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Hesse Phillips

@hessephillips.com

🏳️‍🌈 Historical fiction | Queer history | Theatre history | Early modernist | USian in Spain. Debut novel LIGHTBORNE out now. Rep: Brianlangan.bsky.social. More at hessephillips.com

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Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · 2h ago

I just went down to the trailhead and cried on two very nice, also devastated guys who were there to stop people from going on the trail, as it's still quite dangerous. The leaves on those trees crumble to dust in your hands. It's all dead.

View looking over a stone wall into a parcel of land which has been carbonized. A white house still stands to the left, and dead, charred oaks and cactuses on the hill to the right. It's almost sunset.Looking to one side of the trailhead. Black earth littered with pallid, fallen leaves, the same leaves that are somehow still clinging to the burnt oaks in the foreground. There's some green left at the tops of the trees.View from the trail parking-lot near our house, looking down a hill and across a road, towards distant mountains. The mountains glow umber in the fading light. The soil on the other side of the road stands out starkly black against a patch of grass and wildflowers growing in the foreground. A huge tree lies twisted and carbonized on the slope leading down to the road.
Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · 7h ago

This is how close the fires came - the blackened earth ends maybe 15 feet up the hill from the boundary of our backyard. The trees closest to us are still green at the top but burnt halfway up the trunks. Everything above is burnt brown. There's nothing left. Row after row of dead, burnt trees.

Photo of the hill behind our backyard, an undeveloped lot with mainly oak trees growing on it. The ground the trees are standing in is burnt black all the way up the hill. In the foreground, some shrubs, a makeshift fence of chicken-wire and a set of stone steps mark the boundary of our backyard. The blackened earth ends maybe 15 feet up the hill from our fence.
Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · 7h ago

This is how close the fires came - the blackened earth ends maybe 15 feet up the hill from the boundary of our backyard. The trees closest to us are still green at the top but burnt halfway up the trunks. Everything above is burnt brown. There's nothing left. Row after row of dead, burnt trees.

Photo of the hill behind our backyard, an undeveloped lot with mainly oak trees growing on it. The ground the trees are standing in is burnt black all the way up the hill. In the foreground, some shrubs, a makeshift fence of chicken-wire and a set of stone steps mark the boundary of our backyard. The blackened earth ends maybe 15 feet up the hill from our fence.
Alice Averlong 🏳️‍⚧️@alice.averlong.com · 6d ago

there's plenty of restaurants in this town, but the owner of the sandwich shop downtown hates me, says he's gonna kill me, and has a sign up on the wall saying that 5 cents out of every sandwich order will go towards buying bullets to shoot me with.

Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · last wk.

Here's a fun exercise: According to the Mayor of Madrid (aka CaraPolla, or "Dickface") the reason why we don't have enough firefighters is the fault of... A. Environmentalists B. Communists C. Trans people

Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · last wk.

And the scariest thing about it is that "negacionísmo," or climate change denialism, is on a steep rise here in Spain. The far right blames environmentalists for the fires. "They won't let us collect pine cones anymore" is a favorite somehow, despite being A. Wrong, and B. Immensely stupid.

Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · last wk.

Here I am at a nice little B&B near a dog beach while a place where our family was just starting to really build a life lies in ashes. Can't tell you how weird it is to be dreaming of towering infernos every night and waking up to sun and sand and happy puppies, like we're here on borrowed time.

Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · last wk.

"Not one meter unburnt."

Germán, alcalde de Piedralaves (Ávila): "No existe un metro sin quemar; ha sido una noche parecida al infierno"

El alcalde narra en 'La Mañana de Fin de Semana' la dramática noche en la que el fuego ha rodeado la localidad abulense, obligando a evacuar a los...

cope.es

Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · 2w ago

It's looking extremely likely that the lovely little house in the mountains that our whole family has been renting together for the last two years is about to burn down tonight, and I feel horribly numb about it. Not just our house but possibly the whole village. The whole forest.

The view from a beauty-spot on our favorite walk in the woods, looking south towards the Tietar River Valley across rolling foothills and meadows. In the foreground, a horse and donkey are grazing in a field bordred by low stone walls, with low, cloud-like encina oaks shading the slope of the pasture. A sliver of vivid sunlight falls across the lap of the distant blue mountains. It is dusk. The forest is humming.
Hesse Phillips@hessephillips.com · 2w ago

It's looking extremely likely that the lovely little house in the mountains that our whole family has been renting together for the last two years is about to burn down tonight, and I feel horribly numb about it. Not just our house but possibly the whole village. The whole forest.

The view from a beauty-spot on our favorite walk in the woods, looking south towards the Tietar River Valley across rolling foothills and meadows. In the foreground, a horse and donkey are grazing in a field bordred by low stone walls, with low, cloud-like encina oaks shading the slope of the pasture. A sliver of vivid sunlight falls across the lap of the distant blue mountains. It is dusk. The forest is humming.
Association for Scottish Literature@asls.org.uk · 2w ago

And we left our beds in the dark And we drove a cart to the hill And we buried the jar of ale in the bog And our small blades glittered in the dayspring And we tore dark squares, thick pages From the Book of Fire… —George Mackay Brown, “Peat Cutting” from Selected Poems: 1954–1992 #poem #poetry

George Mackay Brown Peat Cutting And we left our beds in the dark And we drove a cart to the hill And we buried the jar of ale in the bog And our small blades glittered in the dayspring And we tore dark squares, thick pages From the Book of Fire And we spread them wet on the heather And horseflies, poisonous hooks, Stuck in our arms And we laid off our coats And our blades sank deep into water And the lord of the bog, the kestrel Paced round the sun And at noon we leaned on our tuskars – The cold unburied jar Touched, like a girl, a circle of burning mouths And the boy found a wild bees’ comb And his mouth was a sudden brightness And the kestrel fell And a lark flashed a needle across the west And we spread a thousand peats Between one summer star And the black chaos of fire at the earth’s centre.