As I write, fire devours Los Angeles. One of our Angeleno loved ones we’ve heard from: safe – for now. From the other family, silence – so far. It is hard to sleep – I brace for news. What if –! But no, I cajole myself, we can’t “think that way.”

Dog Henry rests beside me licking his paws, which itch more than usual when there’s snow. He’s vigilant as ever, but unfazed. Warm, fed, beside me, what is there to fret? Does he sense my apprehension? – he senses so much. Perhaps. But he’s sure it’s misplaced. His world is complete – what could be awry?

I write to fill the time which unfilled grows too fearful. I think to avoid thinking, chatter to shoo that awful “What if –! What if –!” which imagination tolls. If only I could read, sleep, watch an old sitcom, anything to distract my attention from these gratuitous gruesome visions – but my mind insists on its own programming. “Please, stubborn mind!” I plead, but it’s no dice. These fires will keep raging in mind till we know otherwise.

Reason is helpless against dread, placating with its predictable platitudes: “It may not be that bad,” “Don’t weep until you have to,” “Panicking helps nobody,” etc. Dread bristles at Reason’s complacency, offended by its calm. Dread is a prima donna: it will command center stage as long as it pleases, thank you very much! Reason, sneers Dread, is so cold-hearted, bloodless!

I envy Henry’s placidity. While easily spooked by actualities, he ignores fantasies. He’d agree with Thomas Jefferson: "How much pain have cost us the evils which have never happened!" He fears fire only when he smells smoke.

Writing quiets me some. Terror and grammar are incompatible. Weeping and wailing make tiresome reading. A writer must make something pleasing of his material, however grim; otherwise, why bother?

I check messages again. Still no news. I yawn: I am getting sleepy. How can I sleep when loved ones may be suffering! But what choice do I have? Besides, what use exhausting myself? Better to preserve strength, to cope with whatever news comes – when it comes.

When you read this, we will know the toll of the Great Los Angeles Fire: how many dead, how many homes destroyed, how many thousands of acres scorched. The financial shock will have begun to ripple through the economy: can our insurance companies afford it? Will our new loathsome penny-pinching Federal administration pony up? Politicians’ puerile finger-pointing will have commenced: It was your fault! – no, it was yours! – no, it was yours! There will be losers – and winners – from this holocaust. Local homebuilders will be grinning at their windfall while they grieve.

Life, as they say, will go on. Los Angeles’ fire will be compared with other “Great Fires” – of Rome (64 C.E.), London (1666), New York (1776), Chicago (1871), Boston (1872), Texas (1947) – and countless more. Moralists will remind us of Man’s impotence against Nature and Fate, how we should be humble, generous, neighborly, grateful for what we’ve got (good luck with that!).

We will derive lessons from this event – that we should not overcrowd; that we should collect enough water to fight fires; that we should forestall the incineration of our planet by our feckless avarice – lessons we will quickly learn to forget. Catastrophe makes us wise – for a while – but it doesn’t last.

Talking through my terror has drifted me to possible repose. Thank you for listening. I will check headlines and messages once more – I’m acquainting myself with LA’s geography, at least. Then I will sleep.