Tangerine: A Book of Hours

The sky is the color of rainwater on a dust-smeared windowpane. It makes the pristine snow beneath stand out all the more brightly. The cold, out there, is the kind that gets inside. It shivers at the core.

Friday, and wind moves bare branches. Birds flitter and hop, looking for seed. Traffic on the Parkway sounds exhausted, shuffling toward the snow-mounded weekend.

Time is compressing around the coming holidays, moments growing scarce.

I woke early, after fitful sleep. My body carries an enduring coolness today that I hope to work out by heating up with exercise. Soon.

I am imagining the disc of the sun. The warmth of it.

On the clock, the second hand ticks circles.

Almost three, and the light has not changed since morning.

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A dark and glimmery evening. Christmas lights and Wintery air. Music, whispering from the stereo; illumination: low. I'm plugged into my phone and typing. Ready to go out to eat with Kelli.

Feeling pretty good.

I have uploaded a major re-design of The Allurium (trying to shake the dust off on my birthday). The site now runs on the MovableType program (with some extra stuff from me). It's not fully fine-tuned yet but should be, more or less, functional. Let me know what you think, if the spirit moves you.

I'm glad it is the weekend. Glad I'm 40 (what can I say; I'm pleased to be still kicking around this place).

It is very quiet here. Except for the music. The time feels disconnected. I'm drinking ice water. Wearing blue and black.

Thinking of red wine.

The ocean.

And the silky tide of hours.

Twelve doubled, and forty. Cool.

Posted by The Allurium at 6:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In Tangerine Live, I typed a phrase that lingers now like an echo in my head. Evening rose. I'm picturing that, rolling it around in my mind like a pebble in the hand. Imagining flowers, twilight...more. Ripples. Words like the sound of a bell. Images that spread and interact, overlap. Memories shifting into thoughts and back. Tidal.

December is, I think, an evening rose.

Always something deeper to the one after eleven, for me. Time and days wash by in calendar squares, each tinted differently. December, however, seems more deeply steeped in thoughts and memories, rippled and reflected images. Concentric waves sent out by the year, colliding and piling up, here. Past and future, thinning. Meanings doubled.

An evening rose.

...tonight. It was cold and clear, pushing a sky of orange and pink. My favorite rose is like that; I remember it swaying at dusk, after a Summer rain. I remember its perfume. I remember the taste of that drop of rain, glimmering --

-- Like the stars in the tall jet sky do now, the first night into December.

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