Sandy is not used to the attention and hides her smile out in the cold air a thousand feet up above the dark lights of Seattle. But I see it reflected in the glass and reach out a hand to touch her cheek. "Really," I say, "you were hard to approach. What man wouldn`t have a hard time approaching one of your crew?" It`s my turn to feel the rush of warm blood to my face. I remember the celebration of the crowded bar and how she had been ringed by her teammates. I remember the sight of one woman, thick and strong, reach back with a fist and lay out a man who had pinched one of her teammates. Rowdy, obnoxious and alive with vibrant energy, the Rat City Rollergirls had taken over the dingy bar, spreading raucous, rolling conversation and the sweat of shared victory with the whole room. She had quickly caught my eye, red hair thrown around as she danced the Rat mambo. They were still in their uniforms and it clung to her like a second skin, the body of a racer meant to sprint out front and hold the line. Daring and brave I imagined she was the heart of the team and had every member battering the rival teams down to protect her. That I had chosen to slip through the barrier of teammates and kiss her suddenly was my mistake.
"That was quite a kisser you had. I`m suprised Laura didn`t kill you outright for putting the moves on me like that." Sandy laughs at the memory. "But I liked your style and damn glad I decided to talk to after you came around."
We had hit it off, finding a similar interest in pushing the limits of the body, myself competing in distance running events. I asked her out on the spot, promising a fully romantic night of wining and dining in the sky.
"You look different in a dress, like a flower instead of a bloodied warrior." This was the truth and somehow I sensed she appreciated the dainty and feminine things but had to keep in secret in the world of roller derbies.
"Look," she says, reaching out and taking my hand, "That`s a different side of me, a more public side that revels in the aggression and competition. You, me, thats a private side that I like. That you had the balls to intervene between the two, I like that even more. So lets enjoy this and maybe this can be more than a Saturday night free skate."
I smile and toast her with a glass of red wine. "To a future of life outside the athletic, outside the competition. To sudden friendships and deeper realtionships." Our glasses clink and the sound seems to symbolize a new future of love and exploration.
Far out over the dark cityscape a light suddenly blooms large and orange. It draws the attraction of the room and we all look over through the glass. "Was that an explosion," I hear one woman ask. A small mushroom of flame and smoke rises up above the burning sight of a gutted building. The whispers and raising hysterical cries of "Terrorist!" go up here and there. Sandy looks at me with a hint of fear, wide eyes asking me to tell her its nothing. The restaurant continues to turn and soon the flames are out of sight.
This time I can feel the whole Needle quiver under the shockwave. Two huge balls of flame rise up past the windows which rattle slightly in their molding. "My god," someone screams, "the Columbia Tower and Pacific Place have been hit." By what is not clear but even I can see the shattered remains on the street and the jagged teeth of the lower half sticking up. Some of the restaurant patrons are fleeing for the elevators when a glare stabs shadows up the wall. I turn and see a spreading wall of light coming from the northern peninsula, sweeping down skyscrapers and sending the dark rain clouds into nothingness. "Hold on!" I shout, grabbing Sandy and diving for the floor.
The lights fail. The structure shakes and somewhere windows shatter. The world goes black.
"John!" slap, a sting across my face. I awake with a table covering half my body. "John, get up goddammit!" Sandy is shouting into my face, looking so regal and beautiful when she`s angry. "What are you smiling about? Look!" And I do, sitting up and clearing my eyes. I`m looking at the ceiling, why? I look down beneath the table, and see a million flickering flames and the guttering remains of a destroyed Seattle. The entire top of the Space Needle has tilted downwards, hanging by the strong steel of the elevator cable. The windows are smashed and our table lies wedged in the frame of one.
"Jesus," I cry. "Was it nuclear?" "Does it matter?" she moans, and I realize shes right. The groans of a straining cable reach my ears and maybe we are not as safe as I thought. "I love you," I say. "I know," she says, "I should have said it too earlier. Were we such fools?" I hug her tight, feeling the years we should have had, the right to grow old in love and life fading. Her hand finds mine and in her eyes I see the fear and it hurts me that I cannot do anything except hold her tight. "Hold on" is all I can say.
The twang of parted steel and the rush of wind through broken windows and the growing ground of flames, stone and eternity.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Seattle and the sunset
"Goddamn, another gray and gloomy day in Seattle." The thought spikes through the sharp hangover, overcrowding my head that throbs from my roommate`s party the night before. The inevitable bump in the road, the bad shocks on the bus and I regret the morning commute already. Why had I promised myself a bit of culture in this soggy city? Some drunk regret, bemoaning too many days drowned in the bars and clubs dotting the cities sparkling avenues? Last night`s revelry, a whirling memory spent along Alki`s main drag, hitting the classy Southern-themed bars and the upper-class dames that accompany them. The reciepts in my pocket shows the night ending in the Shack, lowest of low, farthest North you can get on Alki before the land gives in to the industrial wasteland of shipping and trade. I remember flashes of black miniskirts, impassioned chicks wasting their life stories on a guys too melancholy to care and a row of chrome bikes dominoing down under the boot of some angry pencil-neck. I lean my head against the cold window and exhale, wondering what life amounts to if this is the best I have to look forward to? Nights of cloudy forgetfullness followed by the sharp reality of an overcast morning? No one deserves the harsh cut of downtown Seattle on a Saturday morning.
