In disbelief, I watched as my hometown of over 30 years was consumed by flames this past January of 2025. The wind drove the fire like a living force, whipping it in all directions, incinerating homes.  A man standing near me asked aloud if it was his street now burning. Helicopters struggled against the wind, unable to reach the worst of it. Flames rose like tornadoes, surging toward the shoreline. Two days later, following a tip about a back route, I hiked from Santa Monica into Pacific Palisades. I will not easily lose the memory of this walk. The neighborhood was still smoldering. I wandered among skeletal remains of chimneys and scorched trees, careful to avoid fallen power lines. After I had turned onto my street, I felt this aching sense of astonishment of finding just a heap of debris and smoke billowing from the ashes - my home was gone. Everything felt apocalyptic. I didn’t visit very long; a strange numbness set in. I took a shortcut back to my car. No one stopped me as I passed through the checkpoints on the way out. In the days that followed, the reality began to settle in. Nearly 40 years of my life in Los Angeles - every memory, every analog and print archive, most of my equipment, my entire home studio - had been erased overnight. What remains is my current body of work on Los Angeles. Digitally archived, it has become a lifeline. It keeps me rooted in the present and oriented towards the future. I’m deeply grateful for that. I’m reminded of the words of Viktor Frankl in his book Man’s Search for Meaning. His insight into trauma and purpose continues to offer grounding and grace.