Sunday, November 29, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Those of you who know me will wonder that I, who always describe myself as "popular culture challenged" will bring up such a person as Ben Affleck. Ahhh! but fate plays all sorts of little games with us.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Here in this great space, sandwiched between Richardson's Trinity church and McKim's library, In this place of sophisticated aesthetics erupts a celebration of Ceres. A dionynisia of fertility and plenty and beauty, beauty of fruits, beauty of light, beauty of people.
The sky is a pale cobalt cup, a Ming cup, still and translucent and radient.
The lowering rays of sun steal through the branches of the trees and explode in brilliance on the white marquees that shelter under them.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
ROW, ROW, ROW......
I'm walking to the garden in Bradock park;
To my little garden plot on this very still
Saturday morning, very still and calm;
And wafting through the air a sound is teasing my ears.
I have always wondered that those words
Scan so well. The voice is light and sincere,
Maternal, it seeks my ears so very gently; I sense
A rhythmic movement in the playground at the top of the alley.
GENTLY DOWN THE STREAM...
So gentle she is, gentle as my own mother
Sweet and simple under a porcelain sky.
Down the stream of life I've flown, gently;
Being gentle has never been hard at all for me.
MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY....
But oh, my dear mother, the merrily part
That has so often been hard in this my life;
But I have pulled this heavy oar of mine
Happily, no matter how rocky and turbid the stream.
LIFE IS BUT A...........
On the August air the little response failed to carry;
Instead came the rident staccato chime of a child's laugh.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
“But about that day or hour no one knows...
And what I say to you I say to all:Keep awake.”
Mark 13: 35 and 37
Listen to me: you could lose this all
Not in the far off sense of environmental catastrophes,
But you, personally. I write this
In bed unable to go out and explore
The shifting meters of sun and cloud;
Hearing only from a distance the occasional bark of dogs
Or the distant wailing of a siren
Mapping the geography of tragedy
While the traffic murmurs.
All those things that never happen, will!
They have happened to me. The stalking specter
Of disease that robs the tongue of taste,
That makes light a searing threat,
That muffles sound and thought
And makes a prison of one's weariness;
Which trades the sky of moving clouds
For a stark white ceiling
And a desperate yearning.
A prisoner in one's own body,
An orphan in one's own city,
A voice crying in a familiar wilderness;
The hand of fate can open
And give you these things unexpected.
So I tell you, walk with your head raised,
Raised to the lofty and infinite sky.
Walk in awareness of the beauty of creation,
The mosaic of green and blue,
The tracing shadows and the jeweled puddles,
The voices of young and old in humanity's chorus;
Walk in this world with joy;
While you can!
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Saturday, August 1, 2009
...shall I choose the wings of Dawn for my flight...
Cantata "Ich armer Mensch, ich Sünenknect" J.S.bach BWV 55
Dawn! Look, the ardent sun is rising,
Rising over West Newton street and the corridor;
Rising in the East, or at least seems to be so.
But you perhaps remember that it is we,
And with us this delicate, nacreous sky,
Pearl, mother of pearl, mother of us all,
We with our lungs, and with our fragile,
Our mysterious and powerful air,
We are rising as we spin, hurtling
Through the dark and starry void.
We are spinning on our wobbly axis
Like the top of some giant child.
Whirling so fast he couldn't even see us
As we crawl across the South West Corridor Park.
How rident would be that child's laugh-
And perhaps at our expense as we swarm
In our self absorbed festering across this globe;
As we trace our frantic orbit, spinning on our way.
Spinning, and West Newton Street
has just rushed to edge of light
Where the warm and the vibrant;
Where the massively energetic orb
Is glimmering into view to gild this August day.
And that man, do you see him there?
He is spinning at 1000 miles per hour
While being thrown through the track of our orbit
At sixty seven times that speed, and he is walking;
Being late for work he's charging at perhaps
Six miles per hour; my goodness!
