Seascape.
[another freewrite - 3/7/06 - I tend to leave them alone for a week or more. Melodramatic? mm. Rub it in. Anyhow. I'm thinking if I can make a short story out of this. This was the one that I was typing at for an hour or so to realize that I only had ten minutes worth of writing. It was distressing. The full-length one had a storm and a mermaid and a bargain -she sold the colors away. But I can't bring myself to retype it. Instead you get this little bit. perhaps that's a good thing.]
The boards are warm and split-rough under my bare feet. The sun burns my soles as the wood slips its heat through the calloused pads. I've held tight to the coil of rope to steady myself against the waves. The sway makes my arm ache.
My right hand is white with sprinkled salt, it's closest to the sea. each wave we hit sprays its tears on me and the wind dries them like time's indolent disintrest and all that's left are tiny crystals.
I look up. The water is blue. But it really isn't. It's not blue like the sky, like flowers or shirt dyes. It's not a static dead color of human sorrow. They live.
And change; ripples oscillate between gold and green. Red and purple. Yellow and violet. It's a blue only as far as the sun is yellow and the angel's wings are white.
They aren't.
I remember Laura's downy feathers. They were not quite white. Have you ever seen a waterfall? It's falling and the spray is white - each drop carries it own world of a rainbow colors. They shimmer; they are angel wings.
[She slips about the railing on the third floor and perches on the window sill. She leaps from rooftop to rooftop, and when she spins I can see that same waterfall. All white with a hint of some other color at the core.]
Perhaps that is why the sea is called blue and the night is called black. Neither are truly either.
All of my memories keep those colors near, sanding them with gray wisps. But they'll still remain brilliant. Sand will not rub away wings, only scatter them to the winds. Dust will not fine-tune the shining waves of a sea, but only swirl about.
Momentary is the human thought.
[and the sea obsession is just your imagination.]
The boards are warm and split-rough under my bare feet. The sun burns my soles as the wood slips its heat through the calloused pads. I've held tight to the coil of rope to steady myself against the waves. The sway makes my arm ache.
My right hand is white with sprinkled salt, it's closest to the sea. each wave we hit sprays its tears on me and the wind dries them like time's indolent disintrest and all that's left are tiny crystals.
I look up. The water is blue. But it really isn't. It's not blue like the sky, like flowers or shirt dyes. It's not a static dead color of human sorrow. They live.
And change; ripples oscillate between gold and green. Red and purple. Yellow and violet. It's a blue only as far as the sun is yellow and the angel's wings are white.
They aren't.
I remember Laura's downy feathers. They were not quite white. Have you ever seen a waterfall? It's falling and the spray is white - each drop carries it own world of a rainbow colors. They shimmer; they are angel wings.
[She slips about the railing on the third floor and perches on the window sill. She leaps from rooftop to rooftop, and when she spins I can see that same waterfall. All white with a hint of some other color at the core.]
Perhaps that is why the sea is called blue and the night is called black. Neither are truly either.
All of my memories keep those colors near, sanding them with gray wisps. But they'll still remain brilliant. Sand will not rub away wings, only scatter them to the winds. Dust will not fine-tune the shining waves of a sea, but only swirl about.
Momentary is the human thought.
[and the sea obsession is just your imagination.]
posted by Nocturne at 7:49 PM
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