A Wistful Thought

I've just seen a rainbow in the clouds over Lake Howell. Lightning is pink here, and while the clouds over Lake Howell are full of menace, on shore it is clear and the sun is setting, projecting a verticle rainbow over Lake Howell. While I loath the unrelenting heat and humidity of Central Florida, I continue to be awestruck by the skyscapes here. In Larry McMurtry's Comanche Moon, one of the characters remarks that the skies in Mexico were higher than in Texas. I've never been to Texas or Mexico, but now I know that the sky does vary from place to place. The sky in Florida is full of contour. Clouds don't merely cover it, they populate it and enact dramas in its expanse that make sense only in the language of clouds; cold and hot fronts, high and low pressure, all vying for dominion of the sky. In the language of aesthetics, though, they are a vast, never-ending poem waiting to be recorded, not caring whether it is ever recorded.

But what I wouldn't give to be space walking outside the Discovery right now, seeing the sky as only a privileged few have ever done: from beyond it. The pictures they've sent back can't possibly do justice to the view and the experience. By about 20 years and fifty pounds it's too late to become an astronaut, I suppose.