omgnowaisquee
Oct. 27th, 2008 04:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jade_sabreTHERE IS A GIANT RAINBOW OUTSIDE THE COMPUTER ROOM WINDOW.
it is already fading, flickering in and out of existance as the rainclouds roll in over Angers.
and those rainclouds are huge. And also already raining. Oh wet bicycle seat, you and I are old friends.
Oh look! The rainbow is moving with the clouds.
I like taking pictures of the sky. If I could paint, at all, I would do nothing but skyscapes: dawn, the light bright blue right after dawn, the the deep blue with the fluffy white clouds, the grey-on-grey-on-black stormclouds, the sky right now, with its layers and levels of clouds, and sunset, and night, with a halo around the moon and the stars, all around.
I like looking at rain from far away, too. I like looking at trees on a drizzly day.
which reminds me of this, from the train on Friday morning:
Witness: the most beautiful dawn in your life.
Picture: a river, with the peu d'or lining the horizon, the sky green-blue-red above, a line of clouds whisping up, combed and teased out of cotton-balls, the trees shadows, the river gold. The rosy orange touching the tower in the distance. The brilliant, radiant golden clouds. And then: le soleil.
The king shall come when morning dawns
and light triumphant breaks
When beauty gilds
the eastern hills
and life to joy awakes
Witness: despair, in the knowledge that you will never, ever, EVER be able to begin to describe this moment in all its infinite majesty. The sky gleams, the earth blushes, your camera sucks, and there are no words.
Picture: Rose on a green field against a greying blue sky. Light, where previously all was darkness. Forget the miracle of thinking the falling leaves will be back in the spring; this is the miracle, that for a moment we assume we will have this light tomorrow.
Witness: the others on the train, the businessmen, the travellers, the gossiping friends, the solitary sleepers. Watch their eyes glance out the window, and back to their journals or their iPhones, and repress you urge to shake them and dis Vous manquez la plus belle aurore de ma vie! Car ta vie n'est pas vos vies; mais, pense que cette aurore est la plus belle pour n'importe qui.
I still can't figure out why I hate the Romantics so much, when I behave so similarly in the face of natural beauty. It certes touches my sentiments as strongly as theirs, if not more, and yet I read their poetry and their contemplations and instead find myself suffering from an excess of sentiment too well-phrased to be real. Perhaps because, for moi, I cannot sustain such feelings long enough to write brilliantly about them. Or well, I can--sustain them, at least--but...perhaps they invest too much importance in Nature itself?
I suppose they would ask me, why do you need anything greater? While I, staring at the sun as he hangs, proudly, just above the horizon, would reply, how can there not be anything greater? How can I look at this and think it a mere accident? And paradoxically, how can I look at it, and think it's just for me? Worse, do I actually think I'm the only one that sees it?
Answer: I hope not.
But how came I to be so blessed?
The light on the clouds fades from gold to white, now, no longer radiant with joy, perhaps, but still glowing, reflective beacons in the sky, content to float past another day.
it is already fading, flickering in and out of existance as the rainclouds roll in over Angers.
and those rainclouds are huge. And also already raining. Oh wet bicycle seat, you and I are old friends.
Oh look! The rainbow is moving with the clouds.
I like taking pictures of the sky. If I could paint, at all, I would do nothing but skyscapes: dawn, the light bright blue right after dawn, the the deep blue with the fluffy white clouds, the grey-on-grey-on-black stormclouds, the sky right now, with its layers and levels of clouds, and sunset, and night, with a halo around the moon and the stars, all around.
I like looking at rain from far away, too. I like looking at trees on a drizzly day.
which reminds me of this, from the train on Friday morning:
Witness: the most beautiful dawn in your life.
Picture: a river, with the peu d'or lining the horizon, the sky green-blue-red above, a line of clouds whisping up, combed and teased out of cotton-balls, the trees shadows, the river gold. The rosy orange touching the tower in the distance. The brilliant, radiant golden clouds. And then: le soleil.
The king shall come when morning dawns
and light triumphant breaks
When beauty gilds
the eastern hills
and life to joy awakes
Witness: despair, in the knowledge that you will never, ever, EVER be able to begin to describe this moment in all its infinite majesty. The sky gleams, the earth blushes, your camera sucks, and there are no words.
Picture: Rose on a green field against a greying blue sky. Light, where previously all was darkness. Forget the miracle of thinking the falling leaves will be back in the spring; this is the miracle, that for a moment we assume we will have this light tomorrow.
Witness: the others on the train, the businessmen, the travellers, the gossiping friends, the solitary sleepers. Watch their eyes glance out the window, and back to their journals or their iPhones, and repress you urge to shake them and dis Vous manquez la plus belle aurore de ma vie! Car ta vie n'est pas vos vies; mais, pense que cette aurore est la plus belle pour n'importe qui.
I still can't figure out why I hate the Romantics so much, when I behave so similarly in the face of natural beauty. It certes touches my sentiments as strongly as theirs, if not more, and yet I read their poetry and their contemplations and instead find myself suffering from an excess of sentiment too well-phrased to be real. Perhaps because, for moi, I cannot sustain such feelings long enough to write brilliantly about them. Or well, I can--sustain them, at least--but...perhaps they invest too much importance in Nature itself?
I suppose they would ask me, why do you need anything greater? While I, staring at the sun as he hangs, proudly, just above the horizon, would reply, how can there not be anything greater? How can I look at this and think it a mere accident? And paradoxically, how can I look at it, and think it's just for me? Worse, do I actually think I'm the only one that sees it?
Answer: I hope not.
But how came I to be so blessed?
The light on the clouds fades from gold to white, now, no longer radiant with joy, perhaps, but still glowing, reflective beacons in the sky, content to float past another day.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-27 04:25 pm (UTC)Not Keats, though. (Imo)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-27 05:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-27 09:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:45 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:59 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 03:00 pm (UTC)and I have done the cold syrup thing before too it is fun.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 03:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 10:13 pm (UTC)But this one, this one of just your life and reflections on beauty, this one I read.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 08:57 am (UTC)♥