Sunday, January 20, 2013
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Afterlife
That first vision of green fields...
when as very small children we imagine
endless rolling hills next to a placid lake,
bright continuous sunshine, a few clouds frozen in time,
hovering near a golf course perhaps
or a lawn where a croquet set has been left...
near a large archipelago of pools and mineral baths
peaceful figures slowly meander past in casual white leisure suits;
some old guy on a moped rides off into the woods
maybe a bunch of kids on roller skates are heard ambling along some residential road
in one of those 50's neighborhoods where time stands still
or better yet maybe a parade of grade-schoolers just riding, you know,
riding on their innocent five-speed bikes the way kids do,
toward some always-open convenience store...
as villagers wave from high windows
and a woman stands admiring the view
three other ladies sip tea at a table...
the buzz and hum of a crowded public space with no horns honking...
no traffic jams, no grime, no litter,
no gossip-mongering fools, no savage antagonisms, no predatory stress,
no paparazzi, no surveillance cameras, no enforcers...
flaneurs, yes, pedestrians, yes, eternal vacationers, bien sur...
tables full of quaint souvenirs, clothing, hats, leather belts, shoes, games and books,
scenic vistas, hills, valleys, white-tipped mountains in the distance,
some cows and sheep grazing here and there, a few exotic birds,
tame dogs, cats, rabbits, sheep, a few roaming deer, impeccably well-behaved,
and a celestial butler, of course, some elder chap whom everyone calls Morton,
a towel over his arm, keeping tabs, taking notes, dispensing souvenirs and pleasantries...
in charge of scheduling tours and fending off the obvious questions..
this vague and vast, hazy far-away floating island in the clouds...
how many times have we been gathered aloft and transferred there...
to our own cosmic bucolic getaway...
during silent reveries, during long intervals outdoors bathing in light,
during love drives or walks alone thinking the unreachable...
during tumultuous dinner fights and work-related disasters...
extending the sylvan scene as we go...
how when, the older we get, the swerve of mind keeps changing
until age and thought tug us away from the simple meadow on the floating clouds...
until some creeping alternative vision of a long dark sleep
leads us to consider the "blip" of time which swallows all forms
the same way that bones decay underground
leading us to forsake the infinite extended paradise
for the purity of the brief, unexpected, paltry goodbye.
when as very small children we imagine
endless rolling hills next to a placid lake,
bright continuous sunshine, a few clouds frozen in time,
hovering near a golf course perhaps
or a lawn where a croquet set has been left...
near a large archipelago of pools and mineral baths
peaceful figures slowly meander past in casual white leisure suits;
some old guy on a moped rides off into the woods
maybe a bunch of kids on roller skates are heard ambling along some residential road
in one of those 50's neighborhoods where time stands still
or better yet maybe a parade of grade-schoolers just riding, you know,
riding on their innocent five-speed bikes the way kids do,
toward some always-open convenience store...
as villagers wave from high windows
and a woman stands admiring the view
three other ladies sip tea at a table...
the buzz and hum of a crowded public space with no horns honking...
no traffic jams, no grime, no litter,
no gossip-mongering fools, no savage antagonisms, no predatory stress,
no paparazzi, no surveillance cameras, no enforcers...
flaneurs, yes, pedestrians, yes, eternal vacationers, bien sur...
tables full of quaint souvenirs, clothing, hats, leather belts, shoes, games and books,
scenic vistas, hills, valleys, white-tipped mountains in the distance,
some cows and sheep grazing here and there, a few exotic birds,
tame dogs, cats, rabbits, sheep, a few roaming deer, impeccably well-behaved,
and a celestial butler, of course, some elder chap whom everyone calls Morton,
a towel over his arm, keeping tabs, taking notes, dispensing souvenirs and pleasantries...
in charge of scheduling tours and fending off the obvious questions..
this vague and vast, hazy far-away floating island in the clouds...
how many times have we been gathered aloft and transferred there...
to our own cosmic bucolic getaway...
during silent reveries, during long intervals outdoors bathing in light,
during love drives or walks alone thinking the unreachable...
during tumultuous dinner fights and work-related disasters...
extending the sylvan scene as we go...
how when, the older we get, the swerve of mind keeps changing
until age and thought tug us away from the simple meadow on the floating clouds...
until some creeping alternative vision of a long dark sleep
leads us to consider the "blip" of time which swallows all forms
the same way that bones decay underground
leading us to forsake the infinite extended paradise
for the purity of the brief, unexpected, paltry goodbye.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Sunday, December 23, 2012
The Season of Hope
Just one of many great photographs by local Portland photographer, Mark Ford.
(For other great photos, go to MarkForddesign.com)
Thursday, December 20, 2012
It's been a difficult week...
It's been a difficult week, having to grapple with the terrible news from last Friday. I can't get it out of my thoughts. It bothers me. Things were sort of looking up since November at least - and then....I don't want to lump this together with all those other tragedies that happened in the year 2012. Why does the year have to end this way? Children dying because of a severely disturbed, unfeeling, angry, vengeful young maniac...Twenty children and six heroic teachers - that's hard to take. Hard to process. A huge pit in the stomach. The weather is slightly warmer this year, but otherwise dismal. Political gridlock and other disappointments continue...Some very relentless ideologues of the gun-toting variety (how they acquired public forums to speak in is beyond me) are hitting all the wrong notes on the topic of preventing more gun violence in America. Not to mention mental illness. It's getting harder and harder to concentrate these days...It's supposed to be a merry season and all, but the world seems a little unhinged. To help cope with all this absurdity - with the help of some basic logic and good will, I've been looking at: The Trial by Franz Kafka....The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle... A Fanatic Heart by Edna O'Brien...American Prometheus - A biography of Robert Oppenheimer...We'll get through this...There's a lot of good people out there in Newtown and elsewhere...We have to find a way to connect...Literature can help...
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