London. We experienced a brief hour of sunlight before the rain and gloom resumed. Meanwhile, a storm named Eunice is churning over the Celtic Sea, and the news is advertising it heavily. I thought naming winter storms was a purely American marketing move to drum up ratings. But events are being canceled, the government says it will be “a major incident,” and the United Kingdom is a swirl of yellow, amber, and red alerts. They’re saying it could be the most powerful storm in thirty years. They’re saying it could develop something called a “sting jet.”
But I never know how seriously to take anything anymore.
At first, I thought London was filled with a rare and surreal species of tree with thick branches and twisted, blunted tops. Now I’m beginning to suspect these are just normal trees that the city has abused. This is the type of thing I never bother to look up, preferring my impressionistic sense of the world. Let the mystery be, I say. We have far too few of them these days.
I remember staring at the sky in a superstore parking lot somewhere in North or South Dakota, watching a dozen seagulls circle overhead, hunting for minnows or plankton or whatever they eat. What had drawn them to this landlocked square? Their rusty squawks filled the night, and that’s when I realized something in nature was breaking.
There are quite a few palm trees here in London, enhancing my disorientation.
