The language of unpredictability
When 'business as usual' becomes too much to bear, and wildfire relief resources.
Hello and welcome to Volume 28.
Someone recently asked how I plan the newsletter calendar, giving me the benefit of the doubt that I was so organized. I may excel at upholding the illusion of having it together, but the reality is it’s messy bitch season most of the time. Creative ideas flare up in the belly, demanding attention at odd evening hours. I can lay low for months without anything to talk about, and I have always been envious of others with more consistent writing habits. It would seem that my most consistent creative trait is inconsistency. I sometimes wonder if I’d heed the call to write without these impulses.
The optimist in me believes that staying receptive to change at any moment is beneficial. Besides, plans lately feel like an invitation for some bigger, more unpredictable event to get in the way.
We took the train home from a weekend trip, accompanied by a remarkable sunset. The sun a glowing tangerine, illuminating everywhere snow had fallen. Once it dipped below the ridgeline, we glided across the bay's surface. The trees cut a clean silhouette as if drawn with a fine-tip pen on the back of a napkin.
"On nights like that," Raymond Chandler once wrote about the Santa Ana, "every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen."
Joan Didion, Slouching Toward Bethlehem, 1969
I had difficulty separating this image of the skeletal trees from a photo a friend sent of her neighbor’s yard in Altadena. I’ve always enjoyed walking through that neighborhood to meet friends. The fact that you can casually pick a pomegranate off a branch in Los Angeles will always astonish the New Englander in me. In the photo, all that remained was the chimney, a husk of bricks, and the carcass of a charred lemon tree, which should have been full of lemons. A week ago, they could lay in bed and hear the thunk of fruit falling onto the ground. Not far from there, the library, coffee shops, places to grab a bite to eat. Now, nothing.
For many musicians, even if you don’t live there, LA is where the work is. It is the epicenter of recorded music, where many of the albums you love were likely made—including the one I’m sending to mastering in a few weeks. There isn’t one person I know who doesn’t know someone who has lost everything. Multiple someones, in many cases. The collateral damage is staggering—homes, studios, gear, gardens, instruments. Then there is the damage insurance won’t account for: Pets, people, wildlife, vegetation. Sure, stuff is stuff—but I can’t help but think of how many musicians have been hurting since before COVID. It takes years to save up and build the studios and kits they rely on for income. Our lives are easy to disrupt. Not so easy to assemble.
Texting increased over the weekend as folks tried to figure out whose homes burned and who was waiting to evacuate. Friends with young children who weren’t sure what would happen next with school closures. I expect the ripple effects to go up sharply. Even the homes left standing may be uninhabitable, potentially for months. It’s hard to know what to write in these instances, even if you’re not on the opposite side of the country. Everything feels insufficient. Are you ok? Is everyone safe? What do you need right now? Dropping a vetted list below.
Mutual Aid Resources
Direct links:
Didion once described the city’s psychology through “the weather of catastrophe,” a way of summing up its inherent impermanence. As if, at any minute, this could all blow away. That was in 1969. But as climate collapse accelerates, what once felt regional is now near universal. It feels like anything could blow away anywhere. We all share the language of unpredictability. The impact, of course, is not only material but psychological. No one is immune to catastrophe. A warming sea surface enabled Hurricane Helene to dump 16 inches of rainfall in some parts of western North Carolina and wash away parts of Chimney Rock. In Massachusets, where I live, 2020 and 2022 recorded drought conditions not seen since the 1960s. In my town, we speak the language of floods and Nor’easters—but more and more, we are learning the language of air quality indexes and wildfire risk. We’re connected in these events, like the smoke that travels from a burning Nova Scotia all the way to Provincetown.
Meanwhile, I think anyone with a brain knows no one is coming to save us. Not the climate accords. Not the incoming US administration and certainly not companies profiting from our collective endangerment. We’re not living in a Marvel movie, although some genuinely craven comic-book villains are in the offing, widening the gulf between our realities. Billionaires (whom I profoundly believe should not exist) produce as much carbon in a year jetting around as it would take the average person 860 years to emit while continuing to avoid paying taxes, as Elon Musk did in 2018. All of it is so dark it makes Andrew Singleton’s piece in McSweeney’s read less as satire and more like something Zuck might have confessed at an all-hands:
I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a jam. A series of natural disasters is barreling towards my home, and there is a severe shortage of resources and trained professionals available in my community to help me stave them off. So, I am putting out a call for any available public service personnel to help me protect my property. I’m willing to pay literally any amount of money, just so long as I don’t have to pay a fixed, reasonable amount of money in taxes regularly.
Andrew Singleton, McSweeney’s, 2025
I can’t shake the feeling of shouting at the wind. This is the best we’ve got? Billionaires raise capital to go to space while we fight to breathe clean air. There’s no other way to say it. It’s gross.
I return to the question. What now? I think it while weeding. Sometimes, when I’m the angriest, I do my best thinking. When I get the most accomplished. And I’m angry all the time these days. All I’m saying is if you’re pissed, a shovel can provide significant temporary relief. So can helping someone who needs it.
I believe people are all we’ve got, that our communities reflect the best of us, and that most of us want something better than this. We know how to help feed, clothe, and shelter one another—sharing where to source free KN95 masks and which places are open to evacuees. Lending out instruments and opening homes, some as far away as the Catskills. In the past week, seeing how quickly friends sprung into action was not surprising. They did it during COVID, too. Another time when it felt like we were on our own. We know how to help care for the vulnerable. This is another instance where collectivism is necessary and will not be the last.
We also know how to share our grief and anger over how much is broken still—and I think if we don’t, we’ll explode. Some might say not to take what’s happening so personally, but it seems reasonable to take personally how the top 1 percent have gambled away our health and safety for their gain. Reasonable when your house burns up. Many yet will need help sifting through the complexity of insurance policies, FEMA assistance, and rehousing for years, not just over the next couple of weeks or months, and as we know, the fires are still burning.
For anyone reading who’s currently displaced or with loved ones in need, please share links in the comments section. I will continue to update the resources listed above. MASSIVE thanks to friends who forwarded direct links. I love you so much, Los Angeles.
xo CD
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