Everything is strange here; a neon-yellow light pervades our immediate environment, and the sun is a dull copper disk in an otherwise nondescript gray sky. At least the winds have died down; there are, however, still items strewn about the landscape, ranging from tree limbs to old clothes.
As far as I can tell there is no immediate danger, but familiar places—Oregon City and Canby—are being evacuated, and more distant locales I have visited—Phoenix, for example—have been reduced to ash.
It is difficult to write on this defective machine (which is the reason I replaced it) but it’s either that or give up, and I’m not ready yet. I’ve been forced to fall back on reading actual books—the fragments of my library—and so have reread Samuel Schoenbaum’s Shakespeare’s Lives and Frederick Lewis Allen’s Since Yesterday.
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