The sky is a flat, soft grey, like a hotboxed car. One is inside, but it feels like it’s the other side of the glass that’s enclosed. Vague pinnacles drift between the cloud-gouts. The light is noncommittal; it could be any time of day.
The sky is a limpid blue, dewy with gold. Absurd clarity. I watch cars crawling slowly down the avenues from dozens of stories up. It’s pleasing in the manner of picking a scab, and about as hypnotic. I don’t wonder if the thing wherefrom these words emerge is still there when there is not some daily assignment to put them into; I am terrified for its health, yet certain of its existence.
The sky is ormolu. The sun angles with a tang like sucked nickels. I have been asked to fetch coffee or water three times today. Rejection of subservience has been drilled into women of my generation, to the point where it is a race to see who can most adorably drop the ball first, without being chastised for “lack of attention to detail.” Thankfully, I humbled myself long ago, and happily, find properly hydrated and caffeinated Directors easier to work with. The beauty of the hierarchy is in the way it makes every role abundantly clear, and places all within an orderly chain; the hazard of the hierarchy is revealed in how it begins to totter and list as accountability is passed immediately after the most senior person exits. If one begins to take personally every reversal of fortune, one won’t last very long. It’s about endurance, I’m told.
The sky is all coal blue except for the punched-out pink gout of the sunset’s flaming apricot heart hovering over Jersey. I am thinking of Oulipan stories by algorithm, where several elements are assembled and then adjusted by formula along specific parameters, methodically, to create a scaffolding. Many situations in life are like this, once one can recognize the presence of elements. It takes some practice to discern the contours of a formula, but then one is not far from appreciating the nature of the algorithm. I am thinking again about the novel I want to write along a sort of algorithm. I like a worked object, a thing of craft. I am asked if I am paying attention. I recite the last eight seconds of conversation and make a joke that gets several laughs. We’re all comfortable and happy, as long as everyone knows that none of us really belong here. We return to talking about death and its benefits.
The sky is the color of whale skin. The skyscrapers are lit up in rocket popsicle colors. The subway is draped over with caution tape. The moon is dark and the night is tepid. There’s panic in the air, and fever in the undercurrents, and the roof is coming loose, and there’s exactly four more weeks until spring.