And other years, the Not I is loud and clear, banging open the cupboard doors with authority, like the earthquake in Santa Cruz when I was twenty-two. And suddenly, God was everywhere, a tremble on my lips as I stood in the doorway while the world shook. And the ketchup and soy sauce bottles flew out of the refrigerator, smashing to the floor. Anything this big evidence of something not me. The quake knocked down Pacific Street. And the golden tents they lifted as a make shift shopping district. Like the town had been visited by a traveling Spirit Revival.