Hymn to Orange

Of the many colors that appear to the naked eye, orange is my favorite. This son of Red and Yellow is a possessor of fierce intent, whose domain lay, not in distant places, but in distance itself.

For starters, there is a well-known fruit, who shares in the name of our bright and exuberant friend—describing both its hue and its contents. The rind exudes a pleasant smell when caressed, and its meat is like a much sweeter lemon. What could top this?

The campfire flickers several shades of this hot and cozy color, orange. And the camp-fire has long been the staple of the camp-site. In the spring and summertime, fire is a friend and reminder of our long and arduous journey from monkeys to people… a reminder that, before the whiskey, tobacco, and abject comfort, was this: the heart of the hominin world. In the fall and winter, it is absolutely vital for survival.

In the Autumn, on Samhain—Halloween—Orange is reunited with his goth GF: Black. And together they frighten the small, nefarious goblins. 

His icon is the fox and tabby. If you only knew how many cats were killed to film “Milo and Otis”, then you should tell me. Because I’ve heard that the number is astounding. 

The icon of the mistress, Black, is the witch’s cat, and the jaguar. Herein lies the fundamental difference between the two, which enamors each to the other.

Orange plays hard to get, the stoic bastard. Because when you look at a far off sunrise, or the smattering of golden leaves which fall from the boughs of once chlorophylled trees, what you really see is the place where orange is: in the house of change, at the foothills of the future, amidst the far-flung city-states of passing moments. One who masters their destiny visits the house of change, but never really gets to know their host.

So says I, O Orange, you mysterious friend, son of Red and Yellow, master of heat and ebullience, spur me on. Agitate me to greatness. If I sit too still, then my ass will go numb, and my bones will chafe. So spur me on!