Smoke

All of our windows are closed. Smoke from the California and Oregon wildfires has reached Seattle. The Air Quality Index is at 176: unhealthy. Satellite imagery shows an oceanic expanse of smoke covering the land. The scenes in California of raging fire is apocalyptic. Trees are dying everywhere in our neighborhood. The leaves of the chestnut trees in Wolf Creek Ravine are once again moldy with fungus. Meanwhile, the Covid-19 pandemic continues to cycle up and down reflecting the social behavior of humans who – unable to endure more confinement during the summer – go out and party, gather on porches and beaches and narrow city streets, whooping it up as the planet goes down in flames. It’s a scene of shock, fraud and denial. Was that the mailman I just heard? How is he coping? I hear the faint sound of hammers from the house at the top of the street. The people who moved in began remodeling instantly. It’s what the wealthy do now: as soon as they move in to a new property, they begin to remodel. The planet dies while the wealthy remodel. The poor, meanwhile, live in tents set up in areas of desolation and waste. "We found ourselves precarious and fragile, but nothing was playing out in terms of truth. We lived and loved in the awareness of death, but we refused to let ourselves be defined by it,” remarks French literature professor Philippe Mangeot in an interview. I toss a fork into the drying rack where it hits the cap of a salt shaker, which produces a beautiful tone. I want to play with the cat, who seems restless, but worry that she’ll have another seizure, as she did when the city was first overladen with wildfire smoke in 2017. Later in the day, 6:06 p.m., my eyes are burning. The AQI is at 264. Several hours earlier I went outside briefly to move the car from the street to the parking lot in back of our building. The gardeners were here today – amazingly – doing the work they’d been assigned by the other members of our building. A girl was playing with her dog in the park, tossing a stick, the dog running after and returning the stick as dogs are wont to do. I was unbelieving that someone could be that negligent, that stupid. The stench of smoke was overpowering. You couldn’t see much further than 100 yards. Capitol Hill – less than a mile distant – was completely hidden, enshrouded in pale gray smoke. I normally associate the smell of wood smoke with good things, fun things, camping, roasting marshmallows, drinking beer, telling stories. Now it feels more like a harbinger of death. Does that seem a little too dramatic, a little over the top? Maybe. We still have food & running water. The smoke is anticipated to dissipate by Tuesday. That’s still four days away. In the meantime, I’m going to try to keep my eyes open long enough to read a passage from André Breton’s Anthologie de l’humour noir: Les Chants de Maldoror.