Tangerine: A Book of Hourstag:www.theallurium.com,2007-08-22:/tangerine//12006-03-06T03:15:22ZThe online journal of John W. Randal - from 1997 to 2004Movable Type Publishing Platform 4.0The Light Behind the Lacetag:www.theallurium.com,2004:/tangerine//1.3212004-08-03T00:32:37Z2006-03-06T03:15:22ZIt will be cold inside. October by air-conditioning. So I am sticking to the warmer currents, here, for as long...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
It will be cold inside. October by air-conditioning. So I am sticking to the warmer currents, here, for as long as I can. Soaking up the evening unfiltered.
Persistent in memory, is an archetypal beach day. Sitting in the hot sand, trailing grains through fingers. While the surf thumps and sprays salt -- and the heat and forever-blue sky accent and open the moment. Just like this. Just like today.
So: pen and paper -- amid marigolds, petunias and pretty unknowns. Water in my glass. A breeze that cools just a little -- and caresses more.
Earlier, high-up, I saw a butterfly the color of lemonade, its wings outlined in velvety black.
More recently: a bee on a blossom. Vivid colors and small scale swaying.
///
More slant to the shine, now.
The tops of the trees are brightened while, below, shadows stretch. Sound levels are lower, a bit more dreamlike. The silences in-between stretching too.
///
The light behind the lace is beautiful and timeless. It poured through a window inside. Turning the curtain to ivory and gold.
I like sunlight through fabric -- or other translucencies. Light, filtered and illuminating. Showing, and partially concealed.
Alluring.
I remember lying on my blue and green-turtle towel, at the beach. Eyes closed. The sunlight, on that memory day, filtered through me -- making standard shadows glow red-gold.
The light behind the lace of that memory makes this day even sweeter.
If I close my eyes and breathe, I can see the glow again...and smell the perfume of a distant blossom.
Just a bit.
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Moment/Fragmenttag:www.theallurium.com,2004:/tangerine//1.3092004-07-01T04:52:02Z2006-03-06T03:15:22ZJune, de-coupling. The highway is the loudest sound. Nighttime. I'm thumbing away at my phone. Tried "Vurt" again, earlier --...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
June, de-coupling.
The highway is the loudest sound. Nighttime. I'm thumbing away at my phone. Tried "Vurt" again, earlier -- but it seemed too desperately gonzo to me, then. My mood, I guess.
So, instead, I'm chewing gum and writing this.
(And eventually retyping it, because the email from my phone wouldn't work.)
#
An exerpt, from the first one of these from me:
6:37 AM, on a Wednesday morning. I’ve been a day without sleep, my eyes are tired, and I have nothing to say...
Not sure if I do now, either. That was in 1997.
#
I started this one in June, 2004. That will soon be past. Into July. Just an hour to go.
The highway is still loud. The air, warm.
I'm at the keyboard, now, typing into WordPad while logged-on. In a bit, I plan on browsing the Sony Ericsson site. Just daydreaming.
Fragmenting this.
#
IM Excerpt:
Kelli372: what are you up to?
lockfalcon: Just piddling around on the Sony Ericsson site, and writing fragments of a new Tangerine entry. What are you doing?
#
"And then he realized it was July..."
#
A tentative feeling, with the Holiday weekend not far away. The new month, fresh. Entering the core of Summer.
There were Julys when I swam in the ocean, or walked in the sand. Sometimes, just sweated in the golden heat.
A new batch of moments, either way.
Here's to them being good ones.
Hello Again.
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Leopards & Ballerinastag:www.theallurium.com,2004:/tangerine//1.2522004-03-02T06:17:10Z2006-03-06T03:15:17ZOur lockers, in kindergarten, were distinguished by stickers. My locker had a sticker of a lamb on it. March came...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
Our lockers, in kindergarten, were distinguished by stickers. My locker had a sticker of a lamb on it.
March came with a swirl of rain water silver. Warmth ticked up a few notches. It's a big month, a sturdy block of days. The image on my Michael Parkes calendar is "Dance of Secrets" -- leopards and ballerinas floating in mid-air.
I have five o-clock shadow. It's kind of scratchy.
There are fuzzy buds on the pussywillow and the beginnings of hyacinths sticking out of the ground. Things are still mostly Winter-tinted, though. Waiting for the equinox, perhaps. Still...the light. You can feel a real change in that.
I remember riding the school bus, in Spring. Looking out at passing houses while the bus rattled and lurched, and rain braided on the windows. Sometimes memories don't feel like they have time in them. They are just there: a still life. A photograph out of context. I remember how that rain smelled -- no real accomplishment, there: I can go outside and smell the same thing, now.
But the two twine.
Memories and associations float, like a rain-streaked window above the road. Like dancers and great cats in the sky. The moments are moving through the last of the White season -- marching toward the Green. Time and recollection.
Hello March.
And happy birthday, Kelli.
