Caught up in the Santa Ana Winds

“The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw.  Only the oleander thrived, their delicate, poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves.” — Janet Fitch, White Oleander

It’s unseasonably hot in Los Angeles right now.  November and 95 degrees.  When I look into the hills, the glassy straight edges of the modern homes are crisp and sharp, not masked in the quivering haze that usually drapes leisurely over the LA Basin; the Santa Ana winds have swept into the city, bringing with them not only a change in temperature, but also an off-kilter sense of anticipation. Unease.

I can feel it on my skin.  The heat doesn’t stick like in summer, coagulating into droplets of sweat, but rather hovers, vibrating, making the slender blonde hairs on my arms stand erect.

The Santa Anas aren’t like the warm breezes of an English spring.  They take you by surprise.  They accost your body without you ever knowing.  They make you do things you wouldn’t normally.  They clear the air by pushing all the vaporous Angelus pollution into your head.  They’re like a drug that you can’t say no to.

But you can’t blame the wind.  We don’t live in a society where weather is an acceptable excuse for unusual behavior.  You take what the wind blows your way.  And you hope that it calms before the Oleander has a chance to spread.