There was still a black and white telly in our home growing up until the late 90s. Maybe even after the 00s began, but it was gotten rid of soon after. Likely because we survived the millennium bug that, in the end, never came to bite — didn’t need a relic of ‘99 to cling to.
A solid cube with a curved, blurred screen, it’d wobble into motion-pictures like some just-landed alien. Whistling and whooshing trying to tame the signal.
The relief of technicolour after trying to get any sense out of that thing was heady.
Especially the Morning Shows that managed to appear even more garish with their DAFFODIL YELLOW SUNSHINE scenery and ARCTIC BLUE backdrops of sky and clouds.
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In my old job, I would put together colour palettes. No one would question it as I christened each colour with a name alongside their hex code and RGBs. A child of infinite gel pens, stickers, glitter, notebooks with padlocks, to be a grown-up picking colours for people:
I had peaked.
Back then, I would never like to admit that I was part of the crowd, trend-following not setting — a trait that came as standard with my Career-First years. Yet as a 20-something millennial I sought out anything Millennial Pink, just like everyone else: trotting all-cute with the rest of the Pastel Parade.
And this Pink who began to define me so long ago, somehow never wanted to leave. Poor old Blog can’t even escape the steer that shade has over me. Nor the cushion underneath my screen... A third of my wardrobe... The wall of our house outside...
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Some people taste colour.
!
It’s called Synesthesia.
!!
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A heart at peace Gives life to the body, but Envy rots the bones.
Excuse me whilst I repeat this to myself: but in heaven, sweet angels, I wish to be a Synesthete, please.
Imagine tasting colour. A passerby’s hat like cranberry sauce. Neon reflectors sour or citrus on your tongue.
Imagine!
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Envy rots the bones. Envy rots the bones.
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A few years back I didn’t know, and would never be able to recall, the name of the colour chartreuse. To me it was bogey green, off-sage, mushy pea-like. But those more cultured around me would say “chartreuse” and I’d accept the word with a lag as I tried to recollect if it really was lime, mustard...
Lilac? Peach?
Now it winks at me as socks in the drawer, a bag on the side, and a fleece ‘round my shoulders.
Chartreuse? They’ll ask. It’s like this, as we both look down at my flip-flops, happy toes wriggling beneath.
With a wavelength of 547.5nm, it is “located squarely within the transition between green and yellow.” Should you like to divine your own meaning from this, I’ll be right here to grin wildly and nod. The Ultimate Inbetween: a transformation-coded colour.
Chartreuse, it turns out, is a cornerstone. You just try getting from yellow to green without it.
Please join me over at this website where someone has listed all the colours as their respective wavelengths —
— now tell me whilst you’re there: which one won’t leave you alone?
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Colour will hound you, surround you. And you’ll follow it like a puppy. It’ll tease when it doesn’t suit you. It will be memories and ceremonies and love and hate. Its punch will falter come the night, though you’ll still know its depths despite the dark.
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So it’s not just orange. But: Persimmon. Of course, it’s deep brown. But in fact, that’s Hickory. Coral Cerulean Crimson Cornsilk Heavens above Won’t you let me taste them? Drench me in colour Watch as I get carried Away in wavelengths Over the rainbow Full spectrum
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