#topanga state park

[downthetubes]

Palisades Fire Destroys Historic Homes and Buildings at Will Rogers State Historic Park and Topanga State Park

The devastating Palisades Fire destroyed historic buildings and multiple structures at two California State Parks last night, including Will Rogers’ historic ranch house and buildings at Will Rogers State Historic Park

[hikeforfunandfitness]

Tranquil Trails: Your Guide to Topanga State Park's Natural Wonders

Tucked away in the rugged hills of Southern California, Topanga State Park stands as a serene oasis amidst the urban hustle and bustle. This enchanting park, with its diverse ecosystems and scenic beauty, has rightly earned its reputation as a natural wonderland. Join us on a journey through the tranquil trails of Topanga State Park California, where nature's wonders unfold at every turn.

A Wilderness Retreat in the City

Located just a stone's throw from Los Angeles, Topanga State Park offers a unique blend of wilderness and accessibility. As you step onto its well-maintained trails, the city's noise and chaos seem to fade away, replaced by the soothing sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves. It's a testament to the park's role as a haven for urban dwellers seeking solace in nature.

Scenic Hiking Adventures

Topanga State Park boasts an extensive network of hiking trails, each offering a unique experience. From the panoramic vistas of Eagle Rock to the shaded tranquility of the Musch Trail, there's a hike for every preference and skill level. The park's trails are perfect for both seasoned hikers and families looking for a leisurely stroll.

Biodiversity in Abundance

Nature enthusiasts will revel in the park's remarkable biodiversity. Topanga State Park is home to a variety of plant and animal species, including the iconic California live oak, sycamore, and the elusive bobcat. Birdwatchers can spot everything from red-tailed hawks to colorful songbirds.

Seasonal Delights

The park's character evolves with the seasons. Spring brings a burst of wildflowers, painting the landscape in vibrant colors. Summer offers sunny days and cool canyons for respite. Autumn sets the trees ablaze with fiery foliage, and winter brings crisp air and the possibility of spotting seasonal waterfalls after a rain.

Plan Your Visit

Before embarking on your Topanga adventure, remember to check for trail conditions and any park alerts. It's crucial to stay hydrated, wear appropriate attire, and follow Leave No Trace principles to preserve the park's natural beauty.

As you explore the tranquil trails of Topanga State Park, you'll not only find solace in nature but also discover the profound beauty of this Southern California gem. So, lace up your hiking boots, breathe in the fresh air, and let the wonders of Topanga State Park captivate your soul.

[the-little-red-queen]

It’s late, and it’s dark, and it’s not like Eddie really wants to be standing in the middle of the dusty intersection of two trails in the middle of Topanga State Park at 3AM, but well— He has no other choice. Eddie sets the match to the sigil. The fire catches smooth and slow, following the curve of the circle until the ends meet and the flames go white. Nothing happens, and Eddie stands there, breathing and bleeding and burning, watching the last of his hope slip through his fingers and then— “Edmundo Diaz. Now that's one Hell of a name to conjure with.”

Notes:

Hey y'all, I know I've been on the BuckTommy train lately but here's a quick Buddie AU that sprung into my mind and wouldn't let me work on anything else until I let it have its say. Please enjoy!

[darkmaga-returns]

Palisades Fire ‘Crime Scene’. MAUI 2.0. Trump Plans to End the IRS. Trump’s going to WEF Davos 2025. S. Korea’s president detained. Pezeshkian: Iran never plotted to kill Trump. Mark Zuckerberg Lied.

Lioness of Judah Ministry

Jan 15, 2025

Return Of Strong Winds Spark "Dangerous Situation" Across Fire-Ravaged Palisades

One week after the fires in Los Angeles County began, the blazes remain out of control, scorching nearly 40,000 acres and leveling entire neighborhoods.

On Tuesday, winds are expected to gust between 45 and 70 mph, accompanied by dry air, significantly increasing the risk of fire spread. The National Weather Service has issued "Particularly Dangerous Situation Red Flag Warnings" for L.A. and Ventura counties through Wednesday evening, warning that "this setup is about as bad as it gets." Strong gusts could derail any progress made by firefighters early this week across two of the main fires, the Palisades and Eaton fires. The blazes have burned upwards of 40,000 and leveled entire neighborhoods and burned more than 12,000 structures. At least 24 people have died, with the death toll expected to rise.

Palisades Fire ‘Crime Scene’ Gives Clues to Inferno’s Origin

Investigators trying to trace the origin of a Los Angeles County wildfire that is devastating parts of America’s second-largest city believe it may have originated in a known hiking area.

Authorities have taped off a ridge overlooking Los Angeles as they investigate the origin of the Palisades Fire, describing the area as a “crime scene.” The wildfire, which caused the destruction of thousands of homes and businesses and claimed at least eight lives, remains uncertain. However, investigators are scrutinizing the site for clues, as evidenced by the police tape. Dominic Choi, the assistant Los Angeles police chief, says “there has been no definitive determination that it is arson”—but he has not ruled it out.

Wildfire Woes: California Regulators Halted Palisades Fire Prevention Project to Save Rare Shrub

Nearly 24,000 acres - including much of Topanga Canyon - have gone up in smoke...

California’s eco-regulators halted a critical wildfire prevention project near Pacific Palisades to protect an endangered shrub - only for that same area to be engulfed in flames during the Palisades Fire, the most destructive blaze in Los Angeles history. In 2019, the LA Department of Water and Power (LADWP) set out to replace aging wooden power poles - some nearly a century old - with fire-resistant steel poles and widen fire-access lanes in the wildfire-prone Topanga State Park. The $2 million project was designed to bolster fire safety after the area was deemed an "elevated fire risk."

MAUI 2.0: They just admitted LA Fires are a carbon copy of Lahaina

Trump Announces Plan to End the IRS

President-elect Donald J. Trump announced he intends to create a new revenue agency that will effectively end the need for the Internal Revenue Service (IRS), which oversees the federal taxation of Americans.

Instead, the President-elect proposes an External Revenue Service (ERS), which will serve as the central point for collecting tariffs, duties, and other taxes and fees on foreign goods. This revenue source, he believes, will supplant the need for the federal income tax. “For far too long, we have relied on taxing our Great People using the Internal Revenue Service (IRS). Through soft and pathetically weak Trade agreements, the American Economy has delivered growth and prosperity to the World, while taxing ourselves.

