What keeps me up at night
Dear Friend,
My windows startle me around two in the morning. They rattle against the fierce winds hurling across the California high desert. These winds do not blow; they terrorize. They amputate tree limbs, topple garbage cans, frighten pets, and dry your eyes.
If you’re wise, you’ll stay indoors. If you’re reckless, good luck.
Four years ago, I was reckless. I drove the narrow road through Angeles Forest, connecting the LA basin to Antelope Valley via the San Gabriel Mountains on a windy day. A beach-ball-sized rock tumbled down the bluff. If I swerved to the left, I would invade oncoming traffic. If I swerved to the right, I would fall off the cliff.
When the rock and my car collided, I cringed at my ripping bumper, followed by the sound of it dragging.
At the end of the highway, I pulled into a gas station, assessed the damages, and almost cried. Half my bumper was kaput. I tore the limp half off and continued my route to work.
I turn on my television–I never do this at two am. But the louder my windows shudder, the faster my heart races. I need a distraction.
If you live in a world of hurricanes and tornados, my lament over California’s high winds probably sounds silly. The winds in your hometown do far more damage, ripping homes and businesses to shreds.
You may be asking, “Aren’t you a native Californian? Shouldn’t you be accustomed to the weather?” Although I was born and raised in Los Angeles, the windy desert contrasts sharply with the breezy cityscape.
I live in the land of earthquakes. I am used to Mother Earth trembling. First, the rumble–an ominous sound snatches your breath. The windows warn you to duck and cover. The ground convulses. Photographs crash to the floor. Lighting fixtures sway like pendulums. Swimming pools swell and spill onto patios. Sometimes, entire buildings collapse.
But earthquakes are over usually within seconds. The winds unnerve us for days. I don’t know how people sleep through such chaos.
The Twilightzone. Rod Serling greets me into the fifth dimension, and I am happy to escape. Delving into the black and white screen, I can still hear the wind’s menacing presence.
Outside, a cat screams. Did the wind sweep it up, tangle its tail, and choke it?
The black and white drama unfolds: “My name is Talky Tina, and I don’t like you.” The plastic doll smirks at Erich Streator–the diabolical stepfather of Christie Streator, whose mother, Anabel, had recently gifted her the doll.
Erich glares at the toy before curling his lips into a sneer. “My name is Erich Streater,” he says, “And I’m gonna get rid of you.”
I need to get rid of my rattling windows or caulk them. But I can’t get rid of the winds. They come with the desert territory, which I love. There is something mystical about its biosphere, something mysterious and otherworldly. At the same time, it is breathtaking.
And for now, it is home.
Love and Light,
Ebony
P.S.
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