Blackout

Well then. I'm not sure when you are reading this, or where, but for me as I write it's Saturday evening in San Francisco.

I had planned to sit down to write this week's newsletter this afternoon, focusing on sharing my recent interview with David Baron. We had a stimulating chat earlier this week, talking about December's book of the month, about his immense research effort, about the past, present and future of Mars and Martians. So I sat down to write.

And then we had a power cut.

In fact, we still have one.

Half the city's down, as far as I can tell, and has been since lunchtime. Our lights flickered, then everything went and came back briefly before dying.

There are probably no good days for the power to go out, but there are almost certainly better ones. It's only the Saturday before Christmas, maybe the busiest time of year. Most of the stores around here are closed, and the empty-handed shoppers are lined up in their cars, horns honking, confused by the zigzag their day took, emotionally upended by the lack of traffic signals.

Around 1.30pm, the power company said it'd be fixed by 3.45pm. At 3.45 they said it would be done 5.45. At 5.45 the target became 7.30pm. It's past six now.

We took a walk around the block earlier, just to see what we could see. I imagined scenes from Mad Max; people screaming to the sky while standing on top of flaming trucks, chaos reigning supreme. I expected Devil's Night. Instead, it was quiet. A little eerie, like being back in the countryside instead of in the center of a city.

Your neighbors mere shadows walking back and forth around you, all the streetlights deadened and only headlights flash to illuminate the way.

It wasn't like the day the sun never came up, but it was a sudden reminder that we're almost at the Winter Solstice. Yes, there are definitely better days for the power to go out.

So I'm sitting here writing this email in the dark, without access to my notes. It's like a rejected scene from A Christmas Carol, with me playing the part of some Dickensian grumple scratching away at a living on the page. It’s funny how the holidays are shaped by this Victorian framing.

To extend it even further, we lit some candles, and now I feel like a Wilkie Collins character creeping upstairs and downstairs. My home, which goes back to the late 1800s, suddenly feels its age. If this goes on much longer, I feel that I may be overcome by consumption or gout.

So this is me saying that you will have to wait until next week to hear from David Baron.

It'll be worth the wait. And happy holidays, however you're spending them.

Onwards

Bobbie