Sun Ounce

He was a new man suddenly, as if the old one were consumed to be reborn; a Phoenix on the rise. The route to new heights as daunting and arduous as it was always known to be, the new man walked with his head high, nose just dipped ever so to avoid pretension but confident nonetheless. The suit he wore was second-hand, loaned to him for just this occasion; the first job interview since it all went South.

He strolled along as if weighed down by the burdens of life, but only in such a way as to keep his feet on the ground. Stride too long and he just may take flight. He had eaten breakfast after sleeping in a warm bed and found his way out the door in good time. It was only about a half a mile walk for him today, and then a half mile walk back home.

Home. A word older than he could conceive. A goal larger than he had ever dreamed. But the home was behind him and the opportunity lay before him. His burden was his alone, and he was allowed to carry it alone. There was support, there were assistants, there was good will. But the work. The drive. The will to get home; all that came from within.

Along the road he met many travelers, regulars and strangers alike, about their respective tasks of the day. The mailman was on route, the baker’s shop smelled fresh, and a barkeep was spraying down last night’s work from the sidewalk he strolled. There was not much about him but the hum of the day; the nervous energy of things getting done.

He would be one to get things done. He would be one who they could look at and say, “By God, he can do anything!” They would welcome him with open arms to a world he was new within. And the home he was leaving behind was only home now for a few days. Hell, the earth was as much his home as that rental. But here he was, making it all happen.

In his backpack he carried the history of his work life on sheets of paper; like a paperboy scheming for the next quarter he carried resumes abound. He was cleared for take off, flight plan undetermined. But high on life would be an understatement for this young gent. The world was waiting just beyond his grasp. The air out here seemed fresher, the ocean breeze lightening everything it graced.

He wore slip-on shoes, khaki shorts, a flannel shirt unbuttoned a bit too far, and a hat that read CAT. He was technically quite far from the land he considered home; from the land he left behind for The Great American Dream. Everything was happening since he decided to make it so. What a change from the landlocked home back East.

Out here, everyone was moving, shaking, going somewhere. He never met so many dreamers in his life as he did over the past few nights in the beachfront dives. There was a warmness which lingered into the eve, then further into the night. Hell, the chill of dawn only showed when it was time to go home. 

Along his walk to the beach this morning, he stopped to grab a coffee and maybe the local rag. Mostly ads for the antique malls and flea markets, there was often something funny to read with his morning caffeine, nicotine, and cannabis routine. In the gray early hours after dawn, he took time getting ready for the day. Even after he had shit, showered, and shaved, he would need the walk and the stimulants and a good joke to really wake up.

The good joke was the most important part. If one was not presented to him, he would fabricate a joke. He had a routine, afterall, with this new life of his out on the big ocean requiring him to make adjustments. Back East when he needed to wake up, someone was making him do so. His parents, his friends, his alarm clock. But out here, even hungover, he was awaking with the early light of dawn.

The sun filtered in through the condo window blinds, vertical, and cast vertical stripes past the foot of his bed along the far wall, the Western wall. Dawn greeted him as a lost friend, one he seemed to have left behind in some earlier age only to reconnect with in all its glory out here on the coast. The West Coast, mind you, but his room faced East. So here on his dawn stroll toward the beach, the sun cast warmly but low still behind him.

And there was the coffee shop, succulents for sale before you even get in the front door. Double-espresso, copy of The Coastal Cut, and then out to the beach. But where was the joke? Somewhere in the pages maybe. An ad for an in-home, personal organizer. Someone to tidy up your mess. Someone to de-clutter, de-stress, and de-mess. $25/hour. He stopped to wonder what the organizer got paid. He read on.

As he walked, he smoked a spliff. One rolled for the coffee, and one rolled for after coffee. A Volkswagen Beetle from the late 1960’s puttered by in the street. Someone was grabbing down their surfboard from a rafter and dropping it in the bed of their truck. A young woman, perhaps a mother, perhaps a nanny, was picking lemons from a tree in their yard. Early risers all around. 

“Dawn Yet Again, JHB, 2025”

AI Response to “weight of fire”:

So, since air (at sea level) weighs about 1.3 kg per cubic meter (1.3 grams per liter), fire weighs about 0.3 kg per cubic meter. One pound of ordinary fire, here on Earth near sea level, would take up a cube about 1.2 meters to a side. The reason that fires always flow upward is that its density is lower than air.