This week we take a walk beneath the arcs of 36118F, a boyish blue. As always, your comments are welcome, no matter how contrarian or candid they might be.
Three-six-one-one-eight-eff. You’re posh, brother. Immediately I can see that in your buttoned shirt, your thin-lipped mouth and pulsing veins.
You’re a toy soldier, set upon a herd of broken Barbie’s. You’re the glossy rim around a china cup, a regal noose of bitterness.
You’re blue. So blue, I can hear the boys tearing at your gunky sheet.
But wait. You’re not the True Blue of Australia’s sunny climes. There’s an undertone of purple. Perhaps you’re indigo. A bitonal eunuch of the tonal underworld.
“Take this man to my office, we need to have a word with you old chap.”
Doors slamming. Mugs of steaming coffee slide across cheap table tops. You’re innocent you say, but you’re not exactly sure what of.
“I saw you last night, squire,” says he. “I have nothing to say,” you sigh. A whispery voice, strong yet masterful.
Doors slamming. Mugs chinking. “You’re free to go, you blue bastard. But rest assured, we’ll see you soon,” he gloats. “I’m sure you will,” you sigh.
You’re the gloaming. I see you now. You’re the belly of the twilight. You’re not, posh.
You lead me in every way and I follow. As I pick my way through an orchard of stars, you keep watch. You’re a confusion of dark and light.
I’ve seen you many times, 36118F. As the rug of night draws near, you offer me space to breathe. You’re my celestial inn.
Look forth, readers. For this colour we’ve accused is present in every land we seek.
As the jagged foot of night stamps out our daily lives, look out towards the horizon. Long past the death throes of a billowing sunset.
Where a sunset might swirl around our skies like a pleasure-spiked maiden, this mellow stripe of blue charges across the mantle of the horizon like a lone knight.
Three. Six. One. One. Eight. Eff.
An enigmatic hero, thrusting forward, undeterred by false accusations; a bold blaze of classless calm.
I’ve returned to complete this post thirty-minutes later. On reflection, I can see where this tale was conjured from.
As travellers, we are often entrusted with front row seats to some of Mother Nature’s finest shows. As night draws in, we pull out our cameras and slam the shutter button, hoping to trap another fine sunset.
It’s often retold that the best part was yet to come, maybe fifteen minutes after the sun has fled beyond the horizon.
Then comes the night sky. Rightfully revered for it’s peppering of stars.
But even without the stars, the night sky would make beautiful company. The next time you have the opportunity, take a look; it’s far from black. It’s like an oil spill of darkness, in every imaginable way.
As a writer, it’s among my most inspiring tools.
Let me know what you see, next time you look out towards the horizon of a young night sky.