The summer was hot. Every day was the same hazy sweaty dream and the fan in my kitchen window was always, always on. But now it is cold in Los Angeles. I know that this is a relative coldness because I can still wear shorts if I want to, but the contrast is real. When the temperature drops in the basin the skies take on a crystal blue and the clouds a puffy white and one can't help but forget about the smog. Last night I crawled under my extra blanket - the one I usually sleep on top of, donned a tee shirt and some soft track pants. And it seemed to all happen just last night, as if Mother Nature decided we had had enough of this sun drenched misery and flipped the autumn switch to "On."

Some say our culture has no memory, or that if it does it only goes back about 10 days. I find this to be true in matters of politics, where most people cannot see behind the dusty clouds of that event which shall remain nameless here. I suppose it is my general disinterest in such matters that excepts me from this rule, as clouds for me are not quite so thick. The weather and the whims of nature, however, are events I have a most intimate relationship whith, and while I can indeed be objective about the cycles of the sun and rain when pressed, it feels as if the cold has always been here and will never end. In just the same way at the crest of the heat wave, I was hard pressed to remember a time when my body was not continually moist with sweat, and when a breeze of any kind was received like new love.