Friday, October 28, 2011

My Language Is Yellow

The yellow sun warms my cheek as I walk along the bike-trail beside the water. I look up, trying to bring the deep, unbroken blue of the sky inside me. I will be a marble, I think. I will change colors as I go, and I will be space and crystal September sky. Crisp, cool blue sky high up in the air overseeing, overlooking, seeing all. I will take all this inside me, and it will turn my skin the same shade of blue.

There is not a single cloud in the sky, the perfect autumn day, late September, mid-seventies, on my way to the library for another translation of Ovid, because I simply can't decide. Who can bring that original muse to life in its most dreamy and poetic form? I could always learn Latin, perhaps, or Italian, the thought I had while reading the Divine Comedy, but I guess we'll see how it goes. It's just a phase, I know, but one I appreciate. This is what I do, after all. A writer reads. He is a greedy, avaricious reader. He is a gluttonous, always hungry, insatiable reader. He is a beast of a reader. He is a monster with what he reads. He is a rapacious, slavering beggar with every damn thing he can read.

The Divine Comedy, I think, in all its original glory. I almost feel like a schmuck for not reading it in Italian. If you love to read that much, why wouldn't you learn another language? But that's for later, after I read everything first in English. I'll understand it as much as I can first before taking that step. I have a lot I still don't understand.

I'm always transfixed by the rich, velvety green of the leaves on the trees against the blue backdrop of the sky. The contrast of the green on blue says: Life, light, and color. Maybe I should've worn yellow.

Yellow marigolds in bunches occupy a huge clay pot on the top of the bridge as I walk under. Yellow cornflowers, also in bunches, branch off to my right. There were sunflowers before all this by the other bridge a while back, like bright yellow signposts telling me “Here you are again.” Bright yellow smiling face.

I never really thought much of the color yellow. One of my brothers likes yellow, but I never saw the attraction until today. What is yellow? Even the name, after a while, looks odd. Yellow, for a bright, almost obnoxious banana, taffy, lemon yellow. Everyone knows yellow. Even writing the word looks funny. Yellow. Like it could be someone's name. But now it is standing out everywhere, and it isn't clashing with the bright blue and rich green, but adding another dimension to it. You'd think it were spring instead of fall with all these natural shades of color. Sunshiny bright, warm yellow blue, strong rays of the sun, rejuvenating yellow. I picked a good day to walk.

The clear running water to my left, now as I look, only adds to it, a crystal transparency where you can see its coldness without having to touch or taste it. Smooth, polished stones shimmer bright under the water and the sun, and me, going in and out of the shade of the trees. I am wearing black (nothing unusual there), more smiles along the path than I am used to seeing, maybe because today I'm paying attention. Smile reflects smile, reflects smile, reflects blue and yellow sky with rich tapestries of green. Yellow is the armor of the sun, the warm plates I use to shield myself against the smoky black of hardship, confusion, and dark clouds. Yellow mixed with incandescent white and blinding silver can penetrate anything.

Here, little yellow ball of the sun. Reside inside me, warm my chest, my bright, sky blue arms. Overpower this oppressive, poisonous black stain to white. I have had my fill of pain and sorrow. Now, I can see the strength and beauty in yellow.

I smile, my cheek is warm. A biker rides past, all business in slacks and a bright yellow shirt and tie. Another signpost, as if in confirmation. Warm yellow armor slips boldly, nobly into place, and my skin turns bright, September blue, some poetry of some new language I long to speak without someone else's translation.