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HIGH SCHOOL CREATIVE. (1998)
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I am woken early, blasted by the searing rays of a sun most unlike mine, a sun most taken by sadism.
The steam rises slowly from the walls of skyscrapers. Thick, white cloud rising from the city canyons. The steam and smoke and dust coalesce, the sun now hidden behind an impenetrable orange. An impenetrable, yet pale, sickly orange, like the fruit the street vendor is selling down on the corner. Yet the vendor sells his fruit in boundless quantities. Not because it is nice to eat, in fact it is bland and tasteless, but because many can afford no better. The sky hangs like a veil across the cityscape, torn and stained. It goes unnoticed by the vendor, he is content with his sky, he can afford no better.
The sky glows, backlit by the sun, and the city begins to burn.
The roads, leached dry, crack and throw up clouds of yellow dust to fill the vacuum. The sky sags and moisture returns to the void in clumps. It pools around the dust, forming a throbbing mass of humid, honey air. The smells of beef and sauces waft from open windows, assaulting the senses with a continuous bombardment of spices and flavours. The air strains under the weight of a thousand scents and breaks to come crashing down upon the pavement.
A sound! Small and feeble, a horn sounds in the distance and its call is answered. Another sound, then another and gradually the sounds rise to a crescendo. More and more, they gather and grow. The push up against the sky, threatening to burst through the tough membrane of gasses, but the sky holds, drowning the sound in a senile calm.
The traffic blunders on in the blinding heat, the pedestrians making vain attempts to escape the riders, the bicycles skilfully manuvering through the maze of cars and trucks and buses and trams and other bicycles. Sounds of people waking, shouting and laughter. Sounds of cars and trams and bicycle chains, smells of grease and oil, of fire and burnt sauces. Dirt and smoke and steam and gasses like liquid.
Beijing is ready for the tourists. In vain, I close the drapes and go back to bed.
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Jarra McGrath
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Comments
Lovely! aclam | May 1st, 2003
yellow dust to fill the vacuum Franziska Seel | Jun 8th, 2004
thats a really nice description of the smell and taste of beijing! I like the style that you used to write it - maybe because it could be my style as well :) but then, I couldn't have written it so poetic. partly, because I just can't, partly because beijing doesn't appear so poetic to me...
Jarra McGrath |
:) 1998. slightly embarassing in my enthusiasm.
Yasmary Mora | Jun 24th, 2004
nice article...
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