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Viewing entries tagged
Relics of Fear
"See that hill over that? That's Mexico." Our dear friend seemed excited to point that out to us as we looked out from a high, Arizona hill. The Arizona hill looked much the same as did the Mexican version. It was fun to imagine the hills in different colors like one sees on a map. But, no, they looked pretty much the same. "We'll drive down there and a bit and check out the border up close," he said as we walked back to the car.
"We're not out of the woods!" screamed the local paper's headlines. We're in the middle of drought here in Northern California and the paper seems to be relishing that fact. Never mind that the rain is falling, it isn't enough. And if it were enough, then there'd be floods. LANDSLIDES. Then just wait until fire season. All that rain will mean bad news for firefighters. Lots of growth to burn. Or, if there isn't enough rain that will be bad news also. Lots of dead growth to burn. Any way you look at it we're screwed. All the reporters love to say, no matter the nature of perceived relief, "It's a drop in the bucket." And if they don't say it they unfailingly find someone to quote who will.
Up in the Marin Headlands, among the ruins of the bunkers and coastal fortifications, one can spot evidence of a subterranean world. There are mounds of dirt, domes of concrete, rusted hatches, and air vents to the underworld. It all seems so hellish, even in its dormancy and ruin. The world is sealed off now, the portals welded shut. One can only imagine the world down there—what it must have been like when solders performed their duty in the dank, concrete world, waiting for an invasion that might or might not ever come.
