Southern California

Stepping out of the office today at 11:30 for an early lunch I was again reminded of the fundamental underlying paradox that is Southern California. In the shadow of the building the air was cool, almost cold, slightly chilling the skin, yet the sun was piercingly bright, crystalline and pure. (I had already put my sunglasses on in the building in preparation.) Stepping out of the shadow of the building the air was still cool, or at least retain a memory of the cool of the shade and the morning, but the the heat of the sun quickly warmed the skin to almost uncomfortable degree. Over head the sky is a clear blue, not a single cloud, nor even a hint or memory of a cloud. In the distance on the horizon the sky is a light brown, smog or wind bourne sand and dirt. Or a bit of both. And in the air that indescribable smell, a smell I have know my whole life, yet can not describe it. A smell that reminds me of a Southern California that has already passed into history, that always reminds me of the fundamental truth of Southern California, that most of its ten million residences have either forgotten, never knew, or simply do not care; Southern California is a desert.

Ursus Demens