[rjzimmerman]

Some of the photos:

The frame of the house stands where former Australian child star Rory Sykes died in a neighboring cottage during the Palisades Fire on Rambla Pacifico Street. Sykes was 32 years old and had cerebral palsy.  Ivan Kashinsky

CBS News Los Angeles reporter Tom Wait stands in front of the Palisades Fire as it burns on the mountains between Mandeville Canyon and the 405 freeway on January 11. Ivan Kashinsky

As Topanga Canyon still smoked from the burning of the previous days, the Palisades Fire continued, threatening Mandeville Canyon and Encino. The fire burned more than 23,000 acres. Ivan Kashinsky

A person walks into a house as the Palisades Fire burns close on Waveview Drive in Topanga Canyon on January 9. After I finished packing my car, I drove up to the top of my neighborhood to find the fire threatening the houses lining Topanga State Park. Ivan Kashinsky

A firefighter looks over the Palisades Fire from the end of Amy Way in Topanga Canyon on January 9. Ivan Kashinsky

On January 14, a burned-out house on a hill overlooks the Pacific Palisades days after the Palisades Fire came through. Ivan Kashinsky

[oceangirl24]

Bad Company

Jon tries to hold Shawn onto while trying to figure out how to legally keep him from Chet. Cory's camera gives him an idea, but Shawn misinterprets his suggestion.

The return to the Pink Flamingo trailer park is full of unsettling realizations for Shawn.

Shawn tries to put the fear of Eddie into Cory but when it doesn't work, he worries it's only a matter of time before he loses Cory (and Topanga) too.

As Jon expected Cory took his idea and ran with it. It took Shawn awhile to warm up to it, but he did eventually make a quip that it would be like Court TV without the court. Jon fought to keep his mouth shut and not say something sarcastic.

The boys drifted to the kitchen as Cory launched into outlining plans for the video and instructed Shawn to make a list of relatives he wanted to include. As Jon listened to their plans, doubt began to settle in, and he hoped his idea wasn't going to backfire on him.

A strange tightness settled in his chest as watched the teens.

No matter how much he tried to forget what had happened to him and Shawn in the last eight month, he couldn't.

He couldn't forget Audrey.

He couldn't forget their family.

He couldn't forget Audrey telling him to do whatever he had to do to get Shawn.

He also couldn't forget her telling him to move on.

Needing something to focus on that wasn't that he threw him into making the first part of her request happen and spent hours researching the law around legal guardianship. He was worried Chet would suddenly show up and, without the papers being signed, he would take Shawn back if the mood struck him and he would have no legal recourse to keep the teen.

Unfortunately for Jon, without those papers being signed he couldn't stop Chet from taking Shawn if he wanted to. Because Chet had left Shawn with responsible adults, first with the Matthews, then with him, the Courts would not see Chet's taking off to look for his wife for an indeterminate amount of time as neglect or abandonment. In the eyes of the law, Chet had not abandoned Shawn and by naming Jon and Audrey as legal guardians further proved he had Shawn's best interest at heart.

The idea that the Courts would see Chet as an upstanding father made him sick.

The worst part was that without Audrey, he was stuck. Or at least his ability to get Shawn quickly was not possible without her.

He did have paperwork from Chet, the original paperwork from before Audrey joined them, but in order to submit those papers he had to get Chet's approval in writing. Jon figured if they could the tape to Chet, Jon could get him to grant permission for legal guardianship on his own. He was also hoping If Chet saw how well Shawn was doing, it would encourage him to stay away and let his kid live a good life.

Lingering in the back of his mind was the fear that Chet would see Shawn as the model son and come back to take him way instead. Unfortunately, Jon wasn't able to figure out an alternative way to keep Shawn that wasn't also a felony.

The State of Pennsylvania did not take kindly to kidnapping kids for any reason.

Read the Rest:

AO3 FFN Wattpad

*Flashbacks on AO3 is currently locked to accounts only. You can sign up for an account. The wait is about a week to get your invite.

[baselthierry]

topanga state park, 120mm

[travelloverr]

Vanalden Cave: A Hidden Gem in the Hollywood Hills

A Geological Curiosity:

Vanalden Cave is primarily a sandstone formation, carved over millennia by the forces of erosion. The sandstone itself, part of the Topanga Formation, speaks to a time when the region was submerged beneath a shallow sea. The layers of sediment, compressed and cemented over millions of years, form the rocky cliffs and outcroppings that define the landscape.

The cave’s formation likely involved a combination of weathering, water erosion, and possibly even seismic activity. The soft sandstone is susceptible to the erosive power of rain and wind, which gradually sculpted the cave’s interior. Over time, fissures and cracks widened, creating the hollow space that exists today.

Unlike limestone caves, which are often characterized by intricate formations of stalactites and stalagmites, Vanalden Cave is relatively devoid of such features. This is due to the different mineral composition of sandstone, which doesn’t readily form the calcium carbonate deposits found in limestone caves. Instead, the cave’s interior is marked by the rough, textured surface of the sandstone, revealing the layers and patterns of its geological history.

A Historical Enigma:

Beyond its geological significance, Vanalden Cave holds a fascinating, if somewhat murky, historical narrative. The cave’s nickname, “Bunker Cave,” hints at its alleged use as a shelter or hideout, particularly during the early 20th century.

Local lore suggests that the cave may have served as a temporary refuge for various individuals, from outlaws and vagrants to those seeking solitude in the hills. Some speculate that it was used as a clandestine meeting place or even a storage area for illicit goods.

The cave’s proximity to the burgeoning film industry in Hollywood has also fueled speculation about its potential role in the area’s cinematic history. While concrete evidence is scarce, it’s easy to imagine the cave serving as a dramatic backdrop for early Westerns or other adventure films.

However, the lack of definitive historical records makes it difficult to verify these claims. The cave’s remote location and relatively small size may have contributed to its obscurity. Regardless, the lingering mystery surrounding its past adds to its allure.

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Exploring Vanalden Cave:

Accessing Vanalden Cave requires a moderate hike through Fryman Canyon Park. The most common route begins at the trailhead off Mulholland Drive, near Laurel Canyon Boulevard. From there, a network of trails leads into the canyon, eventually branching off to the cave.

The hike itself is a rewarding experience, offering stunning views of the surrounding hills and valleys. The trails wind through oak woodlands and chaparral, providing a glimpse into the diverse flora and fauna of the region.

As you approach the cave, the terrain becomes steeper and more rugged. A short scramble up a rocky slope is required to reach the entrance. The cave itself is relatively shallow, extending only a few dozen feet into the hillside.

Inside, the atmosphere is cool and dim, offering a respite from the sun’s glare. The rough, textured walls of the sandstone create a sense of ancient history, and the quiet solitude of the cave allows for contemplation and reflection.

