(no subject)
Dear Log,
I know my posts in the last long while have been rather lack-lustre, and Joanne has even asked on several occassions whether I'm alright because I've been whining so much, but today I think I re-discovered some magic.
I had a first aid course today (the second half of which is tomorrow), and I had to wake up early to make it there on time. Last night I'd pulled my blinds up on a whim, contemplating sleeping with my contacts in (don't worry, I don't actually do that...okay I did it once by accident) so that I could actually see the horizon right before I fell asleep. This morning at 7 AM when the dreaded alarm clock sounded, I groggily shut it off and would have gone straight back to sleep if I hadn't gotten a blurred glimpse of the scene outside. It wasn't quite sunrise yet - there was very little of the shades of red and orange that I wrote about a while back - but it was a completely different face of beauty. The sky was still a deep indigo, with only a thin ring of ruby, just enough light to cast the silhouette of the mountains in the horizon. The mountains were completely dark - their features weren't visible, yet there they stood, a deep ragged tear across the entire sky. Between the mountains and my window, in the valley, a myriad individual lights were twinkling in that strange synchrony of chaos and order that defines the city. City lights are something I've admired from many places - from the top of Kent Ridge Park in Singapore, from tiny airplane windows in those precious minutes before landing, from the tip of Velenjak through the smog of Tehran, from the Osaka floating garden observatory, and from this same window on top of Burnaby mountain - but today I saw, with a jolt, that the highway did not just stand ablaze across the city, but that the entire thing was alive with the movement of headlights. The cars driving down what I now suspect to be Canada #1 were actually tiny segments of a golden snake slithering with great deliberation and grace through an otherwise sterile cityscape. This is the sort of beauty that I best understand - the lyrical, pastoral, romantic grassy knolls are pretty but uncomfortable for a city creature like me. It is the fierce, perhaps imperfect, beauty that arises from the messy industrial footprints of man on nature that tells me I'm on Earth - the planet where vastly different creatures, from moss to monkeys to meddling homo sapiens, are united by the simple need for water.
I know my posts in the last long while have been rather lack-lustre, and Joanne has even asked on several occassions whether I'm alright because I've been whining so much, but today I think I re-discovered some magic.
I had a first aid course today (the second half of which is tomorrow), and I had to wake up early to make it there on time. Last night I'd pulled my blinds up on a whim, contemplating sleeping with my contacts in (don't worry, I don't actually do that...okay I did it once by accident) so that I could actually see the horizon right before I fell asleep. This morning at 7 AM when the dreaded alarm clock sounded, I groggily shut it off and would have gone straight back to sleep if I hadn't gotten a blurred glimpse of the scene outside. It wasn't quite sunrise yet - there was very little of the shades of red and orange that I wrote about a while back - but it was a completely different face of beauty. The sky was still a deep indigo, with only a thin ring of ruby, just enough light to cast the silhouette of the mountains in the horizon. The mountains were completely dark - their features weren't visible, yet there they stood, a deep ragged tear across the entire sky. Between the mountains and my window, in the valley, a myriad individual lights were twinkling in that strange synchrony of chaos and order that defines the city. City lights are something I've admired from many places - from the top of Kent Ridge Park in Singapore, from tiny airplane windows in those precious minutes before landing, from the tip of Velenjak through the smog of Tehran, from the Osaka floating garden observatory, and from this same window on top of Burnaby mountain - but today I saw, with a jolt, that the highway did not just stand ablaze across the city, but that the entire thing was alive with the movement of headlights. The cars driving down what I now suspect to be Canada #1 were actually tiny segments of a golden snake slithering with great deliberation and grace through an otherwise sterile cityscape. This is the sort of beauty that I best understand - the lyrical, pastoral, romantic grassy knolls are pretty but uncomfortable for a city creature like me. It is the fierce, perhaps imperfect, beauty that arises from the messy industrial footprints of man on nature that tells me I'm on Earth - the planet where vastly different creatures, from moss to monkeys to meddling homo sapiens, are united by the simple need for water.