Did some last minute shopping today. Still coughing my head off, though. Looking forward to Christmastime, but feeling so tired and worn out, I just want to sleep. What I’m really trying to say is, I feel too sick to write. I just want to crawl back into bed. Here’s something from the archives.
A few days ago, I looked out my window to see, through the shadowy branches of the surrounding trees, that the sky was a deep and heart wrenching red, that the dying sun had painted upon the black, wintery clouds the dark crimson of its own blood. I left my house and hurried unto a nearby hill where I watched the day end.
While I stood entranced by the colorful display, my eyes were distracted by what is admittedly a rather common feature (some might find it drab) of my local landscape: The sun was dipping below a hill where three thin spires rose, and as I gazed upon them, I saw them as I had used to see them, as mysterious, as romantic, as something for which there is no perfect name.
You may laugh to hear, if you are not yet laughing, if you have not already guessed, that what arrested my eye was a group of radio towers with their red, blinking lights becoming more and more visible as the night settled.
I cannot explain myself, but I have always found a certain affection for these contraptions. When I was a child on a long drive, I would fix my eyes on such a stable point as a distant radio tower, and watch its little red light flash away into the night.
As I stood there upon that hill, I felt as though I had happened upon some old friend in those thin spires. There was a story there, if I knew how to write it; this was that wonder from which all fantasy is born. It came into my mind, then, how peculiar it was, how idiosyncratic: Who but I would find poetry, not in the sunset, not in the rolling hills, not in the farms, not in the forest, but in three plain, utilitarian structures? I who decry Bentham and praise the Romantics was in love with three hurriedly erected Eiffel towers.
I could make not head nor hair of it; however, I knew that my communion with these three, spindly shadows was filling up my soul, and I was wondering if any of you had like stories.
* Have any of you found pleasure/inspiration in something so unconventional?
Tale Told 