At the pool's edge, a frill of opalescent tiles catches the last rays of the late summer sun. I watch as a line of ants marches along this glowing margin, hastily avoiding occasional rivulets, so intent are they on their far off destination. I press my back further into my lounge chair. I am determined to wring these precious few moments of the season from my tiny paradise.
Let this be a character study of a place, a time, so I will remember always.
I arrived after almost a day of continuous travel that began with a long train ride through the night. As we disembarked in the wan light of dawn, our ferry awaited, like a barely visible ghost, floating upon the still water of an unknown sea. I followed the line of passengers before me and found myself seated upon a worn wooden deck. Within an hour, the fogs of that early morning had lifted and once again I disembarked to find myself at the next leg of this journey: a bus ride that brought me here, over cobbled and unpaved roads, overhung with the canopy of a thousand trees and festooned with the heavy foliage of strange vines for which I had no name.
I came here to disappear, and disappear I did. I lost myself in long fecund days filled with the deafening song of creatures unseen, air almost too perfumed to breathe and sights only imaginable in the dreams of one intoxicated with life.
When I first arrived, I was greeted by a woman who introduced herself only as "Duke". She spoke fluently, but slowly, with a voice too deep for her diminutive stature and a soft accent of indeterminate origin. Duke led me past walled gardens both wild and manicured. She must have read my thoughts as we walked because she assured me, "there will be plenty of opportunity to enjoy the grounds".
Finally, we reached the gates of the main house. I feel can only relate a pale shadow of the palace in front of which I found myself. Not because it does not deserve to be described but because it truly defies words in any known language, or at least in the tongues with which I am familiar.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
Prompt: the road
A friend just came back from a trip and I can feel the waves of euphoria coming off her. They're palpable, they're rocking the air around us.
Travel changes you. My friend, I can see is starting to separate from us. She's looking to another future, away from here. "Here" is just a reminder that you are not "there", wherever "there" is.
Even if you're not aware of it, while you are away from here, from home, being away will make you see things differently. In fact, I was just thinking about this very thing as I walked from home to our meeting place.
What I was thinking on my walk were a few related things that may or may not become a philosophical rant, so bear with me. In a sense, I thought, walking could be a metaphor for living. Because, while walking, the pedestrian is uncovered, open to the environment to the extent that they are not encased in a metal and glass and plastic moving object. The typical walking stride is relatively slow, a human pace, when compared to wheeled or winged forms of comportment. At this speed, it is possible to observe one's surroundings using the senses, making the experience a sensual one, and, it is preferred, a pleasurable one.
Being unencased, and thus, unencumbered, a walker is free to meet other walkers, exchange pleasantries, go about their daily lives unhurried because to arrive at point B from point A by perambulation one must be able to do so at just the pace that they are able. The scale of daily routines would allow for this limitation and would be built accordingly to accommodate. Grocery stores, hardware supplies, bakeries, cafes, etc., would all be a short stroll from one's home and place of employment. This is how a neighborhood would look, and it would be close to other similar neighborhoods, all connected and and easily traversed on foot.
Does this sound familiar? It should. It's a description of what was, in the not so distant past, commonly referred to as a town, or a city.
I believe this is what many people, in their hearts, still want. They want to feel part of something bigger than themselves. They want to feel safe. They want to feel like they belong. They want to enjoy and experience joy in their lives.
I know this is what my friend wants and her trip revealed that all this may be possible for her, just not "here", in this town we have both called home for over a decade now. My friend will scoff when I mention my own recent trip abroad. Yes, I am aware that it is a privilege to go to another country. I feel so very thankful that in my lifetime I have been able to do this. Not long ago, I would not have believed I would get to see how other people lived.
It's no secret that people live differently than we do here. It's just not as well advertised, as, say, the latest version of a popular mobile device. In the places I went, walking was like breathing. No one there questioned the air. Even the most perfunctory of strolls was revelatory. Within a two block radius of where we stayed, I was presented with groceries, bakeries, countless cafes with their tables clustered under the shade of the corner plane trees, and restaurants, restaurants, restaurants. There were alleyways, hidden stairs, pocket gardens, carved out doorways. But this was just an ordinary port town. In fact, many times we were asked why we chose to visit there as it is not a tourist destination but rather a typical working city for this country.
I came home asking myself what happened to us here in the "New World"? What is it that keeps us from living lives open to the possibilities that just a simple walk can offer?
