sometimes you are so like me - both of you - and I feel I should apologize
sometimes it’s okay and your emergence is humbling
in the way they say the pale blue dot of our planet - viewed from space
connects you to everything and helps you understand we are close to nothing
imperfect - impermanent - incomplete
and maybe sometimes - close to whole and still emerging
we fret about the loss of places as “our” cities - “our” neighborhoods change
did Hassam worry about “his” Columbus Avenue at the beautiful moment where the South End street grid turns away
the fabric is surprisingly intact with maybe a few regrettable decisions along the edges
searching for this place reminded me of architecture school before google earth
to go and stand where he stood - to see what he saw
to know a city street could be as engaging as your hands could make it
to believe a vision was only a just beyond your solid presence
do you remember
the urgency of it all - when we were kids
the fate of fiddler crabs and minnows was so important
you were on bucket watch and the summer sun was heating the sea water
you worried and knew the tide could not be trusted
and later
it was the only thing that could be trusted
in the late winter morning - March holding spring at arms length
the big oak leans into the sun
the shadow of our small house - where we’ve dwelt for almost 20 years
concedes the day - letting the trees step free of the dark woods
letting its shadow recede to the floor of the lawn
it too leans toward the sun
a city’s movement
along a highway - through a curtain
melting snow a common thread
a property is measured - deeded by meets and bounds
but who’s to say the truth lives in lines or delineations
what is undeniable is the presence of shadow and light
they render without possession or solidity
but these too are fleeting - turning this way and that to catch the eye
then lying still on a leaf or blade
the trick is in the light - the hard truth the shadow
Main Street - we drove for five hours - in good weather
we made little proclamations as we approached - it’s kind of like Providence - or maybe parts of Virginia
great old houses - look, a casino… huh… SteelStacks - wonderful
the college visits bring you places and you bring your expectations and biases
the simple truth - if we can reinvent ourselves and our cities - how we live and thrive
we can continue : recycling our stories - holding them up to the light - sifting through the layers
where were my bones born
I rarely remember summer light in the city
it’s the light of autumn and winter that sticks
the wind and light today unearth a memory
sunset over davis square
maybe it was here
a few domestic objects
elbowing out transcendence
firm in their presence - solid and anchoring
planning an escape
would you go with them if it was all you needed
it’s not always at the center of the image where things become real - is it
sometimes it’s the detail - just off to the right of our focus
it gives us scale and proportion - sometimes subconsciously our eyes
collect the data and frame it for us to compose - just behind the retina
sometimes it’s the detail - in the distance - that explains the meaning of the foreground
we were all “carried inward” to know the ponds and shallow stands of water along the flexing pointing arm of the cape
she gave us a way to look and accept the joy of simple truths in the landscape around us
the crescendo at last of turning the line becomes a quiet realization that there are so many ways of seeing
knowing it as a “taste before it’s anything else”
expecting is not preparing - instead it’s a kind of informed waiting
even as we hurtle through our journeys - skimming the coast
wondering what is around the next corner - never able to predict
we simply absorb at the moment of contact - satiation - recognition
preparing is beyond our reach
we will hold these evenings firmly in memory
until settling finally onto the sandbar - waiting for the last tide
queen anne’s lace peering nervously at the horizon even as it closes it’s face on the day
the old house guarding our passage - expecting another perfectly unique summer day to arrive with the morning
the stars take their new positions - wondering why we are always so still
a few weeks ago in the mid-day flat light of early new england autumn I arrived at a place of solid memory from my youth
a dike across a watery meadow hosting migrating birds and those that came there to know them and remember how to breathe
the automatic recalling of the science teacher that encouraged my brother and me to watch them - escaping from the math
my heart races still today to split the meadow and the difference of a life built on learning to see and in all light - bathe
to feel at home just seeing - and maybe later if the impression on the retina is strong enough and well recalled… to draw forth what is there
“Everything bows to beauty when it is fierce and when it is flawless” - Ani DiFranco
empathically “fierceness” seems objective and “flawlessness” seems subjective - beauty after all is in the eye of the beholder
we see how accepting she is of our varied forms of beauty - how open and pliable - pulling ours into hers - and yet she is fierce in her dedication to the art form - the bones and tissue supporting it - expressing it - birthing it
gravity is primary and grounding - yet resisting it gives rise to so many beautiful moments - pulling away and returning - leaping and landing - spinning orbiting stillness
When my daughter went off to college for the first time this year, she asked my wife and me to each make a piece of art about our home for her dorm room. Caroline made a neighborhood painting and I made this still life of tea and coffee. Our neighborhood community gathers us and the ritual of sharing tea and coffee allows us to come yet closer.
When the election of 2016 was ramping up, growing tired of the FB noise, I decided my role in the sprawling conversation was to bring a little beauty each time I went on-line. So I started labeling posts with the “One Beautiful Thing” tag and tried to maintain positive energy and emotion. It’s been hard as we all know to soldier through these times where hate and aversion dominate the content and structure of so many interactions.
Now we are left to wonder how to best speak against the hateful actions that killed 11 and caused so much pain and suffering for so many yesterday in Pittsburgh and around the world. Is it enough to speak quietly about beauty and hope? Is it better to wade into the middle with fists raised? How is our respect and love for each other best spoken in all of this noise? With a shout? With a whisper?… I don’t know… If you know, tell me what you think.
there’s a small passage that a vessel might squeeze through if the tide is right
if we are listening and placing ourselves within the conversation - we might hear a quiet scraping along the bottom revealing our weight and draft
if we clutch the anchor we will lose purchase - try cupping the sea instead and hearing what it would have us know
we are impermanent, imperfect, incomplete - cherish that for a while
mid-summer in the thick air
a tired sea rises to meet us - eyeing the next dune - avoiding a sudden surge
saving strength for a living future - birthing a new age without kneeling
they say life came from the sea
who can say what flat is - consider the perspective of the universe with it's eternal expansion, warping time and bending light - surely what is quite flat to us is a lumpy speck in the great soup of things
as a vessel tips to its edge - dragged finally by the moon in its rage to subdue the continents - what is plumb then - yes of course the surveyor could tell us with certainty once the benchmark is found - but what good is it if it points us blindly to heaven with no heed of weather, gliding terns or oxygen
"walking out to the edge" seems of interest to most - also occupying the center if it can be found easily - but the edge is definite - no denying it's presence - it's a beginning it's an end and the stuff in between holds little interest - we tend to sleep walk through the middle and cling to the sides - the start - the finish
and so what of the horizon - they say we are living in unprecedented unstable times - I don't deny it - but imagine how uncertain you must be to pack you family into a ship and sail into the distance - not knowing what lies beyond - not intending to return
did they expect to find an edge - or just a blue plane - that eventually became land - fed them and asked them to wonder about a new horizon
If you had to describe the essence of the sand and it's subtle topography - would you consider the bars that emerge and recede at the will of the moon - or the strip at the sea wall buttressing the continent
would you consider the mooring and its attendant buoy that spears the flat and stretches out to explore the pocked bottom of low tide - breathing in the mollusks and scuttling crabs at the "growing edge"
I've wandered the flats and known my footprints are less than a blink - indenting a passage that is gone with the next tide but repeated millennium upon millennium hauling our questions to the shore and casting them out in hope of clarity
If I had to describe the essence of the sand I'd say it was both impermanent and eternal - a shifting record of the passing gulls - slowing down so that we might breath - always regenerating from the rivers - always jealous of the moss calmly eyeing the stone