Post by Misha
Strange the metaphors that persist in the face of scientific advancement, how we still say “head in the clouds” when we mean “dreaming, unconcerned,” (and often) “in love.”
When, meteorologically speaking, the clouds are no place for dreams or heads. They are fluffy water. They are cold and wet and low in oxygen.
The first time I rode in a plane and saw a cloud from above it looked so soft and kind and I asked my dad if it would catch us if we fell. He said, “Actually,”
“clouds are only floating vapor masses. So no.”
When most people remember childhood betrayal, they talk about Santa Claus,
but the truth about clouds breaks my heart to this day.
And so I’m glad we have poetry and songs and art in which the clouds can be everything they always deserved to be.
In Clouds, Harrison Lipton traces the paper thin psychic line between desire and self sabotage, prodding with muted synths and guitars (buried under layers and layers of pink silk and velvet) the soft space between the dreamy abstraction of lust and the gritty immediacy of love. His debut album, Loveliness, is out next month on Yellow K. Pre-order here.