Paradise, 6 Months After The Camp Fire

Dear Silly Hearts,

   I held out as long as I could, but upgraded last month. My old fashioned flip-phone kept cutting out. I thus caved and went the way of Android. 

   Please forgive my shaky hands in the 2-min video of Paradise; I'm still learning. We always are, aren't we? Some of us (pointing at self) have steeper curves than others.

   

   It's been six months since the Camp Fire. 

   A main point I'm making, one that's honest yet intensely sad, is that close to 400 (and not 85) people perished. Because every single life is worthy and should not be dismissed, I'd like to dismantle that myth. 

   To explain a bit, the statistic on the number of people unaccounted for had quickly disappeared, after I recorded it (296 or more). There's hush-hush around reports that hundreds of bodies were found huddled together, bodies that weren't identified. (85 is the number of identified, but I've seen claims of 85-88.) All forms of media have gone with this much lower number. It's easier to accept, although, very tragically, not true.  

   However, on a miraculous note, approximately 52,000 people survived. Given the fire so abruptly ravaged a region of land equal to the size of Chicago, this is incredible.

   Everywhere there are signs of sadness and loss, hope and renewal can't be missed.

   We are remarkably resilient, as is Mother Nature.

Go gently, and know that you're loved.

This sweet couple allowed me to post this. Between them is a heart in the fence, which she'd created. I told them that their love is exactly what I went to Paradise to capture.  

My dear young friend, Diego, made and is selling these cards for Camp Fire Relief. If you're interested ($4 each or $10 for 3), please message me at Rawknrobyn@aol.com. I'll take care of postage and send them to you. Thank you.

UGH. I have too much to learn. Sorry, seems you can't watch this...I'll work on it. Til then, be well and safe.

Paradise Lost

My Dear Friends,
   I can hardly find one syllable, much less the words to inform you about the staggering devastation in my part of the world.
   I am fine, lucky to be safe. Chico has remained intact. Yet the Chico and Paradise connection is uniquely, lovingly enmeshed. Two very different cities (different demographics, politics, size, climate, lifestyle), somehow we and our Paradise neighbors have grown closer than close. Only ten miles apart, scores of people live/d in one city, commute/d to the other for work. Birth families are/were split between the two. My friends from Paradise have spent oodles of time in Chico, and vice versa.

   A handful of you might recall that seven years ago, I moved to Chico for a job in Paradise.


February, 2011 Sign reads "May you find Paradise to be all its name implies."

   Last Thursday, November 8, within one day, an unbelievably monstrous fire tore through and ravaged Paradise - which had been home to over 27,000 people -- many, sick, elderly, and impoverished.

                                                       November 8, 2018 photo by Skip Culton


   An entire town lost its homes, schools, businesses, precious heirlooms, farms, horses, beloved pets, musical instruments and studios, . . . so much that cannot or won't ever be replaced. Remnants of bone are still being found; numbers of the dead may reach into the hundreds.
   I'm relieved to say that my friends and clients are alive and safely housed - though they lost everything but the clothes they wore to escape. 
   As of now, the fires are only 40% contained. It seems Chico is out of harm's way, as vicious winds push the fires into Paradise's other surrounding cities. Air quality is off-the-charts hazardous, here and throughout much of northern California.
   There aren't words for this type of devastation. Well, I can articulate that I'm extremely grateful.  I am housed, safe, and loved by many. I also feel guilty. I'm fine. I haven't done enough.
  And there's too much to do. The needs of our new neighbors (survivors) are endless.
  Our love and determination to help carry them through is also infinite.
  It's going to be a very, very long recovery process.

