Parisian Gray

While in Paris early in April, I read the classic novella Quiet Days in Clichy by Henry Miller; the narrative opens with a meditation on the gray skies of Paris, the gris that settles across the horizon, hovering above the roofs of the buildings, a gray that is faceted and intricate, allowing the colors of the city beneath it to saturate. A sort of elemental gray, as though it has a specific weight and mass, an ability to change and react with other materials surrounding it. As I mounted the dome at Sacre-Coeur, reaching the pinnacle of the city, I peered into clouds of gray, unable to see the expanse of the land before me, as others often boast. Mildly disappointed, for a moment, to have my view obscured, I quickly transformed my attitude, thankful and grateful to see the city in such quintessential form.


Saturday afternoon, packing for yet another trip, soundtrack: Forget Twin Shadow