April 10: The Oil Fields of Inglewood

The oil wells are churning as I crest the hill. I drive up and over, out of Baldwin Hills, out of the lines of square houses and square stores, and into the oil fields. Like large black bugs, the pumps sit on four legs, their heads jolting forward and back, again and again into the ground. There is a rhythm to the oil wells as they dig.

Around the massive praying mantises of oil is nothing but dirt. Dry brown dirt and fences. And that’s all I can see for a second, with the sun in my eyes. In that instant, everything seems bright and hard and burned to the ground: the sun, the torn apart dirt, and the oil pumps going about their business.

It is the golden landscape of Los Angeles that they promised, the California dream. The sky is burnt orange and red and yellow, the colors of the sun wrapped up in a haze and spread across the oil wells.

Whatever people say about L.A., the sunsets are beautiful.