Safety Considerations:

While Vanalden Cave is generally accessible, it’s important to exercise caution when exploring the area. The trails can be uneven and rocky, requiring sturdy footwear. The slope leading to the cave entrance can also be slippery, especially after rain.

It’s advisable to hike with a friend or group, and to inform someone of your plans. Carrying water and snacks is also essential, particularly during warmer months.

Inside the cave, be mindful of the uneven floor and any loose rocks. It’s also important to respect the natural environment and avoid disturbing the cave’s fragile ecosystem.

The Significance of Hidden Spaces:

Vanalden Cave, in its unassuming way, highlights the human fascination with hidden spaces. Caves, in particular, have held a powerful allure for centuries, serving as shelters, sacred sites, and sources of inspiration.

The desire to explore and understand these hidden realms is deeply ingrained in human nature. Caves represent a connection to the earth’s depths, offering a glimpse into the forces that have shaped our planet.

Vanalden Cave, despite its modest size, embodies this sense of mystery and wonder. It’s a reminder that even in the heart of a bustling urban area, hidden gems await discovery.

Preserving the Cave’s Legacy:

As Vanalden Cave continues to attract visitors, it’s crucial to ensure its preservation for future generations. This requires a collective effort to minimize human impact and protect the cave’s natural and historical integrity.

Visitors can contribute by staying on designated trails, avoiding littering, and respecting the cave’s fragile environment. It’s also important to refrain from graffiti or other forms of vandalism, which can detract from the cave’s natural beauty and historical significance.

Local organizations and park authorities play a vital role in maintaining the trails and educating the public about the cave’s importance. By working together, we can ensure that Vanalden Cave remains a cherished landmark for years to come.

The Future of Vanalden Cave:

While the future of Vanalden Cave is uncertain, its enduring appeal is undeniable. As long as the hills of Fryman Canyon stand, the cave will continue to draw hikers and explorers seeking a connection to nature and history.

Perhaps future research will shed more light on the cave’s past, revealing its true role in the region’s history. Or perhaps it will remain shrouded in mystery, its secrets forever hidden within the sandstone walls.

A Personal Reflection:

My own experience visiting Vanalden Cave was one of quiet contemplation. The hike itself was a welcome escape from the city’s hustle and bustle, and the cave’s cool, dim interior provided a sense of tranquility.

Standing within the cave, I couldn’t help but wonder about the people who had sought refuge there over the years. What stories did these walls hold? What secrets did they conceal?

The cave’s simple beauty and historical ambiguity left a lasting impression, reminding me of the importance of preserving these hidden gems for future generations.

In Conclusion:

Vanalden Cave, a hidden gem in the Hollywood Hills, offers a unique blend of geological wonder and historical intrigue. Its sandstone formations, carved by millennia of erosion, stand as a testament to the earth’s ancient history. Its alleged use as a shelter or hideout adds a layer of mystery, fueling speculation and captivating imaginations.

Exploring Vanalden Cave is a rewarding experience, offering stunning views of the surrounding landscape and a glimpse into the region’s natural beauty. However, it’s important to exercise caution and respect the cave’s fragile environment.

As we continue to explore and appreciate these hidden spaces, we must also strive to preserve them for future generations. By working together, we can ensure that Vanalden Cave remains a cherished landmark, a testament to the enduring power of nature and the human fascination with the unknown.

Here are some FAQs about Vanalden Cave

Q: Where is Vanalden Cave located?

A: Vanalden Cave is located in Fryman Canyon Park, within the Hollywood Hills of Los Angeles, California.

Q: What is another name for Vanalden Cave?

A: It is also known as “Bunker Cave.”

Q: What type of rock is Vanalden Cave made of?

A: It is primarily made of sandstone.

Q: Is Vanalden Cave a large cave system?

A: No, it is a relatively small and shallow cave.

Q: How do you get to Vanalden Cave?

A: You access it via hiking trails in Fryman Canyon Park, with a short scramble required to reach the entrance.

Q: Is the hike to Vanalden Cave difficult?

A: It is considered a moderate hike, with some uneven and rocky terrain.

Q: Is it safe to go inside Vanalden Cave?

A: Generally yes, but caution is advised due to uneven flooring and potential loose rocks.

Q: Are there stalactites or stalagmites inside Vanalden Cave?

A: No, due to the sandstone composition, it lacks these formations.

Q: What is the historical significance of Vanalden Cave?

A: Local lore suggests it may have been used as a shelter or hideout, but definitive historical records are scarce.

Q: Can you find any historical artifacts in the cave?

A: It’s unlikely. It is more known for its natural features.

Q: Is there parking available near the trailhead?

A: Parking is available along Mulholland Drive and surrounding streets, but it can be limited.

Q: Are dogs allowed on the trails leading to Vanalden Cave?

A: Yes, dogs are generally allowed on the trails in Fryman Canyon Park, but they must be kept on a leash.

Q: What should I bring when hiking to Vanalden Cave?

A: Sturdy footwear, water, snacks, and a flashlight or headlamp are recommended.

Q: Is Vanalden Cave a popular tourist destination?

A: It is a popular spot for local hikers and those exploring the Hollywood Hills, but it’s not a major tourist attraction.

[tameblog]