I've gotten a few different explanations, one a Marxist critique citing capitalism and post industrialism as the main culprits. And I can see how these mindsets play a huge part in what we are living with now. Another well meaning friend offered the bootstrap theory to illustrate why even now we can't see past making sure we get ours at the expense of everyone else. A Buddhist might say that if one were to be fully alive one must make oneself more vulnerable, have an open heart. But we here are not about to make ourselves vulnerable. That would just be plain unAmerican.
All of this makes sense. But at what expense? Is our only consolation the sidewalks that are included in our subdivisions?
I'm going to conclude by reiterating that I still believe most people want life to be better, kinder, more beautiful. Just for fun, observe what happens when artists or artisans re-imagine this kind of human scale space, and rebuild an area previously neglected or abandoned, a place where one can walk to whatever one desires. Portland and Oakland are good examples. These cities flew under the radar, ignored or even maligned for years. Slowly, over a couple of decades, groups of artists quietly carved out new possibilities, resuscitating infrastructures, making these places not just inhabitable, but livable. The unfortunate thing is once these re-imagined cities were "discovered", people flocked there hoping to be part of this better life, and suddenly they are affordable only to the wealthy.
So, what's the solution, you ask? My friend is talking about a trailer park close to amenities. But what about the rest of us? Move to Kingston, NY or Albuquerque, NM or some far flung corner and start rebuilding? I'm getting too old for that, but maybe you can. And if you do, maybe some day when you are putting on the finishing touches, I'll relocate there and drive the prices up.
I apologize for the rant. There's so much more to say but that would require a book.
Travel changes you. My friend, I can see is starting to separate from us. She's looking to another future, away from here. "Here" is just a reminder that you are not "there", wherever "there" is.
Even if you're not aware of it, while you are away from here, from home, being away will make you see things differently. In fact, I was just thinking about this very thing as I walked from home to our meeting place.
What I was thinking on my walk were a few related things that may or may not become a philosophical rant, so bear with me. In a sense, I thought, walking could be a metaphor for living. Because, while walking, the pedestrian is uncovered, open to the environment to the extent that they are not encased in a metal and glass and plastic moving object. The typical walking stride is relatively slow, a human pace, when compared to wheeled or winged forms of comportment. At this speed, it is possible to observe one's surroundings using the senses, making the experience a sensual one, and, it is preferred, a pleasurable one.
Being unencased, and thus, unencumbered, a walker is free to meet other walkers, exchange pleasantries, go about their daily lives unhurried because to arrive at point B from point A by perambulation one must be able to do so at just the pace that they are able. The scale of daily routines would allow for this limitation and would be built accordingly to accommodate. Grocery stores, hardware supplies, bakeries, cafes, etc., would all be a short stroll from one's home and place of employment. This is how a neighborhood would look, and it would be close to other similar neighborhoods, all connected and and easily traversed on foot.
Does this sound familiar? It should. It's a description of what was, in the not so distant past, commonly referred to as a town, or a city.
I believe this is what many people, in their hearts, still want. They want to feel part of something bigger than themselves. They want to feel safe. They want to feel like they belong. They want to enjoy and experience joy in their lives.
I know this is what my friend wants and her trip revealed that all this may be possible for her, just not "here", in this town we have both called home for over a decade now. My friend will scoff when I mention my own recent trip abroad. Yes, I am aware that it is a privilege to go to another country. I feel so very thankful that in my lifetime I have been able to do this. Not long ago, I would not have believed I would get to see how other people lived.
It's no secret that people live differently than we do here. It's just not as well advertised, as, say, the latest version of a popular mobile device. In the places I went, walking was like breathing. No one there questioned the air. Even the most perfunctory of strolls was revelatory. Within a two block radius of where we stayed, I was presented with groceries, bakeries, countless cafes with their tables clustered under the shade of the corner plane trees, and restaurants, restaurants, restaurants. There were alleyways, hidden stairs, pocket gardens, carved out doorways. But this was just an ordinary port town. In fact, many times we were asked why we chose to visit there as it is not a tourist destination but rather a typical working city for this country.
I came home asking myself what happened to us here in the "New World"? What is it that keeps us from living lives open to the possibilities that just a simple walk can offer?
I've gotten a few different explanations, one a Marxist critique citing capitalism and post industrialism as the main culprits. And I can see how these mindsets play a huge part in what we are living with now. Another well meaning friend offered the bootstrap theory to illustrate why even now we can't see past making sure we get ours at the expense of everyone else. A Buddhist might say that if one were to be fully alive one must make oneself more vulnerable, have an open heart. But we here are not about to make ourselves vulnerable. That would just be plain unAmerican.
All of this makes sense. But at what expense? Is our only consolation the sidewalks that are included in our subdivisions?
