Autumn in northern California means fire season. It's hazy even at midday, and my eyes have been watering for the last two days. There are grass fires in the hills of Oakland and Fremont, and an inversion over the Bay, so the smoke isn't going anywhere. I still remember the horror of the Oakland fire eight years ago. Our family friend John Grant died in the fire, having refused to leave his home. The gas lines blew.
Spent my Saturday sleeping until an indulgently late hour, then lazed around listening to music and reading my new book, An Elegant Madness, a delightful history of the English Regency. I found it in New York a week ago, having enticed my companions into a stroll after our diarists' dinner in the Village. I have read an enormous amount about the Regency, but this book collects some new facts and contemporary gossip that I hadn't heard before, and is well written besides. The author has the perfect name for the period: Venetia Murray.
A visit to Kepler's tonight in search of yet more books was nearly a failure. The October issue of Personal Journaling wasn't on display, they didn't have any of the Steven Brust I was looking for, nor the latest Margaret Frazer, and the only thing that made the trip worthwhile was the new Terry Pratchett novel, Carpe Jugulum. I consoled myself with the knowledge that Patrick is sending me Madeline Robins' first novel plus James White's last two. I will have new books sometime next week. Meanwhile, I guess I could break down and read The Age of Wellington or finish Uncommon Grounds. It's so difficult to carry hardcovers to work and back, though, and I hate to get food on them. I never eat lunch with anyone, jealous of my one solitary period of the work day. I read while I eat. This is why I need a continuous stockpile of paperbacks.
It's one in the morning now, and I can't sleep. The smoke is growing worse. The fire above Fremont, directly across the bay from me, is out of control. Earthquake weather: hot, still, late in the year, nerves on edge, waiting for the unknown. Indian summer, yes, but also a traditionally troublesome season. Even inside my house each breath draws in a dusky burnt scent. Two hours ago the moon went down in a welter of bloody light.
Tomorrow will be hotter still. I am afraid for the people in the hills.
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