I've been living in a grey cell; give me orange.
I've been living, yeah, where the sun don't shine; give me orange on blue.
I've been living where the sun does not rise, because there is no sun to speak of, or not to speak of; the palette is of the grey world, the grey sky, not even grey as in pewter or silver, this is no rect grey, this is absence like virulence. The winter grey in the Northeast is the who-cares grey of give-up-edness.
The sky lightens slightly in its pale nothing, the sky has chronic fatigue syndrome. Blue has been erased from my eye paint. The difference between night and day is------night is at least, bytimes, stormy and drangy velvet with snow on the streetlights.
Winter is the hollow laugh of bad clowns.
Winter day is the procrastinating bragger with nothing to offer.
Winter day is depression as a weather system.
I'm not depressed, the sky is.
Give me orange. Orange fruitful. Orange in patterns. Orange in a morning when blue is the main mirage; why not, I am saying. What is wrong with colour, this mirage of work. Orange umbrellas in a pattern, patterns are pleasing, not this winter sky which claims transparency but is bland opaque, totalitarian sky, even parliamentary, this sky is a lie.
I want orange, I want orange as normal. I want colour, I want a better sky lie: the blue. I want skyscrapers in the cloud dominion. I want fat puffy lie sky. I want to shield my eyes. I want to be blind even with topgrade shades on my eyes. I want to shoot with my camera blind the sky is so bright, such a formidable sexy co-reciprocal lie, but not the one of goodbye. The grey sky of the February Northeast welcomes you every morning from your pirate-dream duvet with one more long goodbye.
I want the reincarnation orange brings to my irises, I want an upside-down orange in the back of my lens eye. I want pattern, I want chaises in a row, I want the look of the world before we were all clamour and clamber, I want light.
For pity's sakes, people, is that way too much to ask?
Days go, weeks go, you stroke the 24/7 like stick dires. No sun, no sun, no sun, no sun.
Is it too much to ask:
Por favor, luz. Luz. Luz.
Please, before my sentence is over: could I please have my last meal: a little light.....?
(Photo by Susan, South Florida, 2013)