The coming resort of the world among acres of sloughs and salt marshes. Marked in turn, these patterns of expansion manifest in the fissures of asphalt, second city in the shadows of contagious energy. Judges of the plain run through the mustard, lost in the shade of sycamore, live oak, and brown burr clover. Horizon of red tile roofs between the high tide line and the base of the foothills, the first flush of enthusiasm for charming bungalows throughout the city. Downhill flowed a river through a stand of little cottonwoods in Los Alamitos, shifts of cargo on the far coast among trees of the little hills. Who made giant leaps across this desert plain of air filled with blooms and dust.
114,901 acres, 79% images from the inferno the circle which passes through the feet of altitudes of a given triangle we’ll see how it maintains I was grateful to have masks at hand #wildfires are a process I think it may be trying to mimic a dragon thick with dry brittle tinder why I call areas like that a sweet spot better weather won’t keep California from grim landmark the full moon is shining down there’s a smoky haze nestling it’s the #lastgasp does not want to go away! ash was coming down yep an impressive plume this place and its creatures 114,963 acres, 84% we used to hike there that smoke is the transformed carbon of pines and oaks now we breathe and it hurts of smoldering where heat exists within existing footprint as a dense internal island of fuel burns the same footprint as the 1957 Gale Fire this is the final map I looked up and saw amber light
Glenn Bach is a sound artist and poet who lives and works in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. His major project, Atlas (from which the above pieces are taken), is a long poem about place and our (mis)understanding of the world. Excerpts have appeared in jubilat, Otoliths, Plumwood Mountain and others.