Last night, only a few minutes after midnight, a 3.7 earthquake rocked the city of Los Angeles, making of my mind something like a frightened fish as I scurried for safety in reaction to a sudden, unwelcome stirring of the fishbowl.
Already weary, and already dazed at the final edge of a lengthy day spinning like a trompo across town, the shaking reminded my body how at any given moment, life remains a fragile force-field in a much larger one. At the same time, in a strange twist, what was also true was that on accepting the chaotic whirling of the world around me and finding something of a steady footing, I was actually ready for more bad news; in my own way, I was ready to face another crisis within the larger one that’s enshrouded all of our cities as of late.
Fortunately, the midnight rattling would be the apex of its type for the remainder of the dark morning, but its unexpected wrangling would still cast a specter over the sunrise that lasted even through mid-day for yours truly.
Even so, come the final moments of the lunch-hour, when I stood outside to gaze at the still road, and as my eyes fluttered through the southern California winds trying to process what had happened to my once-familiar city–or what was happening–I realized that the only thing that was truly different, was me. And then, that’s when I loved Los Angeles again. A city which, even if I can’t recognize it sometimes, still takes me around the world like no other.
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