tell me we'll never get used to it


(photo by ryan mcginley)



Cerulean Blue: A True Story. Cerulean blue. It has been my favorite color in the 96-set crayola crayon box since c. 1985. My faith and loyalty to it have lasted, which I think can be seen as a testament of some sort. I mean, I’m also the girl who ate peanut butter sandwiches, no jelly, crusts cut off for lunch every single day between 1985-1999. I am nothing if not fiercely loyal, which I’ve come to realize is just a nicer word for stubborn. Cerulean blue. Roll it around your tongue. Feel it, see it. It gives me a Nabokovian shudder of pleasure, it’s a color that sounds like what it is. Cerulean blue is also, coincidentally, my favorite color of dusk. It only lasts for a few moments, but if I am outside I will stop what I am doing and stare at it. If you are my friend I will probably point it out to you every time it happens when we are together. Even if I’ve pointed it out 100 times before. It comes after the violet but before the ink, a sort of drunken smear of deepest yellow and darkest blue. It’s a warm blue. It is the color of the gloaming, I’ve decided. Tonight, it happened at 6:22pm. Cerulean blue. I own a somewhat obscene number of crayola crayon box sets. In each one, the cerulean blue crayon is missing. I’ve given them away as presents, only to those who I know will truly understand. One of them is half-melted in a secret tiny compartment of my car. It just soothes me to know it’s there. Last summer, I held a sidewalk sale in the park, and forced myself to part with a few of the extra box sets. I made sure to let serious potential buyers know about the missing crayon. I think secretly I was waiting for someone to exclaim, “cerulean blue! That’s my favorite as well!” And then we would link arms and smile knowingly at each other. None of this happened. Something else entirely otherworldly occurred. This fellow rode up on a bicycle, hopped off, and made a beeline for the crayon boxes. I could see he was serious. Nervously, I explained the missing crayon situation. He nodded contemplatively. “How much for the box?” he asked. “A dollar?” I proposed. He handed me the dollar. Then. He slowly pulled something out of his pocket. It was clearly a much-loved crayon, you know the kind: the point is worn down, the paper has been peeled back. But wait: I recognized the color. Cerulean blue. He opened the box, dropped the crayon in the missing slot. “You carry a cerulean blue crayon?” I squeaked. He nodded and got on his bike. My friend stared from him to me, slack-jawed. She knows all about cerulean blue. He rode off, and I let him. I mean, what was I supposed to say? How does one even begin that conversation? Maybe I didn’t want to be disappointed, didn’t want to hear that he just found the crayon on the ground or something and finally had a home for it. Maybe I wanted to sustain the illusion that somewhere out there is someone who gets this tiny atom of being gotten, who will look at me and recognize all that cerulean blue truly means, all that I have never been able to articulate.

Cerulean Blue: A True Story.

Cerulean blue. It has been my favorite color in the 96-set crayola crayon box since c. 1985. My faith and loyalty to it have lasted, which I think can be seen as a testament of some sort. I mean, I’m also the girl who ate peanut butter sandwiches, no jelly, crusts cut off for lunch every single day between 1985-1999. I am nothing if not fiercely loyal, which I’ve come to realize is just a nicer word for stubborn.

Cerulean blue. Roll it around your tongue. Feel it, see it. It gives me a Nabokovian shudder of pleasure, it’s a color that sounds like what it is. Cerulean blue is also, coincidentally, my favorite color of dusk. It only lasts for a few moments, but if I am outside I will stop what I am doing and stare at it. If you are my friend I will probably point it out to you every time it happens when we are together. Even if I’ve pointed it out 100 times before. It comes after the violet but before the ink, a sort of drunken smear of deepest yellow and darkest blue. It’s a warm blue. It is the color of the gloaming, I’ve decided. Tonight, it happened at 6:22pm.

Cerulean blue. I own a somewhat obscene number of crayola crayon box sets. In each one, the cerulean blue crayon is missing. I’ve given them away as presents, only to those who I know will truly understand. One of them is half-melted in a secret tiny compartment of my car. It just soothes me to know it’s there. Last summer, I held a sidewalk sale in the park, and forced myself to part with a few of the extra box sets. I made sure to let serious potential buyers know about the missing crayon. I think secretly I was waiting for someone to exclaim, “cerulean blue! That’s my favorite as well!” And then we would link arms and smile knowingly at each other. None of this happened. Something else entirely otherworldly occurred. This fellow rode up on a bicycle, hopped off, and made a beeline for the crayon boxes. I could see he was serious. Nervously, I explained the missing crayon situation. He nodded contemplatively. “How much for the box?” he asked. “A dollar?” I proposed. He handed me the dollar. Then. He slowly pulled something out of his pocket. It was clearly a much-loved crayon, you know the kind: the point is worn down, the paper has been peeled back. But wait: I recognized the color. Cerulean blue. He opened the box, dropped the crayon in the missing slot. “You carry a cerulean blue crayon?” I squeaked. He nodded and got on his bike. My friend stared from him to me, slack-jawed. She knows all about cerulean blue. He rode off, and I let him. I mean, what was I supposed to say? How does one even begin that conversation? Maybe I didn’t want to be disappointed, didn’t want to hear that he just found the crayon on the ground or something and finally had a home for it. Maybe I wanted to sustain the illusion that somewhere out there is someone who gets this tiny atom of being gotten, who will look at me and recognize all that cerulean blue truly means, all that I have never been able to articulate.

  1. violetghosts reblogged this from petitchou
  2. nsomn reblogged this from petitchou and added:
    I myself have a weird relationship with cerulean...stubbiest, always the one
  3. petitchou posted this
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