   In the midst of it all, heroism and love. I hear story after story - a man who drove his Toyota Tundra to and from Paradise to save people. He got out of it just before it melted. He didn't care; he was thrilled to have saved lives. Upon learning about this, Toyota promised him a new truck.
   A man risked his life (as did countless unsung heroes) to keep his and his neighbors' home intact. When asked how they could repay him, he said he'd be happy with a case of beer! (I hope it's high end stuff. Is there "high end" beer?)
   Local churches, the fairgrounds, and the Chico Airport are housing evacuees.  Businesses are serving free food. People are opening up their homes to whole families, asking nothing in return.
   A soft heartedness pervades.
   As I sat in an In N Out for the luxury of chocolate milkshake therapy, a woman at the table next to me asked if I'd been affected by the fires. I told her that I was fine, but I evacuated for a few days -- to be safe. She then offered to buy me food. (So sweet. She doesn't know me, and that I consider a chocolate milkshake to be a nutritious meal. Thus, I was deeply touched.)
   One of my clients gave me flowers recently, saying she's thankful for me.

   Some of you have checked in on me, and that means the world.
   Humankindness endures.
   It survives the worst of tragedies.
   It won't be destroyed.
   It will outlive this unrelenting nightmare too.

This article by a survivor and Chico Professor, Sarah Pape, is incredibly well written. I don't know how she wrote it, despite her own pain and shattered heart. She's amazing.

  Please don't worry about me. I'll be fine.
  Stay safe, my dears.
  Take care of yourselves.
  I love you.

World's Best Street Name, Around My Town

My favorite street name...

                     A little, hard to find road in Magalia, just north of Paradise, CA.

It's the best way to go.
Been there?
Go gently, and keep a smile.

Woman on the Verge of Paradise and Publication

     Happy summer, dear readers. It feels strange saying that, because we've been enduring 100+ degree weather in Chico for several weeks. But summer is officially here now, and I hope it brings pleasant weather and experiences your way.
     I'm getting excited about debuting Woman on the Verge of Paradise. I'll send her into the world next month - near the end of July! I can't wait to show you the fabulous cover that my good friend, Bryan Pedas, ala A Beer for the Shower, created.
   For now, here's a bit from the chapter called Mindless Meanderings (about halfway through the book).

   This scene takes you into yet another lousy date...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

   He chuckled awkwardly. “I asked what you do for a living.”

   “Oh, I’m a social worker.”

   “Cool.” He guffawed, followed by a high-pitched snort. “You get paid to, like, be social. I wouldn’t mind that job.”

   “Well, yeah, I mean it’s not all fun and games but it pays the bills. Actually, it barely pays the  bills, with no cushion for a nice pair of socks or a really cool stash of paperclips.” Manny showed no response. “But I like what I do. Usually…” I paused and grinned. “No, it’s nice” —my tone integrated authenticity— “I can end my days knowing I made a difference in people’s lives. It feels good and meaningful. You know?”

   He shrugged.

   “What do you do, Manny?”

   “Oh, I’m a professional student.” He laughed, confidently, as if to embark on a well-rehearsed speech. “I got my first degree in English. Did some small office jobs after that. That’s all I could find. Talk about a useless degree. Now I’m at Cal State Hay—”

   I counted three definitive wrinkle lines crossing his wide, pale forehead.

   I looked down at my plate, now empty. I don’t remember eating those tacos. Damn. I had to find something else to do with my time.

   I looked back up and decided those wrinkles must be a good 4.5, no 4.75 inches in length, 1/4 or maybe 1/8 inch wide. Crap. What if I get major wrinkles like that before I die? And a receding hairline? I’d die. 

   “You know?” he asked.

   “Oh yeah, I know.” I nodded in agreement. “I know.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Take care, and keep a smile!

Rebooting, Computer and Sexual Woes, Woman on the Verge of Paradise

Happy June, Dear Sillies.

I'm not quite ready for June. Are you? I guess we didn't get a vote.

Anyway, lately, this passage from my to-be-released-this-summer book, Woman on the Verge of Paradise, has been running through my head. My computers (new laptop and old desktop) have gone to war against me, and they're winning. So please excuse my limited presence in blogland over the next few weeks.

In the meantime, here's a bit from one of my final chapters, Rebooting. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you CAN'T relate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Computer problems induce in me feelings of utter incompetence and stupidity. I also tend to liken these glitches with my existence, if only for the sake of silliness. For example:

• Problems with the hard drive mean I’ll never find a man who can have an erection.

