Adam stood on the deck of the boat gazing down the Thames River.
“It is hard to believe that this is where most of the famous British explorers started their journeys.”
Beth closed her eyes. “I can picture it now. All those little ships being laden with enough supplies for a 6 month journey. They must have been masters at doling out just the right amount of food so that they had enough for a return trip.”
“It must have been a magical time,” added Adam.
“Not really,” explained the Captain. “We have grown to see the world in rich colours but it was anything but that back then. Dirty and grimy with things looking less than clean. It was a different world.” He regarded Adam and Beth closely. “Where you are going is much better than those times. At least in prison you will have 3 square meals a day, some heat in the winter. Some cooling in the summer. All nice and comfortable instead of being beheaded for your crimes.”
Edward was tired of his fellow master builders. The architects who built sleek monuments to clean, sharp angles. Row after row of rectilinear glass monoliths with washboard abs. Mirroring themselves, who generally were tall, trim, square-jawed, patrician. Clothed in stylish bespoke pinstripes. Edward was an everyman. Portly. Crinkled and rumpled, sprinkled with crumbs. Edward wanted the cityscape to reflect folks like him. Like us. He built a less exclusionary tribute to his imperfect archetype. To stand out from the lean, sterile, perfectly proportioned perpendicular superstructures. Finally, the skyline could boast a high-rise with a bit of a belly!
A Change of View
Adam stood on the deck of the boat gazing down the Thames River.
“It is hard to believe that this is where most of the famous British explorers started their journeys.”
Beth closed her eyes. “I can picture it now. All those little ships being laden with enough supplies for a 6 month journey. They must have been masters at doling out just the right amount of food so that they had enough for a return trip.”
“It must have been a magical time,” added Adam.
“Not really,” explained the Captain. “We have grown to see the world in rich colours but it was anything but that back then. Dirty and grimy with things looking less than clean. It was a different world.” He regarded Adam and Beth closely. “Where you are going is much better than those times. At least in prison you will have 3 square meals a day, some heat in the winter. Some cooling in the summer. All nice and comfortable instead of being beheaded for your crimes.”
“Thank God for that,” Beth stated quietly.
So who's going to prison here? Both Beth and Adam? I'd like to know how the captain knows all his stuff.... super curious. Thank you Bill!
Trust Your Gut
Edward was tired of his fellow master builders. The architects who built sleek monuments to clean, sharp angles. Row after row of rectilinear glass monoliths with washboard abs. Mirroring themselves, who generally were tall, trim, square-jawed, patrician. Clothed in stylish bespoke pinstripes. Edward was an everyman. Portly. Crinkled and rumpled, sprinkled with crumbs. Edward wanted the cityscape to reflect folks like him. Like us. He built a less exclusionary tribute to his imperfect archetype. To stand out from the lean, sterile, perfectly proportioned perpendicular superstructures. Finally, the skyline could boast a high-rise with a bit of a belly!
The best painter uses the sky
His brush flys as He mixes and dyes
He makes our dirty little cities
Look almost even pretty
He is the greatest painter of all
The sky is His canvas,,y'all
No one can equal his paints
How much more He would give His saints
He is the creator of reds and blues
A sweep of His hand brings orange true
For the ladies, pink and blue
Every color comes from him
And they make us better humans.
Thank you , Writer Pilgrim!
Thank you Theresa! I've enjoyed the sky as a canvas metaphor. A beautiful way to describe it.
Same sky
I don’t know where I am right now
But I look up and know that everyone I love,
Loved and will love
Is sharing the same sky
Maybe they will see these colours
Yesterday morning
Or
Tomorrow evening
Or later in the month or year or decade
Maybe they’ll think nothing of it, just another sky
But that doesn’t feel right, doesn’t hold water, doesn’t shine a light in truth
Because this same sky, that some saw yesterday and some will see tomorrow
Is art. Frame it up using the square rule of your thumb and forefinger
Blink slowly.
See it again.
See it yesterday
See it tomorrow
See it in seven years time with your arm around their shoulders and wonder in your eyes
This same sky