The bus arcs out into the vague area under the West Seattle bridge, an area less a destination and more a vagrant looking for handouts. It subsists on those unfortunates unable to escape the blocks of rundown hotels, closed on-ramps and broken asphalted parking lots. The giant palace of an obscenity, Costco, rises above the downtrodden like a fat-bellied Monarch. So many stream pass the squat second-hand stores to visit the cheap and vastly-made. I think about yanking the cord, getting off in this district and hanging out on a street corner. I figure I have good odds, either held-up or discover some epiphany of the modern street man. But my bravery lies elsewhere today, saved up for the mass congregating humanity that lies within the corridors of steel and glass in 4th avenue.
All the drinks I stirred blend into the faces of the women I talked to, both equally lost to feeling. What was I seeking in liberation of alcohol? Sure, intelligence fueled by the swirling chemical drinks equals the deeper layers of revealing conversation, but if those layers are full of deceit, angst, cynicism and love of hate then what is the point of mentioning the love of the good and joyous of this city and its vibrant philosophy? The smoke of a shared cigarette flit up between the moth-filled lamplight as I lingered with a particular girl outside the bar. The nearby pine trees swelled with the wind and the scent of salt floated off the Pugent Sound. The moon arose from the cloak of clouds and shone full on the murky darkness of the waters just off the point. It was a beauty directly opposite of the pure and wondrous nature of deep forests and high mountains. How could I tell this woman across from me of a love for this city? It consumes some times, a conflict with passion for image and notoriety this city seems to possess. The rest is muddy swirl of dancing senses.
Outside the hissing pneumatic doors, the city greets me in its morning glory. Subdued light fails to glare on every window, muted shadows reduce lines and form to some shabby aesthetic on par with the homeless man shuffling towards me for coffee change. I stand on the corner of Pike and 2nd, feeling like some 1920`s fresh face on Wall Street, full of hope for a nation and enough vigor to raise to skyscrapers to the sky. Perhaps it is the waning alcohol leaving the body but I feel dry and sieved through of all the negativity poured on by months of being buried under a thankless job. But its all nothing staring up at the likes of the Seattle Art Museum or the chaotic jumble of breathless construction that is the Pike Place Market. I feel Im breathing in a piece of Seattle, a bit of its crazed and maniac creation, but also its planned and stately genius for great expressions.
Words come and flow out, building the foundations of the hills and alley of the city. I find inspiration among the fluttering seagulls and hissing air vents among the lower streets. The day turns drizzly, driving me inside Ivars for a bit to eat. The Sound is now choppy and turbulent, like a petulant child wanting a sweet. How it mirrors our souls here in the Pacific Northwest. So steadily focused and vigilant on life advancing; yet come the stirring of some tempest and we slosh the dikes, spilling great waves over the littlest outcry. These thoughts drove me out and over the spilling lanes of traffic to the Columbia tower; black crystal and reflecting glass, high and higher to the rafters of the city. My toes touched the roofs of seattle; all its ugly boxes and slanting shapes. I wanted to reach out and command some to rise and some to vanish; shape the very cityscape of my birth.
Under a caffeine-fueled depression I wandered the limbo that is Seattle Center looking for any shamanistic symbolization of meaning. A mistake, for all it contains is caricatures of childhood and an overeager directorship eager to please the almighty council of members. Science, in all its vague forms, directed me towards the ways to learn. I saw the failing actors and struggling writers finding some outlet for creativity in the theater for wayward visitors. What joy I hoped to find is unclear now but as the light faded I found myself on the great expanse of lawn in front of the main stage. So lonely and characteristic of Seattle that a single tear swept down my face. The western sky lay open through the countless buildings and the clouds contrived to shut out the day to my enjoyment.
Cold and shivering among the low-cut blades of grass, I slowly sipped my mocha and meditated on the gloomy surroundings. Suddenly a bright ray of sun struck my eye and illuminated the field of green. An un-looked for save had appeared. Like the rare butterfly that flutters onto your finger, the clouds had cleared to feature the sun in its last 15 minutes of life. So bloody and orange that it brought to mind the gleamings of gold. So beautiful my cynicism faded. It glanced off the Space Needle, shot between the EMP`S multifaceted windows and radiated from a thousand polished steel beams of the Seattle Library to strike me with infinite renewal of hope for a city that seemed drowned in the seen it all and nothing new experience. For a brief second the air warmed a few degrees and life did too, my whole perception of the world heating up and happily changing in those short moments of sunset.
The bus arcs out into the vague area under the West Seattle bridge, an area less a destination and more a vagrant looking for handouts. It subsists on those unfortunates unable to escape the blocks of rundown hotels, closed on-ramps and broken asphalted parking lots. The giant palace of an obscenity, Costco, rises above the downtrodden like a fat-bellied Monarch. So many stream pass the squat second-hand stores to visit the cheap and vastly-made. I think about yanking the cord, getting off in this district and hanging out on a street corner. I figure I have good odds, either held-up or discover some epiphany of the modern street man. But my bravery lies elsewhere today, saved up for the mass congregating humanity that lies within the corridors of steel and glass in 4th avenue.
All the drinks I stirred blend into the faces of the women I talked to, both equally lost to feeling. What was I seeking in liberation of alcohol? Sure, intelligence fueled by the swirling chemical drinks equals the deeper layers of revealing conversation, but if those layers are full of deceit, angst, cynicism and love of hate then what is the point of mentioning the love of the good and joyous of this city and its vibrant philosophy? The smoke of a shared cigarette flit up between the moth-filled lamplight as I lingered with a particular girl outside the bar. The nearby pine trees swelled with the wind and the scent of salt floated off the Pugent Sound. The moon arose from the cloak of clouds and shone full on the murky darkness of the waters just off the point. It was a beauty directly opposite of the pure and wondrous nature of deep forests and high mountains. How could I tell this woman across from me of a love for this city? It consumes some times, a conflict with passion for image and notoriety this city seems to possess. The rest is muddy swirl of dancing senses.