I'm going to conclude by reiterating that I still believe most people want life to be better, kinder, more beautiful. Just for fun, observe what happens when artists or artisans re-imagine this kind of human scale space, and rebuild an area previously neglected or abandoned, a place where one can walk to whatever one desires. Portland and Oakland are good examples. These cities flew under the radar, ignored or even maligned for years. Slowly, over a couple of decades, groups of artists quietly carved out new possibilities, resuscitating infrastructures, making these places not just inhabitable, but livable. The unfortunate thing is once these re-imagined cities were "discovered", people flocked there hoping to be part of this better life, and suddenly they are affordable only to the wealthy.
So, what's the solution, you ask? My friend is talking about a trailer park close to amenities. But what about the rest of us? Move to Kingston, NY or Albuquerque, NM or some far flung corner and start rebuilding? I'm getting too old for that, but maybe you can. And if you do, maybe some day when you are putting on the finishing touches, I'll relocate there and drive the prices up.
I apologize for the rant. There's so much more to say but that would require a book.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Prompt: The Moral of the Story
(editorial comment that I just can't resist: ugh)
The moral of the story always seems so appropos, but after some consideration, it occurred to this writer, to wonder, what came first, the tale or its moral?
Aesop, to use as an example one of your better known works, did you observe an ant and a grasshopper conversing and, if so, did you overhear the greener of the two lament his days of leisure as his companion dryly replied, "I told you so"? I'm further pondering if these characters may have been stand-ins for a pair of offspring -- yours, perhaps? Or possibly a duo in your employ? Either way, the ant always comes out rosier than that philandering grasshopper of a companion.
Personally, I see the ant in a more anhedonic light. To what kind of existence does this fellow subscribe? A twenty four seven contract, carrying ten, twenty times his weight over distances immeasurable. If he's lucky, he may encounter a picnic on his route. I can envision a bright red checked cloth being traversed, a potato salad freshly peppered with which he most likely will abscond. But even in the midst of this lovely fodder for the senses, I see him slavishly trudging, thorax swayed by his load, back to that hive teeming with identical drones who most likely will never even as much as sample the fruits of their labor.
But the grasshopper, he can go hither and yon, wherever holds the most promise. Is that music in the distance? A pinkish light in which to bask? And don't forget, he's built for nimbly leaping tall obstacles in a single bound not hoisting a load or trudging through the back of beyond with aforementioned load securely balanced upon his graceful shoulders. Considering his anatomical geometry, I think it's safe to say it would be downright fantasy to see a line of his cohort hauling a basket full of drumsticks across a lawn.
In conclusion, I would like to offer you the opportunity to craft a new tale of the grasshopper and his friend the ant, one built backwards, from its moral, a moral with which I hope to inspire your yarn-spinning muse:
Wouldn't you rather be a jumper for joy than a shlepper of shlock?
The moral of the story always seems so appropos, but after some consideration, it occurred to this writer, to wonder, what came first, the tale or its moral?
Aesop, to use as an example one of your better known works, did you observe an ant and a grasshopper conversing and, if so, did you overhear the greener of the two lament his days of leisure as his companion dryly replied, "I told you so"? I'm further pondering if these characters may have been stand-ins for a pair of offspring -- yours, perhaps? Or possibly a duo in your employ? Either way, the ant always comes out rosier than that philandering grasshopper of a companion.
Personally, I see the ant in a more anhedonic light. To what kind of existence does this fellow subscribe? A twenty four seven contract, carrying ten, twenty times his weight over distances immeasurable. If he's lucky, he may encounter a picnic on his route. I can envision a bright red checked cloth being traversed, a potato salad freshly peppered with which he most likely will abscond. But even in the midst of this lovely fodder for the senses, I see him slavishly trudging, thorax swayed by his load, back to that hive teeming with identical drones who most likely will never even as much as sample the fruits of their labor.
But the grasshopper, he can go hither and yon, wherever holds the most promise. Is that music in the distance? A pinkish light in which to bask? And don't forget, he's built for nimbly leaping tall obstacles in a single bound not hoisting a load or trudging through the back of beyond with aforementioned load securely balanced upon his graceful shoulders. Considering his anatomical geometry, I think it's safe to say it would be downright fantasy to see a line of his cohort hauling a basket full of drumsticks across a lawn.
In conclusion, I would like to offer you the opportunity to craft a new tale of the grasshopper and his friend the ant, one built backwards, from its moral, a moral with which I hope to inspire your yarn-spinning muse:
Wouldn't you rather be a jumper for joy than a shlepper of shlock?
