Digging through the flower pot of history, the LA Times seems to have unearthed a wonderful essay on life in Southern California by James Cain.
Nothing changes. Summer follows Winter without a Spring, Winter follows Summer without a Fall. The citrus trees flower and bear all at the same time: you never get a riot of blossoms as you do in Western Maryland when the apple-trees are in bloom, or a catharsis of stinking, primitive accomplishment, as you do in Delaware when the tomatoes go to the cannery. Here the oil wells flow right along, so do the orange trees, so does everything. It is terrifying.
I had been wrestling with nostalgia of SoCal of late. I miss the endless possibilities of newness that Los Angeles offered; that California offered; that the West Coast offered. Far away from the well-trod DC. But I am also reminded of the words of Joseph Conrad: "vanity plays lurid tricks with memory." And I am also marveling at my first winter in a while and enjoying the crispness of the cold (so long as it is blue-cold, not grey-cold).