Outside the hissing pneumatic doors, the city greets me in its morning glory. Subdued light fails to glare on every window, muted shadows reduce lines and form to some shabby aesthetic on par with the homeless man shuffling towards me for coffee change. I stand on the corner of Pike and 2nd, feeling like some 1920`s fresh face on Wall Street, full of hope for a nation and enough vigor to raise to skyscrapers to the sky. Perhaps it is the waning alcohol leaving the body but I feel dry and sieved through of all the negativity poured on by months of being buried under a thankless job. But its all nothing staring up at the likes of the Seattle Art Museum or the chaotic jumble of breathless construction that is the Pike Place Market. I feel Im breathing in a piece of Seattle, a bit of its crazed and maniac creation, but also its planned and stately genius for great expressions.
Words come and flow out, building the foundations of the hills and alley of the city. I find inspiration among the fluttering seagulls and hissing air vents among the lower streets. The day turns drizzly, driving me inside Ivars for a bit to eat. The Sound is now choppy and turbulent, like a petulant child wanting a sweet. How it mirrors our souls here in the Pacific Northwest. So steadily focused and vigilant on life advancing; yet come the stirring of some tempest and we slosh the dikes, spilling great waves over the littlest outcry. These thoughts drove me out and over the spilling lanes of traffic to the Columbia tower; black crystal and reflecting glass, high and higher to the rafters of the city. My toes touched the roofs of seattle; all its ugly boxes and slanting shapes. I wanted to reach out and command some to rise and some to vanish; shape the very cityscape of my birth.
Under a caffeine-fueled depression I wandered the limbo that is Seattle Center looking for any shamanistic symbolization of meaning. A mistake, for all it contains is caricatures of childhood and an overeager directorship eager to please the almighty council of members. Science, in all its vague forms, directed me towards the ways to learn. I saw the failing actors and struggling writers finding some outlet for creativity in the theater for wayward visitors. What joy I hoped to find is unclear now but as the light faded I found myself on the great expanse of lawn in front of the main stage. So lonely and characteristic of Seattle that a single tear swept down my face. The western sky lay open through the countless buildings and the clouds contrived to shut out the day to my enjoyment.
Cold and shivering among the low-cut blades of grass, I slowly sipped my mocha and meditated on the gloomy surroundings. Suddenly a bright ray of sun struck my eye and illuminated the field of green. An un-looked for save had appeared. Like the rare butterfly that flutters onto your finger, the clouds had cleared to feature the sun in its last 15 minutes of life. So bloody and orange that it brought to mind the gleamings of gold. So beautiful my cynicism faded. It glanced off the Space Needle, shot between the EMP`S multifaceted windows and radiated from a thousand polished steel beams of the Seattle Library to strike me with infinite renewal of hope for a city that seemed drowned in the seen it all and nothing new experience. For a brief second the air warmed a few degrees and life did too, my whole perception of the world heating up and happily changing in those short moments of sunset.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Forever running pt. 2
6/23/09-
My life has been reduced to a single point. It is a point of balance, where, reared on the balls of my feet, shoes just tied and ready to take that first step, I exist for a single second between two worlds. One world before running; that from the point of waking everything is merely preparation for running. The other after that first step and quelled storm of worries, less a series of events and more a flow of released life and a stream of inhaled and exhaled breath. My quiet celebration.
I run and that has made all the difference. I leave at night, just as the sun fades from this world, but before the stars shine in glory. My first few steps go past an opening in the the endless pattern of houses. Through that gap I see the city and through the city I see the dark alleys and streets; the veins of some huge, slumbering beast. My legs have grown solid and I run all night, coming in as the sun peaks out over the horizon. And its glorious, to see downtown grow in my mind. Its like an organic animal, evolved from choices of survival and inhabited by creatures seeking also the music of the night.
I feel more at peace now. More defined by drops of sweat I leave on the pavement than any opinion, material object or relationship I ever had in the light of day. The echoes of my feet or some long-off shout are the only sounds. Sometimes I run out to the very edge of the piers that line the water-front. I go and crouch on the edge of the wood. Water laps at the barnacle-eaten posts underneath, invisible in the night. I often take a few minutes of rest and look out at the few lights shining on the black hills across the water. I was there and now I`m here, a seemingly profound statement, but only so now, at this moment.
7/14/09-
This running is taking over the light of my day. The world of bright color is now pleasant and endurable but holds little interest in comparison with my nightly tests of running. And it is truly a test. Every night a definite challenge to return home to my wife, work and the unneeded routine. Someday, and I fear I am very serious, I will reach the crossroads to my house and stop, stare down that stretch of cement and turn outward, headed for the far horizon and an unexplored road. I met another runner, a woman who has joined my excursions in the same manner, desperately seeking an avenue for some consuming energy. We have become united in the passion of blowing wind, ragged gasps of air and the silence of an empty street. I now know there are others out there of a similar nature, that our group will grow in time. And the question keeps coming, "What if we kept running? Where would it lead?"
8/4/09-
Tonight I packed a few changes of clothes, money and this notebook into a running backpack. My shoes sit next to me, beckoning of the open road. I can`t think beyond leaving this house, I don`t know where the road will lead tonight. But its just such a brimming sensation I feel, that tonight I`ll reach those crossroads and not be able to run back to this house, that the pale light of dawn will shine down on an untrodden path. So I packed and so I kissed my sleeping wife lightly, the last time and sit here at my desk. Its growing darker and a cool wind blows through an open window, bringing scents of the ocean and the final remnants of summer. Its the forerunner of the unknown and it calls stronger than I`ve ever known.