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Spring, Pre-Echotag:www.theallurium.com,2004:/tangerine//1.2502004-02-29T21:10:34Z2006-03-06T03:15:16ZMy fingers are still sort of dense, slowed from being outside in the cool air. And there is still a...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
My fingers are still sort of dense, slowed from being outside in the cool air. And there is still a bit more coffee in my Sunday mug.
I was in the yard, a few moments ago, watching ripples move through the pond. Listening to the water. It is a clear and almost warm day. Muddy. Vaguely buddy. (Some trees hold green nubs. A few verdant shoots are peeking from the ground.) A pre-echo of Spring.
Still, you need your gloves and, eventually, a hat. And a steaming mug of coffee (that went down well and glowing). It's fun to see the lines at car washes grow -- and the advent of motorcycles, again. The fish are sluggish and the sky was perfect blue (but has now grown a bit fretful).
My cheeks are still cold.
But I like it.
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White Wavetag:www.theallurium.com,2004:/tangerine//1.2392004-02-12T18:33:34Z2006-03-06T03:15:16ZLike a time-slowed wave, emerging in pieces from the sky (rather than all-at-once from the sea) it came, rested, and...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
Like a time-slowed wave, emerging in pieces from the sky (rather than all-at-once from the sea) it came, rested, and now pulls back. No sand beneath. Instead: earth, still tight with cold. This retreat is time-shifted-slow, as well. Regressing like water, but over days instead of seconds.
Winter and its court are measured, moving in a different layer of time. (Except for ice, perhaps, who is slow in its heart but fast on its skin.)
Here, now, in a day that is bright and slightly fretful, the snows are melting back: revealing earth, slumber-browned grass, and small puddles of frozen water. There is a plane slipping through the bright white sky.
And the roads are clear. And quiet.
I am tired...though it is not early, nor especially late. A bit light-headed from not eating enough today.
Sitting here, thinking of the snow outside.
That white wave, falling back in slow motion.
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Soft Secondstag:www.theallurium.com,2004:/tangerine//1.2302004-01-26T03:32:02Z2006-03-06T03:15:15Z"Winter moves in like memories. Falls down from the black, like soft seconds floating from a clock..."Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
Winter moves in like memories. Falls down from the black, like soft seconds floating from a clock. It piles up silence. And silence is cold.
The roads are gone now, erased into primary. They blend with the powdered landscape. As the sound goes, so does identity. Appearance and accoustics changing as fluffed, drifting moments, tumble down from an hourglass gone to glitter.
The lights grow halos.
This new cover holds, like a memory, the places we have walked. But those rememberances grow shallow, fill up and, eventually, are made smooth.
New time. White time.
Memory is a landscape that changes with time, endures its seasons. All memories have Winter nights that press in through the walls...and others that smooth over.
But here, now, you can go out in it. Look up, like looking at the darkness behind your closed eyes. Watch the sky flutter down, while your air floats up.
Think about memories and time, in the falling night -- when all is contrast and cold: snowflakes and breath turned to vapor.
And silence, deepening.
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Slatetag:www.theallurium.com,2004:/tangerine//1.2082004-01-07T22:53:10Z2006-03-06T03:15:14ZThe evening is slate. My eyes are tired, as I look at the darkening. The feeling inside: slow, like drifting...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
The evening is slate.
My eyes are tired, as I look at the darkening. The feeling inside: slow, like drifting in water. Another year has shifted into memory, hours and events moving from actual to thought-based.
New time is here, now.
Memories of 2004 are like the thin frost of snow outside: not much yet. Inevitably building.
Like an afterimage lingering, Christmas still holds to the feel and spaces around me. Oddly, New Year's Eve seems further back. Time piles up -- but it eddies around as well. Like Autumn leaves...or ocean currents.
I'm wondering how this year will flow. What memories and moments it will hold.
In the slate-gone-to-obsidian evening, I'm thinking of light, openness, and warmth. Wide skies and freedom. 2003 has gone to memory and thought -- the coming year is still mostly there too.
For now.
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The Warmth of Ittag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1992003-12-19T20:06:40Z2006-03-06T03:15:14Z"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..."Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
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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40tag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1912003-12-12T23:21:26Z2006-03-06T03:15:13ZA dark and glimmery evening. Christmas lights and Wintery air. Music, whispering from the stereo; illumination: low. I'm plugged into...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
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.
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December Rosetag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1872003-12-01T07:38:50Z2006-03-06T03:15:13Z"Time and days wash by in calendar squares, each tinted differently..."Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
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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Awakentag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1822003-11-08T08:43:35Z2006-03-06T03:15:13ZI saw the moonlight and thought it snow. Put on a ring. Red like candy. Anime and soundtrack, backgrounding. Breathing...Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
I saw the moonlight and thought it snow.
Put on a ring. Red like candy. Anime and soundtrack, backgrounding. Breathing years and memories. Beauty, the works of art. So much effort. So much expression.
How the air has cooled. "But, for a time, it was good."
I am watching Autumn slip past, like a knowing glance, carried along on a wave of air that tastes like snow. Water, frozen...and airborne.
Crystalline art, feathery and perfect. Dropping from the sky, slow. Like a dream. Like a thought.
