Rummaging this rainy afternoon through the Wunderkammer of my chaotic mind, I picked up and assembled the scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, an irresistible retro trifle offering a panoramic view of a Californian forest fire threatening the late 1950’s American suburban dream. Picture this: The blaze is raging at left of picture against a background of snow-capped mountain peaks. Two military helicopters hover overhead, surveying a stream of cars wending their way up the hillside, roof-racks packed with belongings salvaged from the flames. Framed between two palm trees, a deserted swimming pool with diving-board, water slide and deck chairs perched on the perimeter is visible at a lower level of a luxuriant landscaped garden, poignant emblem of Eden on the verge of incineration. At right of picture, in the foreground of the composition, a police motorcyclist sits astride his mount at the top of a driveway, gesturing back down the path. Gesturing to what or whom, however, it is impossible to say, since his shiny knee-high leather boot, partially obscuring the chrome exhaust-pipe, marks the boundary of the completed portion of the puzzle and his motorcycle remains deprived of front wheel and environs.