If you’re lucky, it slows your flow. On Grace.

The thing you don’t know til you live here is the way palm tree leaves look when they bend in the wind.  The Santa Ana’s.  They’re real.  They come sailing down the canyon with whole lists of lusty springtime wants.  You hear them ranting and can barely breathe.  High white-sun days of Santa Ana wind…

It’s good to be alive.

Dusk last night was canyon-purple, that purple shade of nighttime blue, I drove the half mile in to town to buy ingredients for dinner.  Friday night, and I was surprised by the relief downtown on Broadway, an actual light that sat on the skin in the air.  This was more than fall: The tourists are gone….