Well,
that was partly the reason. The other was because I was partially
deaf that day, so I worried that my small, insignificant joke might
be lost in a whisper and I'd have to repeat it in a bellow - I really
had no idea how loud or soft I was speaking – which might then echo
throughout the store like a voice coming through the tannoy system
and cause heads to look up. And the quip too, if heard, might not be
understood, or be mistook for: oh dear, we've got a right one here,
with a tight, humouring smile given. So, I remained silent,
ruminating on it in my mind alone, my lips closed and possibly
slightly curled. In other words, I amused myself, and maybe stirred
other customers to shoot me curious stares.
I dwelt
on it for the rest of the day. Orange. Beta-carotene. Vitamin A.
Though surely my hands had reached for these items for more aesthetic
reasons...liar, because two were on my shopping list. The own brand
baked beans were an impulse buy as was the on offer houmous.
Was it
an orange day? I was wearing brown: brown top, darker brown cardigan
with khaki green trousers with red stripes and a brown belt. Brown is
not orange but it's a complementary colour. An earth shade. The
palette of autumn, of late sun.
Perhaps
I just needed in that instant, the instant of the planned shop, more
orange in my life.
Why?
The sun
was out; it wasn't cold and grey, but bright and warm. The sun
however was nowhere in sight. Somewhere else, I imagine, it could be
spotted, red and small, an orange ball. Somewhere, in different,
clearer skies, it was an orange in the air, just hanging there,
without a tree from which to hang from.
The
thought made me hungry, not, however, for oranges; I dislike peeling
and eating that fruit – all that pith! - as well as its juice, with
bits.
Still I
wanted orange and orange I would have.
I
snacked on dried apricots; I drank mango juice.
And
when the sunlight faded to blue-black, I ate sliced carrot, raw and
cooked; I ate sweet potato, diced, in a three-bean soup.
Did
I need more sweetness to balance out my bitterness, was that it? Was
I sour, inside? Without knowing it, was that possible?
Or were
my eyes just attracted to the colour? The colour of cheerfulness, of
sunshine and the south. Birds fly south, before Winter comes, should
I? Turn my face to the sun like sunflowers do. Lift up my head to its
orange face and yellow petals of light. Watch it rise; see it dip.
Bask. Bask in its warmth.
Spring.
Summer. Autumn. Winter. All year round.
Sun,
summer; orange, autumn. Orange in autumn to compensate for the fading
light; the dying sun. Carrots, squash, pumpkin. Sweet potatoes.
Why is
the sun never compared to a peach? And if the sun is likened to an
orange then what is the moon? A round melon; a golden apple; a blue
cheese, French, of course. In shadow, a lemon segment waiting to be
squeezed. A Cheshire cat grinning. A cat on the moon.
Why
does it always have to be food? As if we could stretch out a hand and
pluck it from the sky, like Adam and Eve did of the Tree. We've eaten
of the sun, the moon; the world goes dark. Yet our appetites, our
cravings continue unabated. Our days and nights unilluminated. For
the Heavens have a hole, an unrepairable hole, in them. The oranges,
the melons, the apples, the lemons consumed. Totally.
The
future black; drained, bleached of orange. Oranges are a bitter
fruit.
I saw
orange.
Picture credit: Redheaded Woman and Sunflowers, 1890, Paul Gauguin (source: WikiArt).
This post was written in 2019.