My life has been reduced to a single point. It is a point of balance, where, reared on the balls of my feet, shoes just tied and ready to take that first step, I exist for a single second between two worlds. One world before running; that from the point of waking everything is merely preparation for running. The other after that first step and quelled storm of worries, less a series of events and more a flow of released life and a stream of inhaled and exhaled breath. My quiet celebration.
I run and that has made all the difference. I leave at night, just as the sun fades from this world, but before the stars shine in glory. My first few steps go past an opening in the the endless pattern of houses. Through that gap I see the city and through the city I see the dark alleys and streets; the veins of some huge, slumbering beast. My legs have grown solid and I run all night, coming in as the sun peaks out over the horizon. And its glorious, to see downtown grow in my mind. Its like an organic animal, evolved from choices of survival and inhabited by creatures seeking also the music of the night.
I feel more at peace now. More defined by drops of sweat I leave on the pavement than any opinion, material object or relationship I ever had in the light of day. The echoes of my feet or some long-off shout are the only sounds. Sometimes I run out to the very edge of the piers that line the water-front. I go and crouch on the edge of the wood. Water laps at the barnacle-eaten posts underneath, invisible in the night. I often take a few minutes of rest and look out at the few lights shining on the black hills across the water. I was there and now I`m here, a seemingly profound statement, but only so now, at this moment.
7/14/09-
This running is taking over the light of my day. The world of bright color is now pleasant and endurable but holds little interest in comparison with my nightly tests of running. And it is truly a test. Every night a definite challenge to return home to my wife, work and the unneeded routine. Someday, and I fear I am very serious, I will reach the crossroads to my house and stop, stare down that stretch of cement and turn outward, headed for the far horizon and an unexplored road. I met another runner, a woman who has joined my excursions in the same manner, desperately seeking an avenue for some consuming energy. We have become united in the passion of blowing wind, ragged gasps of air and the silence of an empty street. I now know there are others out there of a similar nature, that our group will grow in time. And the question keeps coming, "What if we kept running? Where would it lead?"
8/4/09-
Tonight I packed a few changes of clothes, money and this notebook into a running backpack. My shoes sit next to me, beckoning of the open road. I can`t think beyond leaving this house, I don`t know where the road will lead tonight. But its just such a brimming sensation I feel, that tonight I`ll reach those crossroads and not be able to run back to this house, that the pale light of dawn will shine down on an untrodden path. So I packed and so I kissed my sleeping wife lightly, the last time and sit here at my desk. Its growing darker and a cool wind blows through an open window, bringing scents of the ocean and the final remnants of summer. Its the forerunner of the unknown and it calls stronger than I`ve ever known.
Forever Running pt. 1
5/16/09-
I am so tired. A long day made hellish by a commute entrapped between endless lines of steel. The beautiful morning sun rendered ugly by its glint on hundreds of cars that never change. The glow of a fading, golden sky ruined by stop and go traffic, the red lights turning into a flowing blood-red river in front of my bleary eyes. I curse the noise and pollution of the city after leaving the quiet morning peace of my suburban home. I curse the desolate emptiness and flickering screens of televisions on the row after row of sunken, slumped residential houses. And god! tonight I sat in my car, the interior silent except for the eternal ticking of the cooling engine, ticking louder and louder, punctuating a wasted life, time hissing away into the dark. I was afraid. Afraid to go in to my wife and her world of repetitive madness. Afraid to start the car and drive off into the night, somewhere far away, but where? I was lost and afraid, mad at myself for being mad at the world. All I could do was think of lies to tell my waiting wife, pleasantries and lies about work. Lies to cover up the drowning sensation I feel in the office, lies to hide the shadows slithering over my heart at the thoughts of another day of meaningless forms and lines of code. What can I do? Sleep just holds dreams of further disappointment.......
The wind from the open window feels so good. It speaks to me of land beyond horizons and sights to breathe in. Maybe Ill go for a run.
6/3/09-
Damn! I have discovered a new world since last I wrote. I can feel the trapped despair underneath those words and see the frantic energy that was looking for an escape. Well I found it! That night I put on my Nikes and set out through the ghostly-silent side streets of West Seattle. The only goal in my head was loosing the black emotion for a few miles. In the time others were burying themselves in warm pillows and lover`s dreams I hit the open beach of Alki and the cold winds of coastal Washington. There was such a loneliness in those moments, a loneliness born of failure. Failure to find any real connection in the waking world. I saw then that the moon had risen out over the water, its light jumping over the waves in time with the bobbing lope of my stride. The streets of the great city shown powerfully through the inky darkness and suddenly I felt centered, connected. A connection to the simple exertion of running and the bright pinpoints of lights off through the night that spoke of life elsewhere in the world. It blew away the isolation of the past few years and provided a new state of mind awash with a picture of the night environment and the excitement it held for me. I ran deep and I ran strong, finding a well of energy that had lain dormant for many years. I returned to my house well after midnight and slept free of any pursuing dreams.
I am so tired. A long day made hellish by a commute entrapped between endless lines of steel. The beautiful morning sun rendered ugly by its glint on hundreds of cars that never change. The glow of a fading, golden sky ruined by stop and go traffic, the red lights turning into a flowing blood-red river in front of my bleary eyes. I curse the noise and pollution of the city after leaving the quiet morning peace of my suburban home. I curse the desolate emptiness and flickering screens of televisions on the row after row of sunken, slumped residential houses. And god! tonight I sat in my car, the interior silent except for the eternal ticking of the cooling engine, ticking louder and louder, punctuating a wasted life, time hissing away into the dark. I was afraid. Afraid to go in to my wife and her world of repetitive madness. Afraid to start the car and drive off into the night, somewhere far away, but where? I was lost and afraid, mad at myself for being mad at the world. All I could do was think of lies to tell my waiting wife, pleasantries and lies about work. Lies to cover up the drowning sensation I feel in the office, lies to hide the shadows slithering over my heart at the thoughts of another day of meaningless forms and lines of code. What can I do? Sleep just holds dreams of further disappointment.......
