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May. 24th, 2005 12:48 pmI decided arbitrarily the other day that my very favorite temperature in the whole, wide world was 72°F. I had gone out the busy side of my office building, and headed towards a plaza right on the river where my bank has a small branch and an ATM. Heading towards the longer crosswalk, there was a display flashing that temperature: 72, 11:37 AM.
This was a couple weeks ago. I am not exactly sure of the temperature today, but this balmy sunniness also appears to be my favorite temperature, ever. There's this feeling that settles in one's bones, in one's limbs, a feeling at the back of your neck and the inside of your wrist, a simple touch of air and light and noise that indicates to you that maybe, just maybe, for this one minute, everything's just fine. Not exciting, not dire, not even anticipatory. Just, fine.
It's a bittersweet feeling, to be sure. I've cast myself adrift in this city, and every time I head out into the world through those revolving doors (after being cooped up in my dim, cave-like office), I am reminded of potential, and possibility. Even the trixie smokers by the barricade-cum-flower beds along the curb are bright and well-defined and dimensional in the sunlight.
The line on the graph is median, average, stable, stretching on endlessly. Comfort. Each foot in front of the other, the right amount of dosh in the change purse for a falafel sandwich, hair pulled back out of the face, a nod and a smile at one of the rare office drones who likes to make eye contact with strangers.
It's the kind of 72° sort of day where you'd need bootstraps and moxie and gumption and 2 quarts of elbow grease to attempt the extraordinary. So easy to get mired in the fine.
This was a couple weeks ago. I am not exactly sure of the temperature today, but this balmy sunniness also appears to be my favorite temperature, ever. There's this feeling that settles in one's bones, in one's limbs, a feeling at the back of your neck and the inside of your wrist, a simple touch of air and light and noise that indicates to you that maybe, just maybe, for this one minute, everything's just fine. Not exciting, not dire, not even anticipatory. Just, fine.
It's a bittersweet feeling, to be sure. I've cast myself adrift in this city, and every time I head out into the world through those revolving doors (after being cooped up in my dim, cave-like office), I am reminded of potential, and possibility. Even the trixie smokers by the barricade-cum-flower beds along the curb are bright and well-defined and dimensional in the sunlight.
The line on the graph is median, average, stable, stretching on endlessly. Comfort. Each foot in front of the other, the right amount of dosh in the change purse for a falafel sandwich, hair pulled back out of the face, a nod and a smile at one of the rare office drones who likes to make eye contact with strangers.
It's the kind of 72° sort of day where you'd need bootstraps and moxie and gumption and 2 quarts of elbow grease to attempt the extraordinary. So easy to get mired in the fine.
