Ash Monday
After the surrealism of yesterday, I awoke
expecting just about anything. Had I ventured
outside to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
descending through the smoke and landing in my
parking lot, I wouldn't have batted an eyelash. But
the city has thus far escaped War, Famine and
Pestilence (though Death has arrived on its pale
horse for an unlucky few). As I stepped out into
the dawn on my way to work, ash rained down like a
smouldering snow. My doorstep, my car, my apartment
complex were all covered in a thin, gray blanket.
"Southern California snow," as a coworker
quipped.
When I arrived at work out on the coast, the ash
had collected even more thickly. Black and gray
drifts of the stuff piled up in every corner and
against every vertical surface. When we suited up
and went out to jump in the animal tanks, we found
as much ash covering the bottoms of the pools as
the sidewalks around them. I groaned through my
regulator when I reached the bottom and saw how
much work we'd have ahead of us in the days to
come. At least the dolphins seemed completely
oblivious to the cinders mucking up their home. On
the second day of park closure, the animals were
positively starved for interaction, and repeatedly
butted my feet before I even got in the water.
Completely at ease underwater with animals under
normal circumstances, even I grew a bit concerned
when these playful beasts didn't take no for an
answer when I refused to play with them.
Back above water, the sun barely bled through
heavy clouds of smoke. The pallor obscured the
light so much that I could glimpse a large sunspot
on the face of the blood-red sun with my naked eye.
I'd never seen anything like it. The only other
time I'd ever experienced such an odd and unnatural
quality of sunlight was during the total solar
eclipse of 1991, when the sun over San Diego was
three-quarters obscured. Now, as then, the world
took on an apocalyptic feeling. As I drove home
from work, I watched the hills around me for signs
of flames and the skies above for descending
horsemen.
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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