Photo essay: a blue sunset
Blue. It's all blue. Aquamarine, tranquil shades of blue, in a gradient gradually deepening as the sun sinks. It's soothing, soft, sleepy. It's a place nestled in childhood memories, residing in a time so long ago. There's a melancholic, pensive mood hovering about as we stroll along the boardwalk, the fine line that lies between the shore and the trees. Little sound is heard, save the roaring of planes and the chugging of boats, along with the ceaseless crashing of the waves against the shoreline.
The sky is a continuous swath of blue - baby blue, azure, cornflower. It's not too late. The clouds breeze past, slowly, languorously. I admire them, for the patience to live the slow life, for being. They are hardly solid, just bits and pieces of wool scattered about an unblemished landscape of blue.
It's broken once, by the silhouette of an eagle as she soars overhead, gliding on air, held aloft by the freedom flowing through her wings. Someplace deep, I wished to be her, yearned to be able to travel as she pleased, to see things that no eye ever has. She is fortunate, having attained the blessing of nature.
And soon, she is gone, up, up and away. Perhaps I will meet her, someplace else, in some other time.
Dusk moves in. We stroll along the boardwalk, feet slapping against the worn wooden planks, the path ahead shrouded with trees. It's familiar, yet foreign, as if appearing from a long-lost dream. I can picture the fey dancing about the leaves in this evanescence, light as air, darting back and forth under the yellow glow of the street lights. And then they disappear, flitting away when humans come, as if they never existed.
Below the horizon lies the plateau of the sea, swishing, swirling. It's like a kitten, pouncing about at times, and still as stone at others. The tugboats drag creases into it, making it one unbroken piece of wrinkled fabric. Froth spews from the boat, and ripples resonate across the waters, distorting the scribbles of light reflected on her.
The lights are everywhere, up, down, to the sides. They illuminate the skies and seas, emitting sparks in the gloom. In the distance, the lamp atop a boat is radiant, a light that is constant, guiding it wherever it might be headed. Farther off, a cluster glows. Is it another island? I know not. There's little I know of, really, save of the stars and moon in the sky, the constellations millions of light years away. I find it hard to imagine - a night pitch black, cloudless, sprinkled with stars red, green and blue. Alight for us to savour, take in and take our breaths away.
I think back now. Words do not pour forth, but rather, thoughts - the overpowering senses of sight, smell, sounds. It was then, in that place, noisy with the crashing sound of the waves, did the words come, conjured out of nowhere. They're gone now, as swift as it came, the beautiful lyrics of the sunset - a blue sunset.
Pancakes are here now - simple, straightforward things, they are. I've made this a million and one (I exaggerate) times, all the while in some other form or another - chocolate , orange-rum, rose+sea salt, etc etc. But this one's going to be plain - like a clear slate free of whatever fancy flavour and what-have-you. I think, this one's something that you can make whilst frantically tossing on your shirt and stuffing your essentials, shrieking at whoever else is at home that you're going to leave. (again, I exaggerate. see? this tells you that you really should pack your bag the night before) It's fast - six-ingredients, extra-fluffy pancakes.
The rhubarb-rosewater is merely an addition you can make on the side. It's fast, and you can store it for any future purposes, including admiring the brilliant pink tinge.
- to be continued-