The wind from the open window feels so good. It speaks to me of land beyond horizons and sights to breathe in. Maybe Ill go for a run.
6/3/09-
Damn! I have discovered a new world since last I wrote. I can feel the trapped despair underneath those words and see the frantic energy that was looking for an escape. Well I found it! That night I put on my Nikes and set out through the ghostly-silent side streets of West Seattle. The only goal in my head was loosing the black emotion for a few miles. In the time others were burying themselves in warm pillows and lover`s dreams I hit the open beach of Alki and the cold winds of coastal Washington. There was such a loneliness in those moments, a loneliness born of failure. Failure to find any real connection in the waking world. I saw then that the moon had risen out over the water, its light jumping over the waves in time with the bobbing lope of my stride. The streets of the great city shown powerfully through the inky darkness and suddenly I felt centered, connected. A connection to the simple exertion of running and the bright pinpoints of lights off through the night that spoke of life elsewhere in the world. It blew away the isolation of the past few years and provided a new state of mind awash with a picture of the night environment and the excitement it held for me. I ran deep and I ran strong, finding a well of energy that had lain dormant for many years. I returned to my house well after midnight and slept free of any pursuing dreams.
Bouncing thoughts inside Seattle Art Museum
The bare halls echoed with the footfalls of the many volunteers of the morning, all spreading outward through the museum. Benches were set up, pamphlets laid out and videos started. We all wore blue dress shirts and black pants, the uniform of allegiance to art, caretakers of knowledge and information. It was 10 min to eight, a small space of time before being inundated by throngs of people. They would come to poke and prod, confident in their classification of art. Men and women dragging small children in front of presences of grand ideas, hoping the wisdom of the ages would prick through layers of mucus plastered on by all their differing loyalties. What chance does art have with young minds already fiercely fought over by school, television, homework, social activities and a thousand branching day-dreams of a healthy youth?
Sometimes I see a child, separated from their parents, standing, silently staring up at some master-piece. Their fingers clasped in rapt attention and body rigid with concentration. I can see the questions the child has, motes of light dancing within the white orbs of their eyes. Yet, their faces are wrinkled with the frustration at the attempts to form these questions on her lips. I want to go to that child and stop time, unravel the curious and uncertain questions that halt all the thinking in her mind. Its so precious and fragile, these moments in a child`s life. She can learn that some feelings and emotions can never be properly found. Or, with the wisdom of someone older, see the possibilities in those strong urgings and learn the value of patience in explaining them.
There is a statue in the left wing that I often wander by, recessed in a corner and easily dismissed by roving eyes. I come often when the crowds thin to stare into the marble eyes or embrace with my sight the subtly crafted contours of its cheeks and temples. This statue is what drives me to lead children`s school trips or volunteer to assist those small people that stand bewildered with questioning eyes. You see the statue in question is a small girl, about 5-8 yrs old, the daughter of some noble parentage.
The longer I stare at it during my borrowed time the more I see into the depths of the artist`s passion of creation that resulted in this vision of youth. It was not the idealized or romanticized version of childhood painted with the all too-confident brush of adulthood. It was also not a simplistic, cute depiction of the beauty of youth untouched by the troubles of burgeoning womanhood or even being on the cusp of awareness of a larger, more formalized world. A pure gaze held forth from the eyes that seemed to see the world free of guilt and unburdened by any religious filters or the patch work mesh of re-written history. It was very characteristic of that infuriating answer of children to any adult`s question; "Why? Because." The pose of her mouth and jutting taunt temples brought to mind the unapologetic attitude of children before we attach the word stubborn upon them. Forgiveness seems a foreign concept, selfishness not yet learned. When I close my eyes in the time after work, sitting on the bus bound for home or in a coffee house, face pressed to the glass watching the fain fall, I see a symbol of that statue. It is a confident face reaching out with a muscular hand to grasp the world in a firm hold. Not a sign of domination but complete control over each of our own worlds.
This is the influence of art and the reason I volunteer to help shine the light of wisdom upon it. Each day I hope to reach just one person. To help them realize the complex machinations hidden within these simple objects. And so I will walk over towards any child that is drawn to something undefinable in the painting. That`s my art, my vocation, defining the intricate for the future creators of greatness. Just one step in the process.
Sometimes I see a child, separated from their parents, standing, silently staring up at some master-piece. Their fingers clasped in rapt attention and body rigid with concentration. I can see the questions the child has, motes of light dancing within the white orbs of their eyes. Yet, their faces are wrinkled with the frustration at the attempts to form these questions on her lips. I want to go to that child and stop time, unravel the curious and uncertain questions that halt all the thinking in her mind. Its so precious and fragile, these moments in a child`s life. She can learn that some feelings and emotions can never be properly found. Or, with the wisdom of someone older, see the possibilities in those strong urgings and learn the value of patience in explaining them.
There is a statue in the left wing that I often wander by, recessed in a corner and easily dismissed by roving eyes. I come often when the crowds thin to stare into the marble eyes or embrace with my sight the subtly crafted contours of its cheeks and temples. This statue is what drives me to lead children`s school trips or volunteer to assist those small people that stand bewildered with questioning eyes. You see the statue in question is a small girl, about 5-8 yrs old, the daughter of some noble parentage.