When it first dawned on me that parts of the city I live in were being devoured by flames, the shot of cortisol running through my veins quickly clarified priorities. First, I considered the safety of humans and other living creatures—myself, my kin, but also the strangers I feel bound to by proximity. As I was without power and on the edge of a red flag zone in Los Feliz, I began to think about my home, an accumulation of all my possessions, the stuff that taken together informs my identity, lore, and sense of place in the world. I shuffled around my dark house with a lantern recording a video of all my belongings because an Instagram story I saw said I would need it to fight with the insurance company about what I really owned. (I forgot that, like many others, my renter’s policy was cancelled when I moved to a new place in July; they’d "placed a temporary pause on any new fire insurance.") It dawned on me that the loss of a home is so much bigger than the things themselves; what of the experiences, the life, that happened within the walls? Even if they could be resurrected, they wouldn’t contain things like pencil marks that track your kids’ growth, or the little red wine stain from an out of control New Year’s party you never got around to painting over.  In the case of the ongoing wildfires in Los Angeles, which have already killed at least 24 people, ravaged 40,000 acres, and destroyed over 12,300 structures, at least 12,000 people have lost their homes. Many are still living in immeasurable catastrophe; most haven’t even been allowed back to assess the damage, as the fires are only partially contained. You’re lucky if you were one of the 150,000 Los Angelenos who were ordered to evacuate or just stand by with a Go Bag, possibly without power, only to stay home or be able to return the next day. The new normal has become jumping into direct action, donating to GoFundMes, and incessantly refreshing the Watch Duty app to ensure my safety. While sick over the devastation that many friends are experiencing, another kind of grief has emerged—one for the neighborhoods, parks, and historical landmarks that inform the culture of this city. Much has already been reported about how the fires have taken iconic architecture like Richard Neutra’s Freedman House, the Keeler House by Ray Kappe, the Andrew McNally House, and the Topanga Ranch Motel; the latter was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state. It’s easy to forget that buildings are given historical designation as not just an acknowledgement of their significance to the past, but what their preservation has to offer the future. These were time capsules of our history, the unique and influential way California does architecture—demonstrating the boundary-pushing design that has always been an engine of inspiration for the rest of the country. (It’s no surprise that in October of last year, Los Angeles was the chosen host for Dwell’s Open House Tours.) This destruction is a hard pill to swallow in a relatively young city where historical preservation is difficult and politicized. The Palisades Fire took the Will Rogers Ranch House in the Santa Monica Mountains, part of a historic state park. It was built in 1945 by the beloved Hollywood actor.Some of these houses were beautiful structures for people to gawk at and maybe tour, but many were meaningful third spaces. The Will Rodgers Ranch House hosted a surf camp for kids, movie nights, and family swing dances. The Pasadena and Pierson Playhouses were both architectural marvels, but more importantly, had been cultivating community theater for the better part of a century. The Pasadena Waldorf School—which was on the National Register of Historic Places for its inventive design by McAnulty + von Sydow Architecture—had been educating children since it was completed in the 1970s. The Theosophical Society in Altadena, dedicated to "uplifting society" and "promoting brotherhood" in a nonpolitical way, featured over 40,000 rare books, documents, and artifacts—and a place to read them—that are now gone. I could keep going, but in some ways, isolating specific structures fails to truly capture the scale of the damage. Zooming out from the "noteworthy" buildings, we wrestle with the loss of entire neighborhoods. Altadena, which during the Civil Rights Era became a haven for black and brown people who were previously victim to redlining, also has an architectural heritage that can’t be recreated. The community in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains was known for its craftsman-style homes built between 1905 and 1930, thatched shingled bungalows with gable roofs and built-in cabinetry that put an emphasis on, well, craftsmanship. The craftsman movement was born in 19th-century England as a response to the mass production and shoddy quality brought on by the Industrial Revolution; aesthetics aside, it’s hard to imagine that anything like them could be rebuilt now, given the cost of building. The neighborhood’s Park Planned development, built in 1946 by Gregory Ain with landscape architect Garrett Eckbo, was an innovative affordable housing project and one the country’s first modernist developments. The 28 tract homes, of which only a handful remain, hark back to a time when living in beautiful architecture surrounded by nature was not just a privilege of the uber-rich. They—along with the craftsman-style homes, and their many elderly owners—remind us of a time before Los Angeles was out-of-reach, when the city actually worked for the working class. And that’s to say nothing of what isn’t considered capital "A" Architecture. What could be the costliest wildfire in our country’s history took places of worship, galleries, pizza places, hardware stores, coffee shops, bars. People rag on Los Angeles for its lack of public space, but perhaps this is why where we choose to gather feels so important. On the annihilated waterfront stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu once sat local haunts (and tourist attractions) that were emblematic of a Los Angeles Americana that’s quickly becoming lost to time. The Reel Inn: surfboards hanging from the ceiling, twinkle lights, checkered table clothes on weathered wood tables; the tiki-inspired patio overlooking the ocean at Moonshadows; Cholada Thai’s humble baby blue surf shack and groovy signage. The Topanga Motel built by William Randolph Hearst in 1929 to house workers building the Pacific Coast Highway was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state.My mind keeps returning to one day eight years ago, when my mother came to visit and I took her up the coast for both of us to really experience Malibu up close for the first time. I am from San Francisco, but I’d never seen anything quite like this. My mouth was agape at the coastline—an almost terrifying natural beauty punctuated by a random assortment of development: a gaudy beige ’80s mansion next to a dark midcentury cabin next to a contemporary glass box. (This is the same area where Nobu is across the street from McDonald’s). On that drive, it clicked for me: Los Angeles is called the "city of dreams" because of how many different people come here chasing their own particular one. For better or worse, there are all kinds of manifestations of the American dream in L.A.—and you can see that in its built environment.Frank Lloyd Wright once said: "Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." In no other place could a rabbit-obsessed couple run a Bunny Museum featuring 35,000 pieces of bunny paraphernalia for over 30 years. (RIP, for now.) It’s no wonder I spend so much time wandering my neighborhood and wondering what eccentric lives in each home. Today, the air quality was good enough to resume my practice, but that curious exercise is now an excruciating one.Beyond meeting our basic human needs, "home" is an isolated place where we get to express our unique point of view. But we don’t often acknowledge how our personal world-building impacts each other’s landscapes, or a whole city. Even if you aren’t close friends with the people on your block, that one guy’s house on the corner is a signal to turn right on your way back from work; the family of four’s Christmas lights are a reminder that the holiday season must be coming soon. It doesn’t matter if you live in a maximalist bungalow, a white box, or an old prewar building: climate change has us contending with the human impulse to make beauty, and in our current moment, the pain of learning it’s not permanent—for us or our neighbors.  Source link

[ramestoryworld]

