The Poppy is the California state flower

Bright orange petals, brown fuzzy core atop a dewy green stem. The poppies line the freeways in the spring, fields of delicate petals and hearty stalks trembling in the foggy air, cars cars cars thundering down the giant asphalt paths. I haven't seen a poppy this year in California, but I can feel them all around me. Every warm ray of sunshine and grain of sand between my slowly tanning toes, every bike bell brrnnnggg and skateboard ke-tunk ke-tunk on the concrete boardwalk, every juicy orange from the valley and decadent bite of seared ono from the sea.
Like Dorothy and Toto, the longer I stay in soothing field of poppies, the more complacent I become. I stretch out and make myself comfortable, take a long nap in the bright, warm sunshine.
Activism? Huh, how does that work when there is so much time to be spent running along the beach?
Politics? Someone somewhere, I'm not quite sure who, is taking care of it. I'll have another bean burrito. Extra hot sauce please.
Health care? Cali has cheap coverage, maybe I'll stay even though the rest of the state's infrastructure is crumbling.
Environment? Its 59 degrees- maybe global warming will help December in San Diego be just a touch warmer and I can banish my scarf to the chest of drawers.
Ambition? One of these days I'll get around to my projects, but for now, its cool. There's a killer happy hour every day in PB.

The poppies are intoxicating and blur my vision, my decisions. Staring out at the lights on Mission Bay, small sailboats crisscrossing in the surprisingly strong winter winds, I wonder why this place holds me, lures me in, makes me forget (misplace) my love for the east coast, for the intensity and ambition and friends and beauty.

Who saved Dorothy?

Who saves me?