Since this is a writing course, we have some writing assignments due. One of them is entirely up to us, and I've decided to do a color analysis. One of the things that's struck me is the intensity of some of the colors, and all of the subtle differences (I don't think I've ever seen more shades of green in my entire life). I just invented the term "color analysis," but my goal is to impart the essence of the color by connecting it to something that describes it without...describing it.
Terraced Hills
Green, brown: base.
The green of cool summer sunrises, when there is no spectacular color change, simply the slow shift from black through every shade of blue it's too painful to name. The summer morning when you receive the phone call, letting you know that they're gone--dead, or no longer care, and it breaks your heart not to cry, but it breaks your heart to cry even more, and no matter what you do, the fragments of what used to move your blood fall through the cracks in your fingers, to the ground between your feet. They bloom there, in great white blossoms that smell of rain and heartache, and you want to scatter them to the wind, but, but the green stem against your fingertips is too elegant to bear.
The brown of the summer afternoon you were riding your bike without training wheels, the one that whistled and flapped up and down the block, because that was as far as you were allowed to go. You fell, as you were trying to ride up over the curb, because your older, wiser friend who lived next door last year said it was easy. Your knee hurt, so you limped home, only to discover the front door and garage locked, and you were too short to reach the latch on the fence. So you sit on the bottom front step, and only then do you discover your elbow has been badly skinned--at least that's what you believe--with pebbles caught in your red-rimmed flesh, stuck against your childhood nails.
m.
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