When it first dawned on me that parts of the city I live in were being devoured by flames, the shot of cortisol running through my veins quickly clarified priorities. First, I considered the safety of humans and other living creatures—myself, my kin, but also the strangers I feel bound to by proximity. As I was without power and on the edge of a red flag zone in Los Feliz, I began to think about my home, an accumulation of all my possessions, the stuff that taken together informs my identity, lore, and sense of place in the world. I shuffled around my dark house with a lantern recording a video of all my belongings because an Instagram story I saw said I would need it to fight with the insurance company about what I really owned. (I forgot that, like many others, my renter’s policy was cancelled when I moved to a new place in July; they’d "placed a temporary pause on any new fire insurance.") It dawned on me that the loss of a home is so much bigger than the things themselves; what of the experiences, the life, that happened within the walls? Even if they could be resurrected, they wouldn’t contain things like pencil marks that track your kids’ growth, or the little red wine stain from an out of control New Year’s party you never got around to painting over.  In the case of the ongoing wildfires in Los Angeles, which have already killed at least 24 people, ravaged 40,000 acres, and destroyed over 12,300 structures, at least 12,000 people have lost their homes. Many are still living in immeasurable catastrophe; most haven’t even been allowed back to assess the damage, as the fires are only partially contained. You’re lucky if you were one of the 150,000 Los Angelenos who were ordered to evacuate or just stand by with a Go Bag, possibly without power, only to stay home or be able to return the next day. The new normal has become jumping into direct action, donating to GoFundMes, and incessantly refreshing the Watch Duty app to ensure my safety. While sick over the devastation that many friends are experiencing, another kind of grief has emerged—one for the neighborhoods, parks, and historical landmarks that inform the culture of this city. Much has already been reported about how the fires have taken iconic architecture like Richard Neutra’s Freedman House, the Keeler House by Ray Kappe, the Andrew McNally House, and the Topanga Ranch Motel; the latter was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state. It’s easy to forget that buildings are given historical designation as not just an acknowledgement of their significance to the past, but what their preservation has to offer the future. These were time capsules of our history, the unique and influential way California does architecture—demonstrating the boundary-pushing design that has always been an engine of inspiration for the rest of the country. (It’s no surprise that in October of last year, Los Angeles was the chosen host for Dwell’s Open House Tours.) This destruction is a hard pill to swallow in a relatively young city where historical preservation is difficult and politicized. The Palisades Fire took the Will Rogers Ranch House in the Santa Monica Mountains, part of a historic state park. It was built in 1945 by the beloved Hollywood actor.Some of these houses were beautiful structures for people to gawk at and maybe tour, but many were meaningful third spaces. The Will Rodgers Ranch House hosted a surf camp for kids, movie nights, and family swing dances. The Pasadena and Pierson Playhouses were both architectural marvels, but more importantly, had been cultivating community theater for the better part of a century. The Pasadena Waldorf School—which was on the National Register of Historic Places for its inventive design by McAnulty + von Sydow Architecture—had been educating children since it was completed in the 1970s. The Theosophical Society in Altadena, dedicated to "uplifting society" and "promoting brotherhood" in a nonpolitical way, featured over 40,000 rare books, documents, and artifacts—and a place to read them—that are now gone. I could keep going, but in some ways, isolating specific structures fails to truly capture the scale of the damage. Zooming out from the "noteworthy" buildings, we wrestle with the loss of entire neighborhoods. Altadena, which during the Civil Rights Era became a haven for black and brown people who were previously victim to redlining, also has an architectural heritage that can’t be recreated. The community in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains was known for its craftsman-style homes built between 1905 and 1930, thatched shingled bungalows with gable roofs and built-in cabinetry that put an emphasis on, well, craftsmanship. The craftsman movement was born in 19th-century England as a response to the mass production and shoddy quality brought on by the Industrial Revolution; aesthetics aside, it’s hard to imagine that anything like them could be rebuilt now, given the cost of building. The neighborhood’s Park Planned development, built in 1946 by Gregory Ain with landscape architect Garrett Eckbo, was an innovative affordable housing project and one the country’s first modernist developments. The 28 tract homes, of which only a handful remain, hark back to a time when living in beautiful architecture surrounded by nature was not just a privilege of the uber-rich. They—along with the craftsman-style homes, and their many elderly owners—remind us of a time before Los Angeles was out-of-reach, when the city actually worked for the working class. And that’s to say nothing of what isn’t considered capital "A" Architecture. What could be the costliest wildfire in our country’s history took places of worship, galleries, pizza places, hardware stores, coffee shops, bars. People rag on Los Angeles for its lack of public space, but perhaps this is why where we choose to gather feels so important. On the annihilated waterfront stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu once sat local haunts (and tourist attractions) that were emblematic of a Los Angeles Americana that’s quickly becoming lost to time. The Reel Inn: surfboards hanging from the ceiling, twinkle lights, checkered table clothes on weathered wood tables; the tiki-inspired patio overlooking the ocean at Moonshadows; Cholada Thai’s humble baby blue surf shack and groovy signage. The Topanga Motel built by William Randolph Hearst in 1929 to house workers building the Pacific Coast Highway was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state.My mind keeps returning to one day eight years ago, when my mother came to visit and I took her up the coast for both of us to really experience Malibu up close for the first time. I am from San Francisco, but I’d never seen anything quite like this. My mouth was agape at the coastline—an almost terrifying natural beauty punctuated by a random assortment of development: a gaudy beige ’80s mansion next to a dark midcentury cabin next to a contemporary glass box. (This is the same area where Nobu is across the street from McDonald’s). On that drive, it clicked for me: Los Angeles is called the "city of dreams" because of how many different people come here chasing their own particular one. For better or worse, there are all kinds of manifestations of the American dream in L.A.—and you can see that in its built environment.Frank Lloyd Wright once said: "Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." In no other place could a rabbit-obsessed couple run a Bunny Museum featuring 35,000 pieces of bunny paraphernalia for over 30 years. (RIP, for now.) It’s no wonder I spend so much time wandering my neighborhood and wondering what eccentric lives in each home. Today, the air quality was good enough to resume my practice, but that curious exercise is now an excruciating one.Beyond meeting our basic human needs, "home" is an isolated place where we get to express our unique point of view. But we don’t often acknowledge how our personal world-building impacts each other’s landscapes, or a whole city. Even if you aren’t close friends with the people on your block, that one guy’s house on the corner is a signal to turn right on your way back from work; the family of four’s Christmas lights are a reminder that the holiday season must be coming soon. It doesn’t matter if you live in a maximalist bungalow, a white box, or an old prewar building: climate change has us contending with the human impulse to make beauty, and in our current moment, the pain of learning it’s not permanent—for us or our neighbors.  Source link

[alexha2210]