What must the addition of his velocity be?
And he is still determinedly upright.
And what is stranger, he doesn't even notice!
The hours of my days
“In a summer season, when soft was the sun.”
Here, let me show you what is outside my door, mundane though it may seem, with its traffic signs and telephone wires and the pedestrian crassness of the playground equipment and its ground rubber pavement.
But it is also under the lofty infinite sky, and caressed by the eddies of breeze, gilded by the sun and jeweled with puddles. I want to show you, look and see the world that Courbet and Constable painted- it is right there, all around you, you are walking through it right now.
Hear the symphonic cacophony of our laughter, and chatter, and dog barks, backed by the murmuring continuo of the ever moving traffic and the percussion of our footsteps.
Even in the most ordinary view there is splendor, I invite you to see it, to swoon in it’s beauty; because,you see, tomorrow you, or it, may be no more.
Believe me, I know!
“August; the hours of my days” is a series of images and text which chronicle my daily journeys through the month of my birth. In it I attempt to depict the passage of the sun, the movement of clouds, and the feeling and beauty of the hours of my days.
GoudamentBricks is a typeface by Manfred Klien
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The hatch shell was filled with Haydn
Clouds moving east above it
Growing as they did, roseate
Against the fading sky, and grey.
Brahms brought the waltzing night
And a flock of geese flew to the river
The fountain in Copley Square is still.
It's basin trembling with reflections
Of the tower of Old South Church
While 8 young women pass;
Tall as giraffes and lithe
Their silk dresses bright like jewels,
Short like flags above their heeléd legs.
Laughing, they wear plastic crowns
And party beads and two hold hands.
A bachelorette party they tell me,
I wish well and happy the bride.
The man making my meal
Is blond and wears a baseball cap.
And his skin is fine. Inside
His arm is a tattoo. Initials
And small dates rank up his arm.
As he hands me the bag
And says my name I see
The list is long. He wears it with grace.
Along the park the sky is deep
I see some stars, the horizon glows.
It is beautiful.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
When I was young we had in our family a book of riddles. This was before computer games. It was called something very imaginative like "101 riddles for young persons" I may have the number wrong. As is so often the case, it is the perplexing ones that I remember, to whit:
Q. When is a boy not a boy?
A. When he is abed!
The syntax should date the publication, even in the 50's we had to seek out our septuagenarian baby sitter to explain. In my youth the proposition that one's essence could be changed by simply lying down was troubling. I have come to understand that it can, puberty helped with that, and I find that the world continues to be indefinite, filled with troubling questions about the nature of things, such as:
Q. When walking through Copley place, as I will be shortly, I'm having breakfast with "The Other Reader," am I inside or outside? Also, when leaving one building and crossing the bridge to the next, does that condition change and, which is really the pressing concern, at least to those of us who have managed to outgrow baseball caps, do I remove my hat or not?
I have actually watched the bifurcated video screen at the top of the Huntington Avenue escalator for clues, thinking that Louis Vuitton's models would know, but have been unable to ascertain what is hat and what is hair, except in the case of the black bunny ears, but they are on what we can assume is a woman. She keeps them on, but women do keep them on, being relieved by the sexism of our culture from having to fumble with their hat as well as their shopping bags while trying to open a door. Or pass through a revolving door in defensive posture (more on that later.) Or still yet, press an elevator button. I say nothing about men's rooms.
Keeping my hat on in the hallway does allow me to remove it on entering a shop, which still makes a pleasant impression, and under the skylights it can still serve the stated function of protecting my aged skin from the harsh rays of the sun. That answers fairly well in regard to the bridge, and as we know, in some contexts the dear bought fedora is never removed- but those folks have evolved a different taste that eludes me as yet.
I suppose this could be extended into a contemplation of the question "where are we really when we enter the mall, is it possible to ascertain in any real sense?"
Meanwhile, I'm at the revolving door so will sign off. As I said, you'll be hearing about that too!