i’ve been writing a lab for roughly 20 hours straight. at some point around 5 am, i got up from the place i’d been sitting in and walked over to my window. yesterday, the sky had been a chalky grey. today, a fiery orange.

a smog warning. there’s been smoke in my eyes for months, years. the smoke of uncertainty and fear, standing between me and a future i’ll never know till it happens. here i’ve been, furiously swiping away at the air. what’s the use? i have no power over what i cannot control, right? today, the forest burns in agreement. the sun is obscured, the sky blankets us in a deadly haze.

the first thing i thought of when i finally sniffed the air was summers of the late 2000’s. i can’t say i remember much of my childhood. most of what’s stayed intact is of leaves, of rushing water, rocks and sand and a pulsating glow, licking oxygen from the air, crackling into nothingness. i’ve always loved the smell of campfire. i’ve always loved the earth and all it can do. it’s strange how something so vicious can pull forth something so tender.

microphones in 2020. i haven’t been able to stop listening to it since the first time i ever did. it’s the first thing i wanted to hear this morning when i felt the earth cry.

“is it because my parents barely had any money
and preferred to leave the baby in the garden
that i grew up to blur the boundary
between myself and the actual churning dirt of this place?”

the smog called me outside this morning, despite my better judgement. the only place i can listen to “microphones in 2020” is on my dsi, so i packed it. i also packed 4 cameras, a notebook and pen, sketchbook, and a novel. all the extra stuff in case i didn’t write, but i knew i would. i knew i needed to write all these words before i did. i felt them ricochet against my chest before i even left my apartment.

“surely this experience explains something about whoever it was that sang all these songs”

i stepped out of my apartment and heard them before i even had a chance to put my headphones on. it occurred to me that i had no idea when the last time i’d heard the birds was. when was the last time i heard the whole world rejoice at the rising sun? even through the fires, the birds still sing. maybe they don’t know any better. maybe they’re just happy to be alive.

i climbed over the ledge by the river and sat on the rocks, watching huge flocks of ducks and geese float along, nip at the surface, perched on rocks sticking out above the water. i watched the birds for two hours, writing intermittently, taking pictures. surprisingly, there were lots of people outside too, running along the bridge, stopping to capture the yellow imprinted on the river. i wondered if they were as terrified as i was.

we’re experiencing some of the worst air quality the country has ever seen. the news is cluttered with plenty of articles to remind you of this. stay inside. wear a mask. your health is at risk. they’re right, the air is unbreathable. but the fires still burn. we’re on track to have the most destructive wildfire season in history. of course, the news has a lot less to say about that. imagine how breathable the air will be in 10 years.

i have to wonder why we choose to talk about the forests as though we have no control over what happens to them. why the primary concern of the media is to tell us to fear for our lungs instead of telling us to fear for the future of our planet. protect your lungs from wildfire smoke. who will protect the forests from burning?