internal weather report vol. 3: vacation blues
I'm back and I wanna go back.
If you’re receiving an internal weather report, you can be confident A) I’m procrastinating real work, B) I can’t shake a swirl of words in my head, C) I’m in my feels, or D) all of the above! See you soon with the full edition.
azure: The color of the sky in tropical places. Not the Spanish word for blue, we remind each other, wading through waist-high water that looks almost the same color as the sky. Clever of designers to tile the pool in a square facsimile of the firmament so here in this place where you can do whatever you want, going swimming feels like diving straight into the sky — because haven’t we all wanted that?
cotton candy: When do you outgrow the urge to snap a photo out your window of the plane’s wing slicing through the unbelievable gradient of the sky? Sherbet, tinted by the sun. And if you do, is it maturity or cynicism? A shedding of something unnecessary or a shriveling of something pure? It happens at multiple seats on flights both ways: the phones come out, the shots are snapped. Every flight is a miracle. Every sunrise is one too. I look, but I don’t take my phone out anymore.
cerulean: The color of kamikaze shots that sparkle all the way down, the color of laughter, the color of why not. Water drips from my swimsuit. A butterfly—I swear— drifts by and lands on the butt of a woman seated at the outdoor bar. Black, brown, orange, blue, its wings slowly blink open and closed. A feather, a breath, a tiny moment of suspension. It narrowly avoids death as the woman shifts and laughs, instructing the butterfly, “At least buy me a drink first!”
Bondi blue: I’ve described myself as a horizon-chaser for more than decade now, so long I can’t know how it fits on me anymore, if it even does. A view of the ocean is helpful as it offers a regular confrontation with the horizon. A reminder of the vast possibilities just beyond the line — but also a reorientation of my place in relation to it: small, singular, rooted. I am soothed by the scale, by the timekeeping of the waves, by the occasional stomach-dropping whoosh when, years into settling down, my horizon broadens unexpectedly. “I have a plan for becoming lean: to use / all my fat in service of expansion. Have women / always known this? Loveliness and fear / when they open and let in and give away?” (Stephen Dunn)
ultra blue: Cold m&ms shared in places they usually aren’t: bed, hot tubs, breakfast. We all know the blue ones taste best. Is the smooth candy coating thicker on m&ms made in Mexico or am I just more present? The fullness of my attention on vacation is remarkable: a cloudless sky, a clearing in the forest. The mental ticker tape has gone silent. How can I bring this unexpected sweetness home?
indigo: Time passing too fast to catch. Day’s end ombré collapsing into a blur collapsing into night velvet. The air feels like a kiss, but when I’m this happy, so much does. Breeze off the ocean ruffling palm fronds overhead; a question around the table that I miss because, once again, I’m looking at the sky. The cost of being deeply known and deeply loved is two-fold: time and courage. I spend too much of my life feeling like a scaredy-cat, but in this one way, I am always first off the diving board.
reality blue: the color of a blinking cursor, the color of a cold breeze, the color of empty lunchboxes, the color of deadlines, the color of laundry, the color of mama mama mama you’re home, the color of my five-year-old son’s soccer jersey, flapping in the wind as he tears around the field, leaping to get a high five from his coach after every play, his smile the brightest thing in sight.