When it first dawned on me that parts of the city I live in were being devoured by flames, the shot of cortisol running through my veins quickly clarified priorities. First, I considered the safety of humans and other living creatures—myself, my kin, but also the strangers I feel bound to by proximity. As I was without power and on the edge of a red flag zone in Los Feliz, I began to think about my home, an accumulation of all my possessions, the stuff that taken together informs my identity, lore, and sense of place in the world. I shuffled around my dark house with a lantern recording a video of all my belongings because an Instagram story I saw said I would need it to fight with the insurance company about what I really owned. (I forgot that, like many others, my renter’s policy was cancelled when I moved to a new place in July; they’d "placed a temporary pause on any new fire insurance.") It dawned on me that the loss of a home is so much bigger than the things themselves; what of the experiences, the life, that happened within the walls? Even if they could be resurrected, they wouldn’t contain things like pencil marks that track your kids’ growth, or the little red wine stain from an out of control New Year’s party you never got around to painting over.  In the case of the ongoing wildfires in Los Angeles, which have already killed at least 24 people, ravaged 40,000 acres, and destroyed over 12,300 structures, at least 12,000 people have lost their homes. Many are still living in immeasurable catastrophe; most haven’t even been allowed back to assess the damage, as the fires are only partially contained. You’re lucky if you were one of the 150,000 Los Angelenos who were ordered to evacuate or just stand by with a Go Bag, possibly without power, only to stay home or be able to return the next day. The new normal has become jumping into direct action, donating to GoFundMes, and incessantly refreshing the Watch Duty app to ensure my safety. While sick over the devastation that many friends are experiencing, another kind of grief has emerged—one for the neighborhoods, parks, and historical landmarks that inform the culture of this city. Much has already been reported about how the fires have taken iconic architecture like Richard Neutra’s Freedman House, the Keeler House by Ray Kappe, the Andrew McNally House, and the Topanga Ranch Motel; the latter was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state. It’s easy to forget that buildings are given historical designation as not just an acknowledgement of their significance to the past, but what their preservation has to offer the future. These were time capsules of our history, the unique and influential way California does architecture—demonstrating the boundary-pushing design that has always been an engine of inspiration for the rest of the country. (It’s no surprise that in October of last year, Los Angeles was the chosen host for Dwell’s Open House Tours.) This destruction is a hard pill to swallow in a relatively young city where historical preservation is difficult and politicized. The Palisades Fire took the Will Rogers Ranch House in the Santa Monica Mountains, part of a historic state park. It was built in 1945 by the beloved Hollywood actor.Some of these houses were beautiful structures for people to gawk at and maybe tour, but many were meaningful third spaces. The Will Rodgers Ranch House hosted a surf camp for kids, movie nights, and family swing dances. The Pasadena and Pierson Playhouses were both architectural marvels, but more importantly, had been cultivating community theater for the better part of a century. The Pasadena Waldorf School—which was on the National Register of Historic Places for its inventive design by McAnulty + von Sydow Architecture—had been educating children since it was completed in the 1970s. The Theosophical Society in Altadena, dedicated to "uplifting society" and "promoting brotherhood" in a nonpolitical way, featured over 40,000 rare books, documents, and artifacts—and a place to read them—that are now gone. I could keep going, but in some ways, isolating specific structures fails to truly capture the scale of the damage. Zooming out from the "noteworthy" buildings, we wrestle with the loss of entire neighborhoods. Altadena, which during the Civil Rights Era became a haven for black and brown people who were previously victim to redlining, also has an architectural heritage that can’t be recreated. The community in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains was known for its craftsman-style homes built between 1905 and 1930, thatched shingled bungalows with gable roofs and built-in cabinetry that put an emphasis on, well, craftsmanship. The craftsman movement was born in 19th-century England as a response to the mass production and shoddy quality brought on by the Industrial Revolution; aesthetics aside, it’s hard to imagine that anything like them could be rebuilt now, given the cost of building. The neighborhood’s Park Planned development, built in 1946 by Gregory Ain with landscape architect Garrett Eckbo, was an innovative affordable housing project and one the country’s first modernist developments. The 28 tract homes, of which only a handful remain, hark back to a time when living in beautiful architecture surrounded by nature was not just a privilege of the uber-rich. They—along with the craftsman-style homes, and their many elderly owners—remind us of a time before Los Angeles was out-of-reach, when the city actually worked for the working class. And that’s to say nothing of what isn’t considered capital "A" Architecture. What could be the costliest wildfire in our country’s history took places of worship, galleries, pizza places, hardware stores, coffee shops, bars. People rag on Los Angeles for its lack of public space, but perhaps this is why where we choose to gather feels so important. On the annihilated waterfront stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu once sat local haunts (and tourist attractions) that were emblematic of a Los Angeles Americana that’s quickly becoming lost to time. The Reel Inn: surfboards hanging from the ceiling, twinkle lights, checkered table clothes on weathered wood tables; the tiki-inspired patio overlooking the ocean at Moonshadows; Cholada Thai’s humble baby blue surf shack and groovy signage. The Topanga Motel built by William Randolph Hearst in 1929 to house workers building the Pacific Coast Highway was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state.My mind keeps returning to one day eight years ago, when my mother came to visit and I took her up the coast for both of us to really experience Malibu up close for the first time. I am from San Francisco, but I’d never seen anything quite like this. My mouth was agape at the coastline—an almost terrifying natural beauty punctuated by a random assortment of development: a gaudy beige ’80s mansion next to a dark midcentury cabin next to a contemporary glass box. (This is the same area where Nobu is across the street from McDonald’s). On that drive, it clicked for me: Los Angeles is called the "city of dreams" because of how many different people come here chasing their own particular one. For better or worse, there are all kinds of manifestations of the American dream in L.A.—and you can see that in its built environment.Frank Lloyd Wright once said: "Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." In no other place could a rabbit-obsessed couple run a Bunny Museum featuring 35,000 pieces of bunny paraphernalia for over 30 years. (RIP, for now.) It’s no wonder I spend so much time wandering my neighborhood and wondering what eccentric lives in each home. Today, the air quality was good enough to resume my practice, but that curious exercise is now an excruciating one.Beyond meeting our basic human needs, "home" is an isolated place where we get to express our unique point of view. But we don’t often acknowledge how our personal world-building impacts each other’s landscapes, or a whole city. Even if you aren’t close friends with the people on your block, that one guy’s house on the corner is a signal to turn right on your way back from work; the family of four’s Christmas lights are a reminder that the holiday season must be coming soon. It doesn’t matter if you live in a maximalist bungalow, a white box, or an old prewar building: climate change has us contending with the human impulse to make beauty, and in our current moment, the pain of learning it’s not permanent—for us or our neighbors.  Source link

[the-little-red-queen]

It’s 3AM, and Eddie Diaz is standing at the familiar crossroads of two dirt trails in the middle of Topanga State Park.

Again.

This time at least he’s not alone.

