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Dec. 16th, 2007 10:22 amI saw the sun! Nobody even locked me in the closet.
I think we may have called the storm again with our Weird Dolls. It's been blowing like mad this morning. It's as warm as spring. I walked up Cook Street inventing witty verses about whatever caught my eye, forgetting each line as I sang, which is an excellent way to convince yourself that your rhyme scheme makes sense. I wore no coat, just hoodie and frail t-shirt, and I'm definitely on the refreshed side of the warm-cold continuum, but not frozen.
Along the shore in the wind. Halfway down the hill I found a bench dedicated to Stella, so I sat there and watched the sea. Thirty feet above the water I could feel the spray. The waves white hands slapping and groping at the path below, like a salt giant clawing blindly on the nightstand for his glasses. There was a jogger I worried about until she came back the other way.
Climbed down to the level of the sea. The sun was pale as milk. Everything was pale. No fury of gold and red in the sunrise. Blue threaded with white, silver stained with green, but luminous and joyful, like seeing someone you love get up and walk and smile after sickness.
The concave belly of each large wave was ribbed by smaller crosswaves. The ridges of water would shoulder along the seawall, turn, and run into each other, making triangular peaks that folded over into themselves, butted headfirst against the rocks, smashed or sizzled out over the beach. A troupe of portly little ducks were in the thick of it, sometimes just their black heads showing in the wave, sometimes subsumed entirely, without even time to dive, but they would pop up and go on floating without showing any concern.
I saw a large white dog, woolly, with almost painfully noble expression, wearing what certainly appeared to be a pony blanket for your larger shetland.
I went as far as Government Street trying to decide whether to go along to the breakwater or come inside and warm up and write it down. You know that sense of obligation to take in as much beauty as is offered. I thought, well, inside is a good idea for the moment. You don't have to collect every particle of salt from the sea to know that you love it.
{rf}
I think we may have called the storm again with our Weird Dolls. It's been blowing like mad this morning. It's as warm as spring. I walked up Cook Street inventing witty verses about whatever caught my eye, forgetting each line as I sang, which is an excellent way to convince yourself that your rhyme scheme makes sense. I wore no coat, just hoodie and frail t-shirt, and I'm definitely on the refreshed side of the warm-cold continuum, but not frozen.
Along the shore in the wind. Halfway down the hill I found a bench dedicated to Stella, so I sat there and watched the sea. Thirty feet above the water I could feel the spray. The waves white hands slapping and groping at the path below, like a salt giant clawing blindly on the nightstand for his glasses. There was a jogger I worried about until she came back the other way.
Climbed down to the level of the sea. The sun was pale as milk. Everything was pale. No fury of gold and red in the sunrise. Blue threaded with white, silver stained with green, but luminous and joyful, like seeing someone you love get up and walk and smile after sickness.
The concave belly of each large wave was ribbed by smaller crosswaves. The ridges of water would shoulder along the seawall, turn, and run into each other, making triangular peaks that folded over into themselves, butted headfirst against the rocks, smashed or sizzled out over the beach. A troupe of portly little ducks were in the thick of it, sometimes just their black heads showing in the wave, sometimes subsumed entirely, without even time to dive, but they would pop up and go on floating without showing any concern.
I saw a large white dog, woolly, with almost painfully noble expression, wearing what certainly appeared to be a pony blanket for your larger shetland.
I went as far as Government Street trying to decide whether to go along to the breakwater or come inside and warm up and write it down. You know that sense of obligation to take in as much beauty as is offered. I thought, well, inside is a good idea for the moment. You don't have to collect every particle of salt from the sea to know that you love it.
{rf}
