flames.
It was a jagged, awful line.
We are safe here, I told my daughter, but God help our friends on the coast.
God help the LAFD, I added.
My daughter looked out the dining room window.
Pasadena, I thought.
That new fire is in Pasadena.
Fuck, fuck,fuck.
The windows buckled in the wind, their frames pushing in and out.
Debris and sticks cracked against the panes.
Part of our chimney blew off and crashed into the driveway.
Mozart, I thought.
Play Mozart for the baby.
A bramble of cords and chargers.
I peered into my dark office, stacked with painstakingly acquired research for a new book project.
Fuck, fuck,fuck.
We decided to venture to sleep.
We would sleep because we were news people and because panic is stupid and JV.
I lay in the dark on top of my covers, fully dressed, plank-stiff, scrolling and scrolling.
Outside my bedroom window, the Pasadena fire surged and flared, now a deep reddish orange.
Oh, look, those flames had a name now: they were calling it the Eaton fire.
And oh,look: another fire had started in Sylmar, to the north of our house.
Three big, fat fires, a Bermuda triangle of fire in the city around us.
A middle-of-the-night view from my bedroom: watching the Eaton fire spike and flare in Altadena.
The sun rose, a sickly green light.
The sky was the color of iron, of dried blood.
Another text from another friend: parts of nearby Glendale were being evacuated; we should get out too.
There was now fire in thesoil, the reporter told him, there was fire in the roots.
Lets get out, I told my husband.
We covered 9/11 together.
Our first date was a biochemical warfare class, for Gods sake.
We are the lucky ones, profoundly fucking lucky.
At time of writing, we still have a house to return to.
Other parts of the city look like firebombed landscapes from the Second World War.
The inferno is not done with Los Angeles yet, not by a long shot.
Every few hours, another sacred part of the city goes up in flames.
The shell shock is total, panic ubiquitous.
Los Angeles: We love you so.
like, like survive.
A view of the Eaton fire from the front of the house.