• Software issues = same as above.

• Problems with memory = Alzheimer’s inevitability.

•  Viruses= I’ll get STDs without having had sex. 

• Browser snafus = Vision problems. I’ll go blind. Too much masturbation.

• Rebooting issues = Full-proof strategies that work for everyone else in the world won’t help me, because I’m incredibly incompetent and unlucky in every way. I’ll never connect with anything or anyone worthy for any length of time before losing everything and everyone worthy of any of my time. To make matters worse, I can’t even successfully give-up and shut-down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Be well.

Keep a smile and a stash of chocolate.

Verging on Paradise, Sundays in My City

Thanks again to hostess extraordinaire, Unknown Mami, for a fascinating blogland tour, Sundays in My City. Visit her site to visit the world.

"It is better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are...

Welcome to the Butte Creek Watershed. We're at the verge of Paradise and Chico, overlooking Butte Creek. This area's referred to as a "Mini Grand Canyon." The view really is spectacular. I haven't captured it well. I'm more impressed with the clouds right now.  

Winds aren't too strong, so don't worry about the 25 mile drop.

than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them,

and think that you are in paradise."

-Henry David Thoreau

Paradise, CA trivia:

-Population in 2011 = 26, 408

-Scenes from Gone With the Wind were filmed here.

-Richard Moore of Wild Thing (the song) glory and the Troggs (the band) lives here. I met him at a party, nice guy.

-Tom Selleck has a home just north of here.

-54 registered sex offenders reside here. Chico isn't far behind. In fact, they tend to gravitate to Butte County (Chico, Paradise, Oroville, and the greater area), generally.

On that note, keep your head in the clouds and stay grounded.

Have a safe and peaceful Sunday and new week. 

Thank you for visiting.

Dreaminess: The Beginning of Woman on the Verge of Paradise

Hi. Happy June. I hope it's treating you well so far. 

To follow is the start of my novel, Woman on the Verge of Paradise, scheduled for publication by noon PST on a Tuesday sometime this millennium. For now, please enjoy.

PS I rarely curse here, but it makes for a more authentic read. So this time, no *s. No offense. Viewer discretion advised. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

          “Mmm, mm, oh this feels so good.”

          “You’re delicious,” he whispers. “I want to devour you tonight.”

          His brawny arms, luscious lips and tantalizing fingertips offer a bliss I’ve never known before. He’s unbelievably attentive, passionate and SO hot. Plus he’s all mine, right now, in my bed…heaven. I’ve put him off for so long and now I’m finally ready.

          “Mm, mm.  Yes, yes. I’m all yours.” 

          “Are you sure you’re ready darling?” 

          God he’s so caring, so sensitive and manly at the same time.

          “I’m sure. I want you. Take me all night long.”

          He smooths his heated palm along my face, his eyes ecstatically beaming. Our hearts race with excited passion. He pauses to reach towards the nightstand, Trojans in plain sight.

          Des--

          My body jolts. My eyelids shoot open.

          --perado.

          Damn radio alarm!

          Why don’t you come to your

          Shit!

          You’ve been out riding

          I was trying to, until you rudely interrupted. Damnit! I can’t even get lucky in my dreams. He was such a good one too.  Would you shut the hell up!

          Oh you're a hard one.
         Sighing deeply, I labor to retrieve my breath. Refocus. It’s 7:34, no time for a cold shower. He’s gone. I’m a wreck.

          Reality ignites a few unpleasantries: “work,” “get up,” “go to” and “You’re still celibate. It’s been  -what?- eight years now?”

          You ain’t gettin’ no younger.        [[more here, but we'll cut to the final lines of the intro.]]

          Eyes wide open now, I head for reality. 
          But first, a brief detour.

