Orange Morning
I woke up wondering what time it was. I imagined it must be one of three of the ungodly, insomnia-sponsored hours in which my mind is more than obliged to stir. Noticing the hue of our living room as I stepped out, I figured it must be some off brand of the Witching Hour. The sky was a shade I’d never seen, and my first thoughts were grim and doomsday-ish –a common thread this year. It looked like the entire sky was logged in sepia; a tint that had seeped across the city throughout the night. Staring out the window, at the spirits draped over San Francisco, my mind heard the word echoed consistently: Orange. But not of sunrise. Something new, and different. As my mind began to gain traction, I found purchase on not a single palpable explanation. All I could grasp was bewilderment. And maybe aliens.
I checked my phone: it was late for me. Past seven. The greys should already be finding dimension. Instead the entire city was looked like it still figured it was the dead of night. No one was waiting for the bus, moving their car for street cleaning, nor any other symptoms of a weekday morning. The city just looked dead.
I looked at the weather app to see if there was some sort of explanation. It said that it was hazy. Thanks.
Flipping on the news I was relieved to see that the anchors were similarly perplexed, and found footing in the fact that the planet had gone askew, not my own marbles. The weather man told me that it was from the fires. Of course. Most weird shit lately, at least as far as air quality, had been in congruence with fires appeasing beastly cravings that I could scarcely fathom.
Such is life in Cali 2020.
This is the conversation that has settled amongst the entire state, ebbing and flourishing year by year. The fires, dude. They seem to be intent on devouring our Utopia, with an appetite that ranges further and further beyond our ability to respond. It gives the summertime atmosphere of our wonderful state, where I was born and raised, a steady hue of suspense.
On that Orange Morning I decided to take a walk and explore What the Fuck. By the time I had my coffee and had gotten dressed and calmed myself into realizing that 30 Days of Night hadn’t just begun, it was ten or so, the city was kinda awake and doing things. But the pigments of morning hadn’t changed at all, not one bit. I felt like the sun was taking the day off and had hired a substitute that refused the concept of daytime progression. I headed out to a hilltop near our house.
Everyone I saw had a comparable air of bewilderment. I almost felt like we somehow weren’t supposed to be outside. Looking out over the city I must admit it was beautiful. I felt like I was looking at a rendition of the city pained by an artist with a three-color palette; black, grey and orange. Despite the ascetic, it had an after-shade of malice, as the air’s ambiance consisted of toasted memories and an incineration of life as once known to hundreds of people, suddenly homeless, void of their tangible memories.
All I could do was wander around the neighborhood, take photos, and hope that we, as humans, might be able to live with this planet, instead of all the hell over it. A part of me hopes that the fires will serve as a kind of cleansing, diluting a way of life that once destroyed the planet, and allowing us to rebuild in a style that doesn’t make the Earth prone to either kill or be killed. I feel that California will serve as an example, not only of what to do when placed in the open palms of an inferno, but to realize that our current style of life isn’t working, and we best find ways to turn these open palms into an embrace.
The End
Check out Sean’s awesome website and amazing book A Manbaby’s Requiem by clicking the image below!
