#cloud-watching

[bluecapsicum]

Cloud-watching

[unaduessa]

55 have you ever laid on your back and watched cloud shapes go by?

I have and it’s really nice, and it usually leads to taking a very nice nap in the grass with the sun on my skin.

Not entirely connected but enough that I feel the need to bring it up, I also have a (possibly unhealthy) habit of lying in bed and looking at my window to watch the stars move across the sky. It’s beautiful and mesmerizing but also leads to very strange existential crises and me texting friends at 2am about how “the stars are mocking me. Ursa Major is chasing her son around and around as he laughs and Orion, poised and strong, pities my powerlessness.” [quoted directly from the last time I did that.]

Thanks for asking, lovely!

[bluecapsicum]

Cloud identification guide based on the International Cloud Atlas

[chilled-ray]

Clouds

Two parts, close sticky stringy fingers reaching, grasping connecting pulling towards an embrace to Join I wanted to watch them longer but they slunk out of sight behind a tree for Privacy.

[meandelena]

the sky is spinning and spinning today, blue and bright. the clouds are like a scent: wafting. the ground feels weightless beneath me, as if i might fall through it. cloud-watching is an interesting activity.

[thingsinclouds]

Cloudwatching: even Shakespeare was at it

Hamlet: Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in the shape of a camel?

Polonius: By th’ mass and ’tis, like a camel indeed.

Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel.

Polonius: It is backed like a weasel.

Hamlet: Or like a whale.

Polonius: Very like a whale. (Hamlet, III.ii.361-367).

[christincall]

False start with a story about how there might have been someone else in the room once

[a time of day] each cloud a modification descended from Genovesa, Rabida, Santiago, Isabela, Santa Fe, Bartholomew, Fernandina, San Cristobal, Santa Cruz, South Plaza, North Seymour, Floreana, Daphne-- between which staggered beacons slip through if only to illuminate pine trees like sticklers on the socks of a lone expeditioner.

[in the aging hours] King Herod scooping out the tongues of Israelites, Beckman's paintings peopled with the nameless and exposed, whose last tangible link to a world that might cup a semblance of reason in its spherical halves, is amputated brutally.

[...] You are a jerk. You who are also me. Annoyed with the DVD stuck on pause, but be damned if you'll fuss with such tryingly small remote buttons. A drink in the hand tepidly attempts to soldier you through the thrall of being folded in the night--an egg yolk held, cradled, and gently smothered there.