The High School Prom and Life's Lessons

As I approached 30 minutes on the exer-cycle, I overheard a couple of burly men in the free-weights section of my local gym. While flexing, they talked about, not 'roids, but the high school prom. "Yeah, my daughter's going to prom." ~ Huff, puff, flex. ~ "How about your boy?" ~Flex.~  "He's 17, right?"

All these years later and talk of the prom fills my every blood vessel with an intense, beastly nausea.  You see, the first and the last time I mustered the courage to ask a guy on a date was for the high school prom. It went down as follows. [This is also a snippet from the novel I'm supposedly working super hard on, Woman on the Verge of Paradise.]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I viewed my right hand in slow motion, shaking uncontrollably. I witnessed the index finger gently compress each numbered square on the receiver, one by one, until the seventh was pushed. As my heart readied to leave my body, I experienced lengthy oxygenated inhalations but couldn’t exhale.

 Ring. Ring. “Hello.”

“Hi Brad?”

“Yes.”

“This is Robyn.”

“Hi.”

“Hi. Um, I was wondering if you’re going to the prom?”

“No, I’m not going.”

“Oh…audible silence for about a year…okaybye.” Click.

Tantrums ceased 3.5 hours later.

 ~~~~

Ultimately, prom night was mundane. I watched television and turned in early. All that hype and nobody at school muttered a word about it the next day either. How quickly the monumental becomes the petty. If only today’s youth understood mom’s message during one of my moments of bleak hysteria: “Everything’s going to be alright.” We live so many lifetimes in one. Dreams shift, reality transforms, and emotional resiliency pushes us through. The true misfits are the ones who don’t think they are.

On How I Once Used a Q-tip

Another excerpt from my novel, Woman on the Verge of Paradise, follows. This blurb brings you into the closet with me, after I've made good use of a q-tip.  Said closet borders my apartment and Noah's. Reminder: Noah is the ex-boyfriend-who-kissed-like-he--was-trying-to-budge-a-dead-possum-and-might-be-into-necrophilia-and-lived-nextdoor-so-what-can-possibly-go-wrong?

Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As if his failure to ever move out wasn’t enough, Noah quickly replaced me. While I hunched over my typewriter to work on a paper for Community Organizing one night, I heard a knock on his door. He answered. A female greeted him with, “God I had such an awful day!” Noah responded by inviting her in for some wine. I responded by  turning into a mad, masochistic, paranoid, insanely jealous ex with a plan.

With both hands, I scrunched up all the hairs in the vicinity of my left ear, then tucked them tightly behind that ear. Next, I pulled a q-tip from my bathroom cabinet, thrust it into my ear and twisted frenetically, until I was certain I’d cleared out all remnants of excess wax. Then I entered the closet that bordered our apartments. In perhaps the most undignified moment of my life, barely upstaging my slipper-slippage-into-ladder ensemble, I pressed my ear against the closet wall and held my breath to hear exactly what was going on.

Truth is, I detected nothing but free flowing high pitched sound bites mixed with an occasional deeper toned blurb. But I convinced myself otherwise. They were going at it, I was sure. After a few minutes of eavesdropping, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I came out of the closet, secured a box of Kleenex and plopped down next to my phone.

“Ka, Kathryn, it’s Robyn. Am I bothering you?” I blew my nose into a tissue. “I just, I need a friend. Is this an okay time?”

"Of course Robyn. Are you alright?”

“No, I’m a mess. You know how I told you Noah’s still next door?”

“Yeah. Why? What’s going on?”

“God, Kat, I was finally getting over him, but then I heard some stupid whiny bitch at his door saying —I pinched my nostrils in to best imitate her— ‘God, I had such an awful day!’ And he’d rather be with her than me? What the hell! Then he f*ckin’ invites her in for a f*ckin’ drink and they’re on his couch now in our spot and he’s f*cking her brains out!” I blew snot into a gob of tissue. “Sorry. Ugh. I can’t believe I did this but I went into my closet to listen to them. I don’t know what came over me, I couldn’t help it. What the hell was I thinking, Kat, dating my nextdoor neighbor that” —sniffle— “bastard?”