Notes:

Whoopsie the chapter count went up🤷🏻‍♀️sorry about that it’s Bobby’s fault actually he had a Lot to say

[angusstory]

When it first dawned on me that parts of the city I live in were being devoured by flames, the shot of cortisol running through my veins quickly clarified priorities. First, I considered the safety of humans and other living creatures—myself, my kin, but also the strangers I feel bound to by proximity. As I was without power and on the edge of a red flag zone in Los Feliz, I began to think about my home, an accumulation of all my possessions, the stuff that taken together informs my identity, lore, and sense of place in the world. I shuffled around my dark house with a lantern recording a video of all my belongings because an Instagram story I saw said I would need it to fight with the insurance company about what I really owned. (I forgot that, like many others, my renter’s policy was cancelled when I moved to a new place in July; they’d "placed a temporary pause on any new fire insurance.") It dawned on me that the loss of a home is so much bigger than the things themselves; what of the experiences, the life, that happened within the walls? Even if they could be resurrected, they wouldn’t contain things like pencil marks that track your kids’ growth, or the little red wine stain from an out of control New Year’s party you never got around to painting over.  In the case of the ongoing wildfires in Los Angeles, which have already killed at least 24 people, ravaged 40,000 acres, and destroyed over 12,300 structures, at least 12,000 people have lost their homes. Many are still living in immeasurable catastrophe; most haven’t even been allowed back to assess the damage, as the fires are only partially contained. You’re lucky if you were one of the 150,000 Los Angelenos who were ordered to evacuate or just stand by with a Go Bag, possibly without power, only to stay home or be able to return the next day. The new normal has become jumping into direct action, donating to GoFundMes, and incessantly refreshing the Watch Duty app to ensure my safety. While sick over the devastation that many friends are experiencing, another kind of grief has emerged—one for the neighborhoods, parks, and historical landmarks that inform the culture of this city. Much has already been reported about how the fires have taken iconic architecture like Richard Neutra’s Freedman House, the Keeler House by Ray Kappe, the Andrew McNally House, and the Topanga Ranch Motel; the latter was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state. It’s easy to forget that buildings are given historical designation as not just an acknowledgement of their significance to the past, but what their preservation has to offer the future. These were time capsules of our history, the unique and influential way California does architecture—demonstrating the boundary-pushing design that has always been an engine of inspiration for the rest of the country. (It’s no surprise that in October of last year, Los Angeles was the chosen host for Dwell’s Open House Tours.) This destruction is a hard pill to swallow in a relatively young city where historical preservation is difficult and politicized. The Palisades Fire took the Will Rogers Ranch House in the Santa Monica Mountains, part of a historic state park. It was built in 1945 by the beloved Hollywood actor.Some of these houses were beautiful structures for people to gawk at and maybe tour, but many were meaningful third spaces. The Will Rodgers Ranch House hosted a surf camp for kids, movie nights, and family swing dances. The Pasadena and Pierson Playhouses were both architectural marvels, but more importantly, had been cultivating community theater for the better part of a century. The Pasadena Waldorf School—which was on the National Register of Historic Places for its inventive design by McAnulty + von Sydow Architecture—had been educating children since it was completed in the 1970s. The Theosophical Society in Altadena, dedicated to "uplifting society" and "promoting brotherhood" in a nonpolitical way, featured over 40,000 rare books, documents, and artifacts—and a place to read them—that are now gone. I could keep going, but in some ways, isolating specific structures fails to truly capture the scale of the damage. Zooming out from the "noteworthy" buildings, we wrestle with the loss of entire neighborhoods. Altadena, which during the Civil Rights Era became a haven for black and brown people who were previously victim to redlining, also has an architectural heritage that can’t be recreated. The community in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains was known for its craftsman-style homes built between 1905 and 1930, thatched shingled bungalows with gable roofs and built-in cabinetry that put an emphasis on, well, craftsmanship. The craftsman movement was born in 19th-century England as a response to the mass production and shoddy quality brought on by the Industrial Revolution; aesthetics aside, it’s hard to imagine that anything like them could be rebuilt now, given the cost of building. The neighborhood’s Park Planned development, built in 1946 by Gregory Ain with landscape architect Garrett Eckbo, was an innovative affordable housing project and one the country’s first modernist developments. The 28 tract homes, of which only a handful remain, hark back to a time when living in beautiful architecture surrounded by nature was not just a privilege of the uber-rich. They—along with the craftsman-style homes, and their many elderly owners—remind us of a time before Los Angeles was out-of-reach, when the city actually worked for the working class. And that’s to say nothing of what isn’t considered capital "A" Architecture. What could be the costliest wildfire in our country’s history took places of worship, galleries, pizza places, hardware stores, coffee shops, bars. People rag on Los Angeles for its lack of public space, but perhaps this is why where we choose to gather feels so important. On the annihilated waterfront stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu once sat local haunts (and tourist attractions) that were emblematic of a Los Angeles Americana that’s quickly becoming lost to time. The Reel Inn: surfboards hanging from the ceiling, twinkle lights, checkered table clothes on weathered wood tables; the tiki-inspired patio overlooking the ocean at Moonshadows; Cholada Thai’s humble baby blue surf shack and groovy signage. The Topanga Motel built by William Randolph Hearst in 1929 to house workers building the Pacific Coast Highway was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state.My mind keeps returning to one day eight years ago, when my mother came to visit and I took her up the coast for both of us to really experience Malibu up close for the first time. I am from San Francisco, but I’d never seen anything quite like this. My mouth was agape at the coastline—an almost terrifying natural beauty punctuated by a random assortment of development: a gaudy beige ’80s mansion next to a dark midcentury cabin next to a contemporary glass box. (This is the same area where Nobu is across the street from McDonald’s). On that drive, it clicked for me: Los Angeles is called the "city of dreams" because of how many different people come here chasing their own particular one. For better or worse, there are all kinds of manifestations of the American dream in L.A.—and you can see that in its built environment.Frank Lloyd Wright once said: "Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." In no other place could a rabbit-obsessed couple run a Bunny Museum featuring 35,000 pieces of bunny paraphernalia for over 30 years. (RIP, for now.) It’s no wonder I spend so much time wandering my neighborhood and wondering what eccentric lives in each home. Today, the air quality was good enough to resume my practice, but that curious exercise is now an excruciating one.Beyond meeting our basic human needs, "home" is an isolated place where we get to express our unique point of view. But we don’t often acknowledge how our personal world-building impacts each other’s landscapes, or a whole city. Even if you aren’t close friends with the people on your block, that one guy’s house on the corner is a signal to turn right on your way back from work; the family of four’s Christmas lights are a reminder that the holiday season must be coming soon. It doesn’t matter if you live in a maximalist bungalow, a white box, or an old prewar building: climate change has us contending with the human impulse to make beauty, and in our current moment, the pain of learning it’s not permanent—for us or our neighbors.  Source link

[tumibaba]