The longer I stare at it during my borrowed time the more I see into the depths of the artist`s passion of creation that resulted in this vision of youth. It was not the idealized or romanticized version of childhood painted with the all too-confident brush of adulthood. It was also not a simplistic, cute depiction of the beauty of youth untouched by the troubles of burgeoning womanhood or even being on the cusp of awareness of a larger, more formalized world. A pure gaze held forth from the eyes that seemed to see the world free of guilt and unburdened by any religious filters or the patch work mesh of re-written history. It was very characteristic of that infuriating answer of children to any adult`s question; "Why? Because." The pose of her mouth and jutting taunt temples brought to mind the unapologetic attitude of children before we attach the word stubborn upon them. Forgiveness seems a foreign concept, selfishness not yet learned. When I close my eyes in the time after work, sitting on the bus bound for home or in a coffee house, face pressed to the glass watching the fain fall, I see a symbol of that statue. It is a confident face reaching out with a muscular hand to grasp the world in a firm hold. Not a sign of domination but complete control over each of our own worlds.
This is the influence of art and the reason I volunteer to help shine the light of wisdom upon it. Each day I hope to reach just one person. To help them realize the complex machinations hidden within these simple objects. And so I will walk over towards any child that is drawn to something undefinable in the painting. That`s my art, my vocation, defining the intricate for the future creators of greatness. Just one step in the process.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
From the cold to the bold
Stale and cold, a dead end up here. The men at the bar would sit on these stoold until the end of time, sipping beer and lost in the glory days of the past. I had shanked, cut, peeled and eaten fish for two long years, filling my pocket with money but leaving my spirit hooked on the door of the small shanty where I lived. I had stayed in this village of slaves to the sea too long, drinking my beer in this seat everyday, trying to kill the boredom between bouts of sailing. But, as I stood up and looked around, there comes a day when the spirit of a man can no longer be shoved aside and instead demands to be heard upon his whole being! That day had come and, thus liberated I no longer felt the shackles of finance and comfort. A man stumbled in suddenly, letting in a shower of white flakes to fall on the dirty sawdust of the floor. I was there, before the door could fall shut, with fingers gripping the wood and throwing it open. Outside the door snow blanketed everything, the fringe land of a solemn and uncaring world. I shrugged my pack on and took a deep breath. "The first step is always the hardest," I muttered. The first step on an unknown journey into a world that cared nothing for heroes or dreamers. The second step followed the first, a little easier. Soon I had faded into the snowy mists, away from the warmth of the firelight that was the small village. The falling snow covered the footprints behind, leaving no path behind and no direction but forward.
It has now been two months since I left that little corner of stagnant comfort and I sometimes miss the steady arduous work to lose myself in. But it is my first time in the coastal waters of Washington and I find the myriad tiny islands, scattered about like flower petals in the rain, strangely appealing. In Canada I met with a vagrant girl looking to make it to California and so volunteered to accompany her for some time. Since then we have made a leisurely pace affecting the role of lovers from Europe researching locations for a book. We have chartered many a boat to visit sometimes gloomy islands, sometimes fantastical bastions of peace and silence. Great forests of green rise out of gray bedrock with blankets of fog threading through the trees. The locals are at once rude and extremely jealous of their privacy yet often turn suddenly about and share all they have with wanderers such as us. It is as if they wish to make sure you carry no taint or trace of the great city that haunts the west coast of the Pugent Sound before they dare show any honesty. I spent many a night on these small beaches, a roaring fire and good friends all around. Often the night held strong and clear, the atmosphere made magical by the popping embers trailing off into the starry night. But I still can`t quite quell the desire for something more, something complex that exists in my mind as a jumbled knot of images and ideas.
So I have again left another life behind, one of possible peace and fulfillment in rustic living to seek out a vague calling. I am on a boat bound for the city of Seattle. A city I have heard spoken of as one of contradictions: enlightenment in its open-handedness towards all life-styles; cynical and hypocritical with each other. A land of towers reaching to the sky, of buildings designed to the whims of a man`s artistic muse. Yet word reaches my ear of people that suffer in slums and back-alleys, fight over ideology and the right to love. I cannot even believe to hear about the constant stream of cars, noise and arguments that fill the city to the brim. All, though, fade into a mere gnat`s buzzing at the first sight of Seattle`s profile rising up to the horizon across the ocean. Such shapes, so boldly raised and proclaimed! So bright and young, how orderly the arrangements of lines appear! "Surely here," I thought "here I could make it. Here I could find a ground fertile enough for what I wanted to do."
The boat drew nearer to the city, the buildings growing in size and detail until I could see the busy lives of the very people that inhabited it. "There" I stabbed a finger outward, talking for the future, "there. In the cement and glass, in the streets and squares, in the garbage and poor, and in the beautiful and pure, there I will learn this city, there I will find my answer and there I will plant a seed to save the world."
It has now been two months since I left that little corner of stagnant comfort and I sometimes miss the steady arduous work to lose myself in. But it is my first time in the coastal waters of Washington and I find the myriad tiny islands, scattered about like flower petals in the rain, strangely appealing. In Canada I met with a vagrant girl looking to make it to California and so volunteered to accompany her for some time. Since then we have made a leisurely pace affecting the role of lovers from Europe researching locations for a book. We have chartered many a boat to visit sometimes gloomy islands, sometimes fantastical bastions of peace and silence. Great forests of green rise out of gray bedrock with blankets of fog threading through the trees. The locals are at once rude and extremely jealous of their privacy yet often turn suddenly about and share all they have with wanderers such as us. It is as if they wish to make sure you carry no taint or trace of the great city that haunts the west coast of the Pugent Sound before they dare show any honesty. I spent many a night on these small beaches, a roaring fire and good friends all around. Often the night held strong and clear, the atmosphere made magical by the popping embers trailing off into the starry night. But I still can`t quite quell the desire for something more, something complex that exists in my mind as a jumbled knot of images and ideas.
