It looks like we’re on Mars. The sky is orange and smoke is nice for cocktails but maybe not so much for breathing.
The burners had it right with all the masks they tuck away for the dusty desert – much better prepared for an apocalypse than I’d ever be.
I bought a mask on the internet through a crowdfunding campaign. It’s pink; a riff on the trendy rose gold shade. It looked cute enough on the website, but sort of looks like a big V vagina covering my face and nose. It also came with three dozen paper filters that I don’t know how to use. So, the mask sits on the table near the door and when someone asks I call it art.
I had a dream I met President Trump. He said, your boobs look good. I said, thanks.
We’re inside a dirty orange swirl of fog, soot and ash. Sonoma is burning – the rental where we stayed last fourth of July weekend burned to the ground. I sometimes feel optimistic and look up wedding venues, only to learn that Meadowood burned down yesterday.
I said, I hope the city doesn’t burn down too. He said, are you mad, cities can’t burn because there isn’t enough brush to carry the flames.
We bought a fancy espresso machine from China. I went to my desk, put some David Bowie on the stereo and brushed my hair before a conference call. I devise meager lines for small talk that seem idiotic but are important for some other kind of survival.
I watch thick flakes of ash fall from the sky. I consider eating a pastry as the earth does its thing, moving on, continuing to rid us of our righteousness.