Orange stirrings

This morning I awoke at 4:00 a.m. in anticipation of my upcoming flight for my trip to Colorado. Too much time has passed since I was last in Colorado visiting Carmon and Don. It is of no surprise when I later learned that accounting for our time zone difference Carmon also awoke at 3:00. My dreams and mind started stirring at 3:00. Based on many years experience with Carmon I am certain Carmon and I share many unexplainable connections, in this case stirrings are collective rather than solitary. I struggled to stay in bed longer. Finally at 3:40 I succumbed to the stirrings and started to dress for the trip to the airport and ensuing flight to Denver, Co. Graciously Brian arose early to drive me to the airport. As we drove past the signs signaling our route to Terminal One I observed the sign indicating our nation’s current threat level. It displayed ORANGE. I rhetorically thought out loud the following questions, “Threat Level Orange, how can it be orange, isn’t it always orange?” Given that the last week or so I have been exploring my own anticipatory anxiousness over my upcoming trip I realize orange in this case is not what I think. It is an imposed perception or sense of fear to elicit cooperation for social perception and consciousness. Or perhaps I am wrong, I might even say my fear is elevated higher than orange, whatever color that may be. It is elevated because I fear the Gulf is in the throws of dying. The Gulf spill accident will be our nation’s Chernobyl. Once in one of many routine car conversations I had with Michael. We were debating some important topical issue and each of us were convinced the other was completely wrong. Truth is we both were always completely wrong. In frustration, Michael posed, “Exactly what color is the sky in your world?” Anticipating his strategy I refused to state a color which would land me squarely a casualty of his strategical question. Smirking broadly I replied, “Well the color of the sky in my world of course is called PERFECT.” Michael and I both instantly broke out in hysterical laughter. Once we caught our breathe Michael replied, “Very well played.” To which I smiled widely and said, “Thanks, I am quite pleased with myself.” Too which there was more laughter. Now returning to our car ride to the airport.

Brian asked, “What does orange even mean?” I have no idea. Orange is a color I love and has been a trend in my art for quite some time now. My orange is not the same as other individuals. My formula for mixing orange is my own secret process. It is part of my pallet of creative expression. Orange in my world is perfect, not an imposed state of fear.

I admit this is an old topic and not one I have pondered for some time. However I can all too clearly recall a day at work where I was convinced I would need to stop at the hardware store to buy plastic, tape, and batteries. Next I would need to stop by the grocery store to pick up a week’s worth of canned foods. Once arriving at home Michael and I would encase ourselves in the basement sealing ourselves off from the outside world with plastic, tape and fear. The source of this rational course of action? The threat of an immanent dirty bomb on our nation. Obviously this was before Michael’s passing.

Forward back to the present. I am sitting in Carmon and Don’s living room. I feel like writing. I snapped a picture on my phone and posted to my facebook page. I wrote as the text, I AM HOME. I am. The thought which spurred this urge to write was the realization HOME is a place and it also is a relationship. I AM HOME.
In August 2007, I made the remainder of Michael’s ashes into cast paper buddha blessings. Today I opened the notes I wrote during the drive out to Colorado that year.

Colorado travel notes from August 9 through August 19, 2007:
All roads lead home
Where is home?
Is home within me? It has to be within me.

Today while sitting in Carmon’s studio catching up on long overdue conversations and topics I observe the silk screen frames stored under Carmon’s studio table. I read names printed on the edge of each frame. I spot my name, doug, block lettered on the frame most likely a design or image Carmon and I collaborated on for the floor canvas and upholstered chairs I have. The conversation we are having and the conversations we will have this week are held in queue since 2007 waiting for me to arrive home.

Orange is the color of stirrings early in the morning calling me home, stirrings that I realize are collective and solitary. Carmon shares his poem and I experience home as relationship. I am deeply grateful for all my homes.


doug
Monday June 14, 2010

Carmon’s Poem follows:
In Some Ways However Small and Secret

In some ways, however small and secret
Each of us is a little bit mad.

Everyone is lonely at bottom
And cries to be understood.

But we can never entirely understand someone else.

And each of us remains part stranger.

Even to those who love us.

It is the weak who are cruel,
Gentleness can only be expected from the strong.

Those who do not know fear
Are not really brave,
For courage is the capacity to confront what can be imagined.

And you can understand people better if you look at them
No matter how old, or impressive they are
As if they were children.

For most of us never really mature,
We simply grow taller.

And happiness comes only when we push our hearts and brains
To the furtherest reaches of which we are capable.

For the purpose of life is to matter.

To count,
To stand for something,
To have it make a difference that you lived,
At all.

Author, Leo Ralston