So I have again left another life behind, one of possible peace and fulfillment in rustic living to seek out a vague calling. I am on a boat bound for the city of Seattle. A city I have heard spoken of as one of contradictions: enlightenment in its open-handedness towards all life-styles; cynical and hypocritical with each other. A land of towers reaching to the sky, of buildings designed to the whims of a man`s artistic muse. Yet word reaches my ear of people that suffer in slums and back-alleys, fight over ideology and the right to love. I cannot even believe to hear about the constant stream of cars, noise and arguments that fill the city to the brim. All, though, fade into a mere gnat`s buzzing at the first sight of Seattle`s profile rising up to the horizon across the ocean. Such shapes, so boldly raised and proclaimed! So bright and young, how orderly the arrangements of lines appear! "Surely here," I thought "here I could make it. Here I could find a ground fertile enough for what I wanted to do."
The boat drew nearer to the city, the buildings growing in size and detail until I could see the busy lives of the very people that inhabited it. "There" I stabbed a finger outward, talking for the future, "there. In the cement and glass, in the streets and squares, in the garbage and poor, and in the beautiful and pure, there I will learn this city, there I will find my answer and there I will plant a seed to save the world."
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Love in Lavender
"Two stars in all the heavens, having some business elsewhere, did entreat her eyes to sparkle in their stead. Her eyes shone so bright that had there been birds there they would have sung, thinking that it were not night. Her voice arose through the darkness, echoing in my ears, stroking with heavenly harmonies the very strings of my soul. And if it was only a night spent in her presence, it was a jewel of brilliance streaming through the airy regions of my memory bright and strong."
I put this poem deep in the filing cabinet in the corner of my cubicle. It had been two days since I met her, two days of anguish, spent shifting through accounting paperwork while I tried to quiet the heartache for her. But I couldn`t and it was slowly eroding my waking life. The affairs of the office now seemed so trivial, everything muted to a dull buzz next to the memory roaring in my head. Sam comes by to talk shop but its all I can do to just keep a professional face and I hear nothing of his questions. Jill, the secretary, who flirts with subtle undertones dropped by to say hi but all I see is the face of that lovely, mysterious girl. What do you do when love finds you unexpectedly and strikes with the passion of old? Love born not from a conscious choosing, a conscious desire of any collection of traits but romance, full of heart-searing endearment. What do you do when you find her......and lose her in the space of a night?
It was among a field of lavender and a backdrop of a burning sunset that we first met. A flier for the summer lavender festival over on the Olympic Peninsula had caught my eye and I was soon on a ferry bound for the far shore. I arrived on a sunny Saturday afternoon with butterflies and ladybugs aflutter in the air. The festival was setup around a large field of lavender overlooking the Pugent Sound with a dense, green forest surrounding. Food vendors and local artists had set up booths on the outskirts of the field and there was a large stage set smack in the middle of the blowing flowers. It was a beautiful setting and it took my mind off the dreary work I had waiting for me on Monday. So I spent the comfortable hours of a summer afternoon wondering among wares and attempting to catch the flowers in some resemblance of an artistic photograph.
The day progressed; shadows grew long; light becoming golden and setting a yellow halo behind every small stem of lavender that still blew faintly in the summer evening. In line with the general atmosphere and character of the people, a beautiful melody began to emanate from the clearing in the field. A trio of musicians stood tall, caressing from the strings of their violins a light but curiously deep rhythm. I was content there, to listen to the floating sounds and feel the summer night approaching. And at that moment the world as I knew it was sane and predictable and demanded nothing from me other than certain compromises. I saw my life then stretching out into perpetuity: step by step to the end. It was to change with the sip of apple cider.
I stood on the edge of the field, the hot beverage at my lips when I saw her. My heart aches even now when I think of her sitting there on a bench, hands folded in her lap watching the coming sunset. I was drawn over by the child-like intensity that she seemed to regard everything with. My second impression was of listening to her own music; something lost to others, a true individual melody. So it was that I had to repeat my offer of some cider before she lifted her eyes to mine. Ah, they were so pure and clear, free of any weight of the world. Her smile when she said yes was so plain and full of enjoyment I felt we had known each other for many a year. Her voice was soft like velvet and during the first few moments of shy conversation I felt a growing fondness for this young girl whose eyes glowed with an almost maniac energy. It felt like love and yet it was not, like a great pain but with no source.
I barely got her name before she laughed and suggested walking off into the field to view the sunset. So we stood there, the fragrance of lavender blending with the smell of earth and nature on the wind. I can`t remember what we talked about nor when I acted but I found myself listening to the drifting melody of a solo violin and holding her hand in a soft embrace. In my memory now there stands the two of us: waist deep among the flowers in a easy silence of understanding. Black silhouetted against a sky filled with an explosion of orange radiating from a brilliant globe of fire. Even as the world turned and the color faded, it did so just as passionately- leaving pale arcs of dying embers in the far off clouds. The stars came out in all their magnificence and filled the night with awe and wonder. We sat down on the cut stalks of sold flowers then and talked of philosophy, day-dreams and our secret hopes, things that seem so irrelevant in the light of day yet fuel the fire of life in the black darkness of night.
Not once did we talk of where we lived, what we did or even consider meeting again. Was that fate? To find love so strongly that it must exist only for a night or else burn out those involved? I don`t know and it drives me crazy; for we left the festival separately, each saying goodbye and our hands pulling apart reluctantly; the fingertips lingering together in a silent message of how much we wanted to say.
