Rain baby, Rain

There is a literal wildfire moving this way, and the sky has an orange tinge, and the light picks up all the red pigments of everything it touches, and I can here thunder over the constant sound of the water leaving the reservoir below my house. The atmosphere is heavy, with anticipation and humidity and the scent of hot trees, like a sauna. There is a coolness in the breeze that lets me know it will be chilly when I wake up for work at 3 am, but it does not offer any promises of relief from the triple digit heat tomorrow will bring. My nose has become accustomed to the scent of the fire, which was my first clue that things had gotten worse since I woke up for work this afternoon.

I hear thunder roll across the sky, 15 minutes after the last crack, and pray it doesn't accompany lightning that will start a new section of the forest ablaze.

Rain baby, Rain.

On Kerouac and Chris McCandless/Alexander Supertramp

I'm completely drawn to the writings of Jack Kerouac, but I get FRUSTRATED with the childlike wonder that springs from a combination of naivety or self conceived idealism. Kerouac was always learning, but each experience may not hold a novel lesson, just one he never completely grasps.
I understand the wanderlust of Christopher McCandless, but I don't understand what he was trying to prove, and if he wasn't trying to prove anything, what was the purposed of making life so hard. I'm not thinking straight right now.