RETRACTION: THE LAST HOPEFUL FOOL AT THE BEDSIDE OF LOS ANGELES

I retract my prior discontent and offer this declaration instead:

I once wrote, as some believe, that this city would end in ice. That its demise would be one of cold shoulders and collective apathy, empty bar rooms, and boredom. A loss of vitality—of care and attendance. But now, as so many of us have tasted those destructive forces far greater than our control, I hold with those who favor fire.

The fires tore through homes and lives and memories without discrimination. They razed the places that raised us to the ground. They choked our skies with smoke, poisoned our ocean with ash, and rained untold horrors upon the land itself. In answer, we, the people, rose as one to lend our hands, our havens, our dollars. Our compassion built edifices of aid and effort to meet the needs of many, powered by unstrung altruism. But as the days passed, this tragedy revealed itself to be a many-headed hydra—one that cannot be clothed, or fed, or watered away. The nightmare persists in the thorny tangles of policy and protocol—in mortgage payments for the ghosts of houses, in wait lists that wait for eternities, in rent hikes that rise to the precipice of illegality. And all the while, as it has been for ages upon eons, our governmental gods look on—contented to watch us march to and fro like worker ants as long as we never reach their doorsteps.

The news tells tales of our misfortune at arm's length—from a birds-eye view. From rolling drone footage of endless ruins and twisted, blackened trees like hands reaching from the earth in anguish. The news tells tales of exodus, abandonment. Los Angeles is a coming fable, a myth, a legend. A city destined to be lost beneath the ash and rubble as Atlantis sank beneath the sea.

Conversely, while the damage has only just begun, with unseen ripples spanning far and wide, the gentle breezes urge those who remain untouched to resume their lives as usual. Already, the clear blue skies call us out to play. Already, the sparkling waves invite us to their depths. Already, the bustling markets and malls and streets and strips and parks and promenades command us to forget, forget, forget. Out of sight, out of mind—this is our custom. Anesthetized by sunshine, tranquilized by the image of a bright, new day, even as we take the vestiges of all that burned into our lungs with every breath.

The renewal we seek will not arise suddenly as we, like ostriches, bury our heads in the sand. We must chase away the birds of prey—the investors and speculators—who will flock to those still-smoldering foundations to pick their bones clean. They will offer paltry sums in exchange for the land where people raised up families and nurtured dreams, and for some, the circumstances will be too dire to resist. An indivisible community alone will stay the vultures—protect the grave of your neighbor’s home as if it were your own because tomorrow, they may come for your dirt, too.

Los Angeles must be reconstructed with tenderness in the image of our memories, but it will not be born of utopian thinking or forged with good intentions. It will not be made by divisions amongst people—fissures between zip codes and skin tones and ideologies. It will require radical compassion—the kind that must be fanned and tended long after the embers cool. It will require righteous anger—a tireless force that moves and moves and moves, destroying what can no longer serve us in its wake like the flames that brought us to this moment.

I once wrote that Los Angeles is a city without hope of revolution or renaissance. I believed that it would crumble beneath the weight of all our social maladies, our disconnection, and disdain. I mourned the scenes, the vibes, the hangs, and haunts—but now, I am reminded of what is truly at stake. We must stay, fight, remember. Remember the feeling of riding that stretch of coastal highway into the face of the setting sun. Remember the sound of the canyons at dusk, alive with orchestras of nocturnal creatures. Remember the tree-lined streets nestled at the root of mountains. Remember the land, the water, the air—all of what we have to lose and everything we must regain.

I retract my prior discontent and offer this declaration instead: Los Angeles will live forever. There is no room for doubt—we must all be hopeful fools, willing to believe that from these ashes, something beautiful and enduring will rise again.

Self Realization Fellowship Lakeshrine - Pacific Palisades, California