After a two years of mulling about, thinking, listening, and waiting for that "snag" of a new book idea that would come close to the marbled murrelet, I think I've got it: clouds.
Somewhere between the meteorological and the metaphorical is a new appreciation of the ten types of clouds and numerous varieties and species.
Somewhere between the meteorological and the metaphorical is a new appreciation of the ten types of clouds and numerous varieties and species.
I am reading everything I can get my hands on--from Cliff Mass's Weather of the Pacific Northwest to The Cloud of Unknowing--by a 14th-century monk. I've listened to some hideous music inspired by this latter work as well as George Harrison's CD "Cloud Nine." I'm casting a wide net, taking photos of the very dynamic skies of Western Washington, finding best cloud-viewing spots around town, and getting a sore neck from gazing skyward. I'm learning much about the white and gray puffy things that were for the most part scenery for me. How ignorant. I knew to head home from the beach, shut the West-facing windows of the house, and have flashlights ready when the cumulonimbus (thunderheads) appeared every summer afternoon on the East Coast, but I couldn't tell a cirrus from a stratus if my life depended on it.
Now, though I spend much time inside under a roof, the clouds are calling the way the murrelets did: incessantly, persuasively, almost anthropomorphically.
At last.
Now, though I spend much time inside under a roof, the clouds are calling the way the murrelets did: incessantly, persuasively, almost anthropomorphically.
At last.