The four walls of a cubicle surround me now, pop music plays from a neighbors radio and I drown in paperwork every minute. But it fades and I think of her and feel a blazing heat of sadness and melancholy immediately supplanted by the desire to search the world for her. That feeling does not fade. I lean back against my computer chair and think of the days to come, days of her occupying my thoughts and dreams, long days of heart-numbing work and empty nights alone. My friends say "Time will heal the pang, memories will fade. Just give it time." In the midst of all this pain of thinking and dreading I can no longer see the future clearly and its as if a bell has rung my head clear. I don`t want the pain to go away and I don`t want the memories to fade because it her in my mind and they are all I have. And if the future is unclear and no longer a straight path to a dreary end then I have a choice.
It is another day and the bright morning sunshine fills me with an amazing strength and standing in the waving fields of lavender I feel hope that from this beginning, this choice, I will find her.
I put this poem deep in the filing cabinet in the corner of my cubicle. It had been two days since I met her, two days of anguish, spent shifting through accounting paperwork while I tried to quiet the heartache for her. But I couldn`t and it was slowly eroding my waking life. The affairs of the office now seemed so trivial, everything muted to a dull buzz next to the memory roaring in my head. Sam comes by to talk shop but its all I can do to just keep a professional face and I hear nothing of his questions. Jill, the secretary, who flirts with subtle undertones dropped by to say hi but all I see is the face of that lovely, mysterious girl. What do you do when love finds you unexpectedly and strikes with the passion of old? Love born not from a conscious choosing, a conscious desire of any collection of traits but romance, full of heart-searing endearment. What do you do when you find her......and lose her in the space of a night?
It was among a field of lavender and a backdrop of a burning sunset that we first met. A flier for the summer lavender festival over on the Olympic Peninsula had caught my eye and I was soon on a ferry bound for the far shore. I arrived on a sunny Saturday afternoon with butterflies and ladybugs aflutter in the air. The festival was setup around a large field of lavender overlooking the Pugent Sound with a dense, green forest surrounding. Food vendors and local artists had set up booths on the outskirts of the field and there was a large stage set smack in the middle of the blowing flowers. It was a beautiful setting and it took my mind off the dreary work I had waiting for me on Monday. So I spent the comfortable hours of a summer afternoon wondering among wares and attempting to catch the flowers in some resemblance of an artistic photograph.
The day progressed; shadows grew long; light becoming golden and setting a yellow halo behind every small stem of lavender that still blew faintly in the summer evening. In line with the general atmosphere and character of the people, a beautiful melody began to emanate from the clearing in the field. A trio of musicians stood tall, caressing from the strings of their violins a light but curiously deep rhythm. I was content there, to listen to the floating sounds and feel the summer night approaching. And at that moment the world as I knew it was sane and predictable and demanded nothing from me other than certain compromises. I saw my life then stretching out into perpetuity: step by step to the end. It was to change with the sip of apple cider.
I stood on the edge of the field, the hot beverage at my lips when I saw her. My heart aches even now when I think of her sitting there on a bench, hands folded in her lap watching the coming sunset. I was drawn over by the child-like intensity that she seemed to regard everything with. My second impression was of listening to her own music; something lost to others, a true individual melody. So it was that I had to repeat my offer of some cider before she lifted her eyes to mine. Ah, they were so pure and clear, free of any weight of the world. Her smile when she said yes was so plain and full of enjoyment I felt we had known each other for many a year. Her voice was soft like velvet and during the first few moments of shy conversation I felt a growing fondness for this young girl whose eyes glowed with an almost maniac energy. It felt like love and yet it was not, like a great pain but with no source.
I barely got her name before she laughed and suggested walking off into the field to view the sunset. So we stood there, the fragrance of lavender blending with the smell of earth and nature on the wind. I can`t remember what we talked about nor when I acted but I found myself listening to the drifting melody of a solo violin and holding her hand in a soft embrace. In my memory now there stands the two of us: waist deep among the flowers in a easy silence of understanding. Black silhouetted against a sky filled with an explosion of orange radiating from a brilliant globe of fire. Even as the world turned and the color faded, it did so just as passionately- leaving pale arcs of dying embers in the far off clouds. The stars came out in all their magnificence and filled the night with awe and wonder. We sat down on the cut stalks of sold flowers then and talked of philosophy, day-dreams and our secret hopes, things that seem so irrelevant in the light of day yet fuel the fire of life in the black darkness of night.
Not once did we talk of where we lived, what we did or even consider meeting again. Was that fate? To find love so strongly that it must exist only for a night or else burn out those involved? I don`t know and it drives me crazy; for we left the festival separately, each saying goodbye and our hands pulling apart reluctantly; the fingertips lingering together in a silent message of how much we wanted to say.
The four walls of a cubicle surround me now, pop music plays from a neighbors radio and I drown in paperwork every minute. But it fades and I think of her and feel a blazing heat of sadness and melancholy immediately supplanted by the desire to search the world for her. That feeling does not fade. I lean back against my computer chair and think of the days to come, days of her occupying my thoughts and dreams, long days of heart-numbing work and empty nights alone. My friends say "Time will heal the pang, memories will fade. Just give it time." In the midst of all this pain of thinking and dreading I can no longer see the future clearly and its as if a bell has rung my head clear. I don`t want the pain to go away and I don`t want the memories to fade because it her in my mind and they are all I have. And if the future is unclear and no longer a straight path to a dreary end then I have a choice.
It is another day and the bright morning sunshine fills me with an amazing strength and standing in the waving fields of lavender I feel hope that from this beginning, this choice, I will find her.
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