When it first dawned on me that parts of the city I live in were being devoured by flames, the shot of cortisol running through my veins quickly clarified priorities. First, I considered the safety of humans and other living creatures—myself, my kin, but also the strangers I feel bound to by proximity. As I was without power and on the edge of a red flag zone in Los Feliz, I began to think about my home, an accumulation of all my possessions, the stuff that taken together informs my identity, lore, and sense of place in the world. I shuffled around my dark house with a lantern recording a video of all my belongings because an Instagram story I saw said I would need it to fight with the insurance company about what I really owned. (I forgot that, like many others, my renter’s policy was cancelled when I moved to a new place in July; they’d "placed a temporary pause on any new fire insurance.") It dawned on me that the loss of a home is so much bigger than the things themselves; what of the experiences, the life, that happened within the walls? Even if they could be resurrected, they wouldn’t contain things like pencil marks that track your kids’ growth, or the little red wine stain from an out of control New Year’s party you never got around to painting over.  In the case of the ongoing wildfires in Los Angeles, which have already killed at least 24 people, ravaged 40,000 acres, and destroyed over 12,300 structures, at least 12,000 people have lost their homes. Many are still living in immeasurable catastrophe; most haven’t even been allowed back to assess the damage, as the fires are only partially contained. You’re lucky if you were one of the 150,000 Los Angelenos who were ordered to evacuate or just stand by with a Go Bag, possibly without power, only to stay home or be able to return the next day. The new normal has become jumping into direct action, donating to GoFundMes, and incessantly refreshing the Watch Duty app to ensure my safety. While sick over the devastation that many friends are experiencing, another kind of grief has emerged—one for the neighborhoods, parks, and historical landmarks that inform the culture of this city. Much has already been reported about how the fires have taken iconic architecture like Richard Neutra’s Freedman House, the Keeler House by Ray Kappe, the Andrew McNally House, and the Topanga Ranch Motel; the latter was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state. It’s easy to forget that buildings are given historical designation as not just an acknowledgement of their significance to the past, but what their preservation has to offer the future. These were time capsules of our history, the unique and influential way California does architecture—demonstrating the boundary-pushing design that has always been an engine of inspiration for the rest of the country. (It’s no surprise that in October of last year, Los Angeles was the chosen host for Dwell’s Open House Tours.) This destruction is a hard pill to swallow in a relatively young city where historical preservation is difficult and politicized. The Palisades Fire took the Will Rogers Ranch House in the Santa Monica Mountains, part of a historic state park. It was built in 1945 by the beloved Hollywood actor.Some of these houses were beautiful structures for people to gawk at and maybe tour, but many were meaningful third spaces. The Will Rodgers Ranch House hosted a surf camp for kids, movie nights, and family swing dances. The Pasadena and Pierson Playhouses were both architectural marvels, but more importantly, had been cultivating community theater for the better part of a century. The Pasadena Waldorf School—which was on the National Register of Historic Places for its inventive design by McAnulty + von Sydow Architecture—had been educating children since it was completed in the 1970s. The Theosophical Society in Altadena, dedicated to "uplifting society" and "promoting brotherhood" in a nonpolitical way, featured over 40,000 rare books, documents, and artifacts—and a place to read them—that are now gone. I could keep going, but in some ways, isolating specific structures fails to truly capture the scale of the damage. Zooming out from the "noteworthy" buildings, we wrestle with the loss of entire neighborhoods. Altadena, which during the Civil Rights Era became a haven for black and brown people who were previously victim to redlining, also has an architectural heritage that can’t be recreated. The community in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains was known for its craftsman-style homes built between 1905 and 1930, thatched shingled bungalows with gable roofs and built-in cabinetry that put an emphasis on, well, craftsmanship. The craftsman movement was born in 19th-century England as a response to the mass production and shoddy quality brought on by the Industrial Revolution; aesthetics aside, it’s hard to imagine that anything like them could be rebuilt now, given the cost of building. The neighborhood’s Park Planned development, built in 1946 by Gregory Ain with landscape architect Garrett Eckbo, was an innovative affordable housing project and one the country’s first modernist developments. The 28 tract homes, of which only a handful remain, hark back to a time when living in beautiful architecture surrounded by nature was not just a privilege of the uber-rich. They—along with the craftsman-style homes, and their many elderly owners—remind us of a time before Los Angeles was out-of-reach, when the city actually worked for the working class. And that’s to say nothing of what isn’t considered capital "A" Architecture. What could be the costliest wildfire in our country’s history took places of worship, galleries, pizza places, hardware stores, coffee shops, bars. People rag on Los Angeles for its lack of public space, but perhaps this is why where we choose to gather feels so important. On the annihilated waterfront stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu once sat local haunts (and tourist attractions) that were emblematic of a Los Angeles Americana that’s quickly becoming lost to time. The Reel Inn: surfboards hanging from the ceiling, twinkle lights, checkered table clothes on weathered wood tables; the tiki-inspired patio overlooking the ocean at Moonshadows; Cholada Thai’s humble baby blue surf shack and groovy signage. The Topanga Motel built by William Randolph Hearst in 1929 to house workers building the Pacific Coast Highway was one of the last examples of a bungalow motel in the state.My mind keeps returning to one day eight years ago, when my mother came to visit and I took her up the coast for both of us to really experience Malibu up close for the first time. I am from San Francisco, but I’d never seen anything quite like this. My mouth was agape at the coastline—an almost terrifying natural beauty punctuated by a random assortment of development: a gaudy beige ’80s mansion next to a dark midcentury cabin next to a contemporary glass box. (This is the same area where Nobu is across the street from McDonald’s). On that drive, it clicked for me: Los Angeles is called the "city of dreams" because of how many different people come here chasing their own particular one. For better or worse, there are all kinds of manifestations of the American dream in L.A.—and you can see that in its built environment.Frank Lloyd Wright once said: "Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles." In no other place could a rabbit-obsessed couple run a Bunny Museum featuring 35,000 pieces of bunny paraphernalia for over 30 years. (RIP, for now.) It’s no wonder I spend so much time wandering my neighborhood and wondering what eccentric lives in each home. Today, the air quality was good enough to resume my practice, but that curious exercise is now an excruciating one.Beyond meeting our basic human needs, "home" is an isolated place where we get to express our unique point of view. But we don’t often acknowledge how our personal world-building impacts each other’s landscapes, or a whole city. Even if you aren’t close friends with the people on your block, that one guy’s house on the corner is a signal to turn right on your way back from work; the family of four’s Christmas lights are a reminder that the holiday season must be coming soon. It doesn’t matter if you live in a maximalist bungalow, a white box, or an old prewar building: climate change has us contending with the human impulse to make beauty, and in our current moment, the pain of learning it’s not permanent—for us or our neighbors.  Source link