Saturday, April 17, 2004
Sky Line -
Refiner's Fire
Standing stock still in the middle of a heaving London crowd with my eyes flung high, drinking it in. Slight crick in neck, will worry about that later.
It's probably just me, but there's something indescribably beautiful about airplane vapour trails at sunset.
Wait, hear me out before you call for the men in white.
Vividly sharp, hanging motionless this long, bold white streak across the vast expanse of a pastel blue sky in the dying moments of sunfall. Clouds, grey smudges in the background.
I usually have my breath taken away by the red-tinted trails, glowing like fading embers in the fires of red-gold sunsets.
Today's is searing white, with a hint of gold. Blazing painfully across a dull - now grey - canvas for what must be miles. Cleaving boldly and brilliantly through the barrier between men and angels, a swiftly-struck sword-strike burning with magical fire.
I remember to breathe again, and look at the people about me. A sea of faces, gazes downcast hurrying by. Lost in their own little worlds, oblivious to the fading beauty dwarfing them far above. Am I insane, or are they? How can they not stop for this one moment of unsurpassed beauty? How can they waste this richness.
Drink. Taste. Savour.
It's probably just me. They've probably grown up with vapour trails. I didn't. We don't get them back home - not like this anyway. Not across the sky as far as you can see. And they're not flammable. They're short dull cords of plastic that melt with the warmth of the monsoon winds.
I remember the first time I saw a proper vapour trail, in australia. Day-sky. Nothing spectacular, just a white line acros a deep blue background. I wasted seven photographs on it.
Now even I take these for granted. Walking everday under the suspended meshwork of white lines that comprises london's ceiling, I barely see them.
But how can anyone ignore this one, solitary shaft of burning-white cleaving the sky asunder. What must it be like to see the world through their eyes.
For one of the few times, ever - I don't want to know. Empathy be damned.
My neck aches...
*****
Divide by 0 overflow error
I step out of work into...
...sunlight. Warm embracing sunshine.
Eh?
Wha... okay. Who's gone and swapped the flaming country while i was in the A&E. own up!
Refiner's Fire
Standing stock still in the middle of a heaving London crowd with my eyes flung high, drinking it in. Slight crick in neck, will worry about that later.
It's probably just me, but there's something indescribably beautiful about airplane vapour trails at sunset.
Wait, hear me out before you call for the men in white.
Vividly sharp, hanging motionless this long, bold white streak across the vast expanse of a pastel blue sky in the dying moments of sunfall. Clouds, grey smudges in the background.
I usually have my breath taken away by the red-tinted trails, glowing like fading embers in the fires of red-gold sunsets.
Today's is searing white, with a hint of gold. Blazing painfully across a dull - now grey - canvas for what must be miles. Cleaving boldly and brilliantly through the barrier between men and angels, a swiftly-struck sword-strike burning with magical fire.
I remember to breathe again, and look at the people about me. A sea of faces, gazes downcast hurrying by. Lost in their own little worlds, oblivious to the fading beauty dwarfing them far above. Am I insane, or are they? How can they not stop for this one moment of unsurpassed beauty? How can they waste this richness.
Drink. Taste. Savour.
It's probably just me. They've probably grown up with vapour trails. I didn't. We don't get them back home - not like this anyway. Not across the sky as far as you can see. And they're not flammable. They're short dull cords of plastic that melt with the warmth of the monsoon winds.
I remember the first time I saw a proper vapour trail, in australia. Day-sky. Nothing spectacular, just a white line acros a deep blue background. I wasted seven photographs on it.
Now even I take these for granted. Walking everday under the suspended meshwork of white lines that comprises london's ceiling, I barely see them.
But how can anyone ignore this one, solitary shaft of burning-white cleaving the sky asunder. What must it be like to see the world through their eyes.
For one of the few times, ever - I don't want to know. Empathy be damned.
My neck aches...
*****
Divide by 0 overflow error
I step out of work into...
...sunlight. Warm embracing sunshine.
Eh?
Wha... okay. Who's gone and swapped the flaming country while i was in the A&E. own up!
