In Los Angeles, there are days to be remembered.
Today the sun rose orange, its light cast down through the haze of smoke and particulates from the Santa Clarita fire.
I arrived at the beach at three in the afternoon and ash clung to my jacket. The flakes lilted like dander around me as I walked and a light grey cloud of smoke hung over the landscape. At the water's edge my visibility was limited to just beyond the break and boats came in and out of existence there.
Swimming under the windless sky during this day-long nuclear winter, I felt frightfully alive.
By the time I returned to my towel and my friends, the day had changed. The low slung cloud of smoke had blown towards the north and sat, like down stuffing, upon Santa Monica.
Now the sun shone golden upon the glassy breaking waves. I was reminded of the way sunsets look in Hawaii or Thailand-- like the golden quality of their spiritual and cultural heritage is cast into liquid, physical forms...
As I slalomed through the tranquilized Saturday traffic, I could look directly at the sun for half a minute at a time. I drank in the red disc and gave thanks to Apollo.
Today, skin tones warmed into luscious shades of orange and brown and magic hour lasted far longer. Today, I re-discovered the unique beauty of Los Angeles...
In this city there are plenty of hours, days and lifetimes you may easily and fondly forget, but to be sure, there are also days to be remembered.