Been living through some simply gorgeous -- gaw-geous! -- days here in Napa Valley. But I haven't been seeing the beauty so much as its costs. Poor California -- third year into your drought...and a wing-tip pokes down from the sunlit sapphire sky to pat pat the state of California.
This morning, woke to hot winds scarfing the trees. As I write this, I hear the kitchen windows bang themselves ajar. It's early January but the day is expected to get into the '70s, temperature-wise. Overhead, the clouds are radioactive pink. I might typically find them lovely. Instead, I see an impending scorching summer, the land shriveling and animals panting....
Relatedly, last night, Mickey Rourke got the Golden Globe. He-e-elllll Yeah, Baby. Too, a distinct beauty in his ravaged landscape. This brings me back to Poetry: I much prefer the Mickey Rourkes to the Tom Cruises in Poetry -- guess who represents the majority?