So late, now. So deep in the night that is, actually, a day. Imagination revealing in the background. Keyboard tapping.
Intoxicants.
Funny, how just flicking fingertips against plastic can build up words...and images. Reveal thoughts and moments. Reality expressed.
Just flexing.
Just talking.
Words, disconnected images -- but a representation of a state. A person, at this point, late in the morning in November. With the air cooling down to deep night months, the smell of frozen water in the air. A year wearing down. Hours unfolding.
"Rational voices, dissented."
November.
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Upgradetag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1782003-10-09T00:24:44Z2006-03-06T03:15:13Z"After a bit of fiddling (and downloading a new ftp program that lets me set permissions) I've updated my version of MovableType to its most current..."Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
Well, it was far less painful than anticipated.
After a bit of fiddling (and downloading a new ftp program that lets me set permissions) I've updated my version of MovableType to its most current.
Amazingly enough, everything seems to be working.
Cool.
(I'm always a bit surprised when I do something involved and it works as expected...)
The moon, set against utter black, is as bright as a streetlight. It is shining in my window. Outside, I can hear crickets and cicadas, the swish of the parkway. It was nicely bright and warm, today. My windows are open and cool air shifts through the screens.
It smells like Autumn but feels like late Spring.
With the week teetering at its mid-point, I think it is just a matter of hours until momentum tips toward the weekend (and a hopeful amount of fun contained therein).
I was playing on the Mini website the other night. Man, I love those cars! Though I still can't decide whether I'd get an "indi" blue or silver version...
Anyway, time for a bit of exercise and a shower.
I hope that your night is sweet and clear.
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The Color of Light, Reflected in Watertag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1772003-10-08T00:08:06Z2006-03-06T03:15:13Z"Evening eased down into the sky, pressing light toward the horizon. As the night fell slowly down the lake grew still: a mirror-sheet..."Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
While fishing (but not really casting line into lake) I sat with others on the shoreline. Evening eased down into the sky, pressing light toward the horizon. As the night fell slowly, the lake grew still: a mirror-sheet. Bats flicker-flapped across tree-tops. Time pressed down further.
And the water started filling up with sky.
Pinks shifted to purples, cobalt blues and orange. Yellows and even greens. If you shine a flashlight upon a wall, it makes a glowing circle. Slide the beam lower on the wall and, eventually, it bends and starts to wash across the floor.
That's the way the sky came down with twilight, into the lake. At one pristine point they were evenly matched. Mirrored. Selectively see that and you can talk your imagination into not knowing where sky ends and water begins. Think that, and you are floating -- timeless.
For a handfull of moments.
Right now, I'm sipping a cup of tea, and typing this. The night outside is perfectly crystal-black. I took a picture of me, doing this, with my cell phone.
But that was a while ago. When I was thinking of the lake. The mirror-moment is different now.
Hello, October...
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Autumnaltag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1752003-09-23T23:43:11Z2006-03-06T03:15:13Z"Mysterious Autumn: now. Hiding, behind a Goth lace fan, eyes the color of pumpkins..."Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
Latency. An echo, ghost, a lingering scent: Summer has moved past. The swish of a deep green skirt made of rain and flowers. Sky-blue eyes.
An after-image.
Mysterious Autumn: now. Hiding, behind a Goth lace fan, eyes the color of pumpkins.
The air is cool. Cicadas. The greenery is still fresh, strong. Flowers in bloom.
But a change in the quality of light, perhaps. Longer rays. A slant more pronounced. I have seen Orion, low in the night sky. Risen, again.
Here and there leaves have fallen. Hints.
The windows are still open. Music slipping quietly out while cool air slips in. The evening sky is a deep, dusty lavender.
I'm a bit dizzy...in need of a light meal, and a tall glass of water. Thinking of the passage of time and the balancing of hours.
Equinox.
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Old Oaktag:www.theallurium.com,2003:/tangerine//1.1742003-09-10T20:46:54Z2006-03-06T03:15:13Z"Surely there must have been a great and booming sound as its tangled roots ripped free of softened earth, an oceanic crashing of leaves and branches..."Johnhttp://www.theallurium.com/
The old oak has fallen, unnoticed.
It's wide gray bulk horizontal now -- extending in the underbrush like a rounded wall. One hundred feet or more it was. From its top, the neighborhood was visible as a diorama; small toys coming and going while it endured. Its trunk was so wide that it could not be embraced. Wind breathed through its hand-sized leaves and acorns fell through unnumbered seasons. It held a tree house for some long time. Stories were read, there...
A sunset-tinted rose blooms in the yard. It smells like God.
Butterflies like bits of stained glass tumble in the air. Late last night, and on through the morning, the full moon poured light down on the oak, fallen. Perhaps deer and other creatures moved around it, through the underbrush.
Vast it still is, slumped upon the ground. The date of its birth, unknown -- as the date of its fall. Surely there must have been a great and booming sound as its tangled roots ripped free of softened earth, an oceanic crashing of leaves and branches. A deep pulse in the ground.
But none of this was seen or heard. Now, just the afterword -- and the mute settling of wood and sap.
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