Post by Linden on Jul 7, 2021 12:15:02 GMT -8
For many years, I have been moved by the blue at the far edge of what can be seen, that color of horizons,
of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of an emotion,
the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not.
And the color of where you can never go.
Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost
A cork popped and laughter followed, a mad scramble to get the bottle off the blanket before it overflowed. Someone yelped as a splash hit them, holding their cup out to be served first as compensation. The group had packed a feast and picked up the best bits on their way down: strawberries and cherry tomatoes from roadside vendors, cheap sparkling wine and peaches in town. There was honeycomb and pints of berries they'd never seen before, goat cheese that had been made somewhere nearby. All the delights they could think to pair with the late summer sun and salt air. They weren't celebrating anything beyond their own indulgence and it felt like magic, at least to Erin.
Everything was hyper-real, bright and rich and new. So beautiful that somehow it made them sad, already looking toward the end of it despite the hours left in the day. It was a stolen moment, basking in the afternoon light and the casual intimacy of bare legs touching, their back against someone's chest— it was a look at what the world could be, they realized. The sky had always felt close to them, like a teacup trapping a bug, a space with an impenetrable horizon. Something they couldn't place themself beyond, even in their mind. But all of a sudden it felt so distant they had to close their eyes or be pulled up into it, motion sickness hitting them in a wave.
There was no break in the voices around them, which teased, laughed, launched into stories, and someone's rough-skinned hand grasped Erin's shoulder as they leaned past to grab something. No one else seemed to notice it as the world spun and quietly settled into a new configuration around them, the scope of possibility broadened. This was what being alive could be— not every day, not even most, but the idea of small, shining moments they could tuck away filled them with gratitude. If something could happen once, it could happen again. And again and again, different beaches, different skin against theirs; no more or less wonderful.
Reopening their eyes, they sat up and took everything in, accepting another plastic cup of wine. They were quiet for awhile after, but they often were; no one minded, or pried.
This was something they could have. Someone would fall asleep in the car on the way home and rest their head on Erin's shoulder, someone would help them carry things they could easily take on alone; maybe they could even stand tall without worrying about a low blue ceiling.
of remote mountain ranges, of anything far away. The color of that distance is the color of an emotion,
the color of solitude and of desire, the color of there seen from here, the color of where you are not.
And the color of where you can never go.
Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost
A cork popped and laughter followed, a mad scramble to get the bottle off the blanket before it overflowed. Someone yelped as a splash hit them, holding their cup out to be served first as compensation. The group had packed a feast and picked up the best bits on their way down: strawberries and cherry tomatoes from roadside vendors, cheap sparkling wine and peaches in town. There was honeycomb and pints of berries they'd never seen before, goat cheese that had been made somewhere nearby. All the delights they could think to pair with the late summer sun and salt air. They weren't celebrating anything beyond their own indulgence and it felt like magic, at least to Erin.
Everything was hyper-real, bright and rich and new. So beautiful that somehow it made them sad, already looking toward the end of it despite the hours left in the day. It was a stolen moment, basking in the afternoon light and the casual intimacy of bare legs touching, their back against someone's chest— it was a look at what the world could be, they realized. The sky had always felt close to them, like a teacup trapping a bug, a space with an impenetrable horizon. Something they couldn't place themself beyond, even in their mind. But all of a sudden it felt so distant they had to close their eyes or be pulled up into it, motion sickness hitting them in a wave.
There was no break in the voices around them, which teased, laughed, launched into stories, and someone's rough-skinned hand grasped Erin's shoulder as they leaned past to grab something. No one else seemed to notice it as the world spun and quietly settled into a new configuration around them, the scope of possibility broadened. This was what being alive could be— not every day, not even most, but the idea of small, shining moments they could tuck away filled them with gratitude. If something could happen once, it could happen again. And again and again, different beaches, different skin against theirs; no more or less wonderful.
Reopening their eyes, they sat up and took everything in, accepting another plastic cup of wine. They were quiet for awhile after, but they often were; no one minded, or pried.
This was something they could have. Someone would fall asleep in the car on the way home and rest their head on Erin's shoulder, someone would help them carry things they could easily take on alone; maybe they could even stand tall without worrying about a low blue ceiling.
This is the memory referenced in Linden's Imbolc narration