Wednesday, July 10

4pm: ambient Twitter radiation prompts me to look out the office windows in Gunbarrel. Sure enough, in the hills towards the northwest, a small white plume, too low and distinct to be a cloud. We confer. Definitely smoke. The Internet says it's north and a little west of Lyons. Through binoculars it looks bigger, oddly less distinct. It's hot out, windy enough. Fire season seems to have re-emerged.

8pm: drinking mid-grade whiskey, neat, from a bottle that was small enough to carry back from the store in my pocket. Have given up on the radio — staticky local Celtic music show was more of two kinds of noise than I could handle.

Elsewhere: people with a great deal more practical seriousness of purpose than I have ever exhibited in life are probably cutting down trees and digging trenches and coordinating the actions of helicopters and slurry bombers.

Really elsewhere: foment, unrest, revolution, counterrevolution, civil war, etc.