A Blowing Wind
Rough winds and frigid temperatures blew into Los Angeles last night, hard on the heels of a heatwave. We were woken suddenly from slumber at midnight by the banging of a loose door on our roof terrace. Comically large palm tree branches festooned the streets this morning as we drove to school. At this time of year, when these uncouth and ill mannered gusts of air often pay Southern California a visit, I always remember Anne Of Green Gables’ disappointment on discovering that the true nature of the Mistral wind was very different from that of her romantic imaginings:
‘ “A nice, friendly, perfumed wind,” said Anne…. “Such a wind as I used to think a mistral was. Mistral sounds like that. What a disappointment when I found out it was a rough, disagreeable wind!”
Our daughter’s fifth birthday is now, incredibly, within reach. When I booked her party venue this evening I was hit by the sudden realisation that she will discover L.M. Montgomery’s wonderful novels which detail the adventures of Anne Shirley before too many more years have passed us by. My excitement at the prospect of sharing them with her was tempered by the knowledge that her brother will be off beginning his own story at university and beyond by the time she is old enough to do so. How merciless time rushes ever forward toward our horizon.
Before the winds came to town I spent quite a bit of time up on our roof terrace. The light here has possessed an ethereal quality to it recently. Early one evening I gazed at the sky which shimmered with an iridescent lavender hue. On another I watched a flock of crows race back and forth beneath a crescent moon hanging high in an ocean of warm pink clouds. I sat up there a couple of nights later with my daughter cocooned on my lap in a blanket. We counted the lights of distant aeroplanes tracking across the sky. I cuddled her, breathing in the coconut smell of her freshly washed hair and saw the shadow of my future self. A shadow which gazes at fleeting moments of time past, lovingly stored amidst the textured layers of memory which will last until they are washed away by the great river of forgetfulness in which no man can swim and emerge as he was before.
Amidst all of these moments of life and weather it occurs to me that one should not be afraid to write about what one loves. It seems to me that to be unafraid in this regard is to share a joy that would otherwise be hoarded for one’s own miserly consumption. And so I will be writing more regular pieces on poetry and song here, with the first one coming out just as soon as it allows itself to be captured by words and phrases. I hope that these offerings will be of some enjoyment.
