Wednesday, July 12, 2006

En Fuego

Digging through my closet, I reached past my Emilio Pucci collection, past the custom tailed suits from Vietnam, and pulled out a bright red Lacoste shirt. It was perfect Independence Day Red, and would go well with the themed party I was primping for. Wallering on the floor, Kevin lazily told me his plans for the evening while little bells went off in my head. I heard the sirens the moment I smelled the smoke, but it took another few seconds for realization to hit. Fire.

I ran to my window, drew the shades and yelled, “Holy shit, guys! The house across the street is on fire!” My housemates crowed the window, and we stared in shock. Crawling out onto the small balcony, we had a first class, smoke-level view of the blaze. Already 5 fire trucks had filled the street, and dozens of curious locals stood in our lawn watching the inferno.

I can’t say I wasn’t fascinated. From our window, we saw the inhabitants of the house run out the front door, cell phones in hand. The neighbors had brought out garden hoses, and were spraying the burning house. Unfortunately, Aeolus sent flames over to the house next door, whose beautiful Los Angeles bungalow gables erupted into flames as well. I quickly scanned the area, wondering if our house was in danger. What would I take? Could I rescue it all? What was most important?

Standing against my wall was the French easel that had traveled the world with me, whose sides were dinged from hauling it over rocks and through forests, multi-hued from hours upon hours of projects. In a 1940s makeup box were tubes of oil paints, the most precious of which I bought at the same paint shop Renoir and Monet had frequented, choosing pigments that would influence the 1900s art scene. Close by was the sacred leather-bound box of pastels my father had inherited when he was a boy studying in Paris. Alongside my great-great-aunt, this same box of pastels had attended art classes taught by Rosa Bonheur, the most famous woman artist of the 1880s.

Tucked behind my desk, and sewn through the room was my own artwork - over-sized folders with work from high school, USC, and Art Center. My cherished oil landscapes adorned my room, framed in gold, the only artwork I proudly display. In small bound books were the landscape paintings I did on Semester at Sea, irreplaceable reminders of the vistas I experienced on my journey around the world. Beside them lay stacks of CDs and photos documenting some of my most incredible moments of SAS, Art Center, USC, and every summer in between. Harvey the Dinosaur and Harvey the Skeleton-Man, delicate anatomic sculptures I created, sat on the shelves near my bed.

In the recesses of my bookcase were the Star Wars comic books I’d been collecting since I was 13, some signed by artists, authors, or actors. Above the comics was the magazine collection I obsessively bought and poured through each month: Flaunt, Wallpaper*, Navigator*, and Surface. Displayed under my bed were rows upon rows of DVDs and movies. How could I live without those? Or my coveted Pucci collection? Or more importantly, my Powerbook??

By now, no less than 10 fire trucks crowded the street, hosing down the skeletal top floors. On our lawn now stood the ash-covered residents, watching Menlo 2713 fall to ruin. Mercifully, the bottom floor remained untouched, and the firemen were able to put out the adjacent fire before much damage could be wrought. But what about the rooms upstairs? What about the memories that had been lost?

It seems moronic to be boggled down by all of these material possessions, wondering what matters most and what I could survive without…on Independence Day. But isn’t that what July 4th signifies? It is a day put aside to remember our rich history and revel in past accomplishments. It is a celebration of the United States and the principles of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. So it doesn’t seem too far off to be worried about all of my shit going up in flames.

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Worthless Fourth of July fact:
Always the progressive state, Massachusetts was the first legislature to recognize Independence Day in 1781.

2 Comments:

At 10:11 AM, Blogger Deidra said...

en Fuego--- YAAAAAH! Your title brought back good memories of Featherville. Just imagine if the house would have been a straw house, and the prized possessions of the people next door were green cherries and trixie little hobbits.

 
At 10:50 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

so, i'm actually having to decide what material possessions i need in my life and what i can live without.... evacuating a war zone means you're only allowed one small bag..
love you!
mich

 

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