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Prompt: Sherry Sherrie Sheri
...eyes the color of sherry that's left at the bottom of the glass long after the guests have left...
Sherry: she'd be your best friend and then make out with the crush you confessed to her at a slumber party after everyone else had fallen asleep. Did I learn the art of brow plucking at the vanity mirror in her parent's bedroom? Or were we both too busy flipping through the Penthouses she dug out from under their matching California King on the other side of that shag carpeted room?
Whatever happened to Sherry? I remember roller coaster rides, skinny dipping, noticing how slivers of blue florescent light seemed to hold the under sides of the boardwalk slats together while I kept lookout.
She called me once while I was away at college. I don't know how she found me. I'd buckled back down by then, well on my way to becoming an upright citizen.
Do you remember me?
I wanted so badly to say yes! Yes of course I do. How could I forget you? My life before we met and now since we lost touch has been so stultifying, so numbingly dull.
You alone were some kind of conduit, a diviner, a genie, a wizard, a witch, a channeller of electricity. You wielded some sort of magic power that was capable of turning the ordinary day into the most sublime of adventures. A mere phone call was a portal into other worlds, other lives, to people we never would have met, conversations that never would have taken place if you hadn't opened a phone book, blindfolded, run your finger down a random page and dialed. You were Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth, a suburban housewife.
And because you'd heard that skinny dipping was better than just swimming but best only at night, I was hippened to the fact that fences existed simply to be climbed over...
Sherry: she'd be your best friend and then make out with the crush you confessed to her at a slumber party after everyone else had fallen asleep. Did I learn the art of brow plucking at the vanity mirror in her parent's bedroom? Or were we both too busy flipping through the Penthouses she dug out from under their matching California King on the other side of that shag carpeted room?
Whatever happened to Sherry? I remember roller coaster rides, skinny dipping, noticing how slivers of blue florescent light seemed to hold the under sides of the boardwalk slats together while I kept lookout.
She called me once while I was away at college. I don't know how she found me. I'd buckled back down by then, well on my way to becoming an upright citizen.
Do you remember me?
I wanted so badly to say yes! Yes of course I do. How could I forget you? My life before we met and now since we lost touch has been so stultifying, so numbingly dull.
You alone were some kind of conduit, a diviner, a genie, a wizard, a witch, a channeller of electricity. You wielded some sort of magic power that was capable of turning the ordinary day into the most sublime of adventures. A mere phone call was a portal into other worlds, other lives, to people we never would have met, conversations that never would have taken place if you hadn't opened a phone book, blindfolded, run your finger down a random page and dialed. You were Cleopatra, Queen Elizabeth, a suburban housewife.
And because you'd heard that skinny dipping was better than just swimming but best only at night, I was hippened to the fact that fences existed simply to be climbed over...
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Prompt: random or collaboration
I've been waiting all week to be here again. Now that I'm not at a regular job job, a place where I was forced by circumstance to work on things that sometimes produced results of various natures (but mostly things I found frustratingly pointless, now that I'm not there anymore, I realize how much I miss the collaboration.
For a long time I considered myself creative, but now I see that my inventiveness only goes so far and then it requires some sort of context.
And isn't that like life in general? What a facile insight, I know. But somehow it's taken me this many years and almost as many employers to come to this realization. I wish I could say something poetic about it but mostly I'm thinking now about all the "strategic plans" and "top down decisions" and "total quality management" forums I'm so relieved to miss. But at what expense? Is it ever thus -- one extreme or the other? You are either on that team or you're on your own.
So, now I find myself at this juncture, this crossroads, some might even say an intersection (and you know who you are), missing a certain aspect of that tired old road. The metaphors are abundant: I'm all fired up ready to go on a new excursion, so thanks for taking the first steps with me on this road of a thousand miles ahead of us.
For a long time I considered myself creative, but now I see that my inventiveness only goes so far and then it requires some sort of context.
And isn't that like life in general? What a facile insight, I know. But somehow it's taken me this many years and almost as many employers to come to this realization. I wish I could say something poetic about it but mostly I'm thinking now about all the "strategic plans" and "top down decisions" and "total quality management" forums I'm so relieved to miss. But at what expense? Is it ever thus -- one extreme or the other? You are either on that team or you're on your own.
So, now I find myself at this juncture, this crossroads, some might even say an intersection (and you know who you are), missing a certain aspect of that tired old road. The metaphors are abundant: I'm all fired up ready to go on a new excursion, so thanks for taking the first steps with me on this road of a thousand miles ahead of us.
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