Saturday, July 18th, 2009 (Washington D.C.)

The trees all shimmer here--even the trunks and branches, as do the borders of rooftops.  If ever there was a golden city, this is it, I guess.  The Washington Monument is a great beacon--no, a great finger--pointing towards a point where the vaulted causeway of clouds ends and the sky, a color somehow both blue and cream (kind of like the capitol-building up close--cream and copper-stained), begins.

The fireflies are starting to appear with fanciful trepidation.  

As the sun sinks, its lights seems to reach higher, and somehow the blue-greens and the blue bruises and the angry blues start to turn to a rusty purple.  

Up in the middle points of the mall, the sky seems to gain confidence, turning from a blank-faced manila to a color like the crest on a blue-jay's forehead.

It's so strange, I don't think I've ever been in a place that can be so full of vitality, with so many crowds of black-suited people striding with purpose and tourists walking about, chattering in groups, and feel as though it is silent.  These broad streets are not humming with voices.  The grass in the national mall is dry but there are green patches under the waving shade of trees so it's a nice walk from monument to monument, from one great, muted slice of history to another.

But then at night, by the river near Georgetown, there was is much noise.  I saw so many bawdy, drunk young people.  Faith in my generation fell like a failed rocket.  What were these people doing?  There were inebriated young professionals dancing aimlessly on anchored boats.  There were tipsy young maidens traipsing about with staggering steps, holding their stomachs, crying "Why didn't you eat the salmon we had on the boat?  Now you're gobbling up this greasy pizzajunk, Karen, and I'm going to have to clean it up when you throw it up later!"  

I don't know why, but I thought, Lately, I've been splitting myself into metaphors, climbing into the swathes of light that protect cathedral-crowns and church spires from the sins of a University town.  A metaphorical description of a metaphor?  Maybe.  But I fixed it up soon enough.  My faith, I mean.  How would D.C. be golden in any light without the fuel of hope and optimism that promotes change, sprouting up like blades of grass, however dry.