Category: Mount Lemmon Fire

At 17 I was in a bookstore in Greenwich Village with my friend, Stan Edelman. It was 1957. In my hands I held a thick volume by a James Joyce (Finnegan’s Wake). I opened the book and I could not understand the first sentence much less the whole paragraph. It was…

I’ve been spending some time with Mt. Lemmon. Her ridges, her slopes, her rugged byways are festering, roasting, burning, as we watch from our condos and upscale stucco and adobe dwellings across the way from Catalina State Park, the preserve that borders Oracle Road which runs down like a larynx…

I muse over what death, not dying, is like. What an abomination it would be to go on after death. Heaven and hell are twin disasters. I don’t want eternal constructs. So, I assume death is like 4 a.m. last night; I was out, not aware, not knowing, gone, zonked, dreamless.…

Mt. Lemmon still burns on its western slopes, small brush is afire but the papers say that is good and will end soon. It still, to the eye, looks perilous. The sky this morning was a smudge above the mountain. I’ve been running around, doing errands, waiting for the alarm…