It’s been about two months now. Since the Lunar New Year hols, I’ve been waking up at six-ish in the morning every workday (I say to myself, and others if they ask) to beat the MRT crowd, which honestly is something fierce during the school term. But, really, my waking up early could easily be to look at clouds.
It used to be that I got out of my house at about seven-thirty. The sun is up, and the clouds look like they generally would the rest of the day, and you would be able to tell if rain was coming fairly reliably.
Now, as I walk out of the house, the sky is just waking up. The sun, off in its corner in the approximate vicinity between the roofs of two low-rise condos – I say approximate because it’s shifted a little these two months – starts turning up the intensity, so that eye-catching patterns of yellow and bright orange and pink and red and purple blaze and tumble and swirl and form an aura around it, and sometimes they obscure the sun but sometimes they set it off just right and there is a sense of rightness, of a complete picture.
And as I walk out of the side street where my house it and turn left onto the street leading to the main road, because there is no building in front of me, there is only sky and in the sky usually clouds. I remember a recent bonanza, gorgeous cloudscapes several days in a row: small, tight patterns arranged like fish scales; bold splotches, dense and opaque, and brush strokes that slide carelessly off the side of a limitless canvas; classic cotton puffs, wispy and massive; and sometimes a combination; and once, an early morning jet stream, high, high up in the sky, lasing into a slash of cloud and out again.
I can certainly see why some folks are fascinated by clouds.