December 30, 2012

Preserve resumed


I returned to the preserve yesterday, for another go of hiking, and like many a reprise it was touched 
with an air of wistful remains, familiar, intact, accepting, yet infused of something departed.
Heading toward the trail, I crossed a grassy hill at the edge of the preserve, where a family stood 
looking down at the gleaming wetland. “Mother, can you please get out of the frame? I’m trying to take 
a picture.” 
“Ok...”  said the mother, who stood where she was. She pointed to the east. “What’s that?”
“The observation tower.”
“Then let’s go there!”
A stylish elderly woman, perhaps an aunt or grandmother standing apart from the rest, smiled as I 
crossed behind the others. “I don’t want to get in the picture!” I quipped. “Heavens no,” she returned 
with a naughty smile. The large dad, imperious and silent, gave me a baleful look.
On the trail, the sky was more overcast than before, heavy with stifled rain. The rich green foliage 
flickered over starless shadows. A cool breeze stirred the water; it looked mercury-heavy and quick, 
shimmering silver over inky black. A dense flock of egrets had gathered on a mossy island in the 
stream. I was thinking about the day I’d stopped by Palisaides Park, in New Jersey, on my drive down 
to Florida almost twenty years ago. A bunch of us had spent the day at the amusement park in some 
summer past; I’d remembered it fondly, the rides, the hot dogs, the laughter, the excited screams. I may 
still have the marks in my forearm, the one that Barbara had clutched on the roller coaster. But the 
reprise was not what I had expected. The lights, the music, the smells, the rumble and clatter, were all 
there. But I felt sadly out of place. On the roller coaster, an adolescent odd-girl-out, who certainly 
would have preferred riding with her friends, was put in the empty seat next to mine. When the ride 
was over she scampered quickly away. I left after twenty minutes, crushed by loneliness among the 
rides, the hot dogs, the laughter...
Someone on the trail behind me loudly cleared his throat. Then he did it twice more. I looked around 
and it was the baleful dad, still some ways off, having scouted ahead of the clan. I didn’t know how to 
interpret the warning, but I found a side path that I recognized and took it. It led to a picnic table 
overlooking the stream, a favorite nook as it turned out, where I settled in for coffee and some 
Brideshead Revisited. 





























Before long the rest of the family had caught up - glimpses of parkas and faces flickered by through the 
scrub. And there was the old lady, lagging behind the others, taking her time. She ducked down a side 
path. “Helen...” the dad called, having apparently lost her. “Helen...” and then more sharply “Helen!” 
She eventually emerged, calmly self-possessed. “Lovely ducks,” she said. “I wonder if they mate for life...” 

I read a chapter of my book, sipped coffee, watched the egrets, and eventually emerged, and headed for 
the pond. I appeared to be alone once more. I passed the ravaged tree. The leaves scattered at its feet 
were already turning brown. At the pond I found the remains of one of the blue crabs I’d seen and 
photographed a few days ago. They were scattered about - a claw here, a piece of shell there. It looked 
like a recent kill. Minnows had swarmed in to feast.



I wondered what got it. An osprey? A rival? A boy with a stick? There was nothing left of the old guy, 
who had seemed rather friendly, but a few shards of his former self. When life leaves, where does it go?






December 27, 2012

Preserve




On an overcast day in the suspension after Christmas, I went for a hike at a nearby preserve. The trail has a good deal of uneven ground, rocky hills and steep gullies that challenge the body in useful ways. The only encounter along the way was with a couple of young Indian fellows who called me “sir” and deferred the path to me. There was a young family somewhere that I could hear but not see.
I stopped at the bench on a dock overlooking a pond that I like. I often go there to watch wildlife or to read. 




Music: "Habitual Ritual" by Revolution Void


On a path nearby the young family, whom I could still hear but not see, drifted by. A loud boy among them loudly thwaked, with a stick that he must have been carrying, random things that drew his aimless wrath, a tree, a rock, a shrub. The ducks I was watching were startled, momentarily alert, then returned to their patrolling and feeding.

On the hike back I saw what appeared to be the evidence of the boy’s handiwork - among them a sapling mindlessly stripped of its young shoots. I attribute this to juvenile affectlessness. That his parents didn’t rein him in is a bit harder to fathom. But is the boy unlike any other randomly destructive force of nature? An agent of natural selection. But I was glad that he, like any other such force, had moved on.


Last night, in the synchronicity that sometimes occurs to me, I read in Brideshead Revisited: "He was cruel, too, in the wanton, insect-maiming manner of the very young and fearless..."



As for the tree, unsentimental nature throws her weight behind species, favoring kinds, not individuals. It’s for us to notice instances. Make out narratives. Pass them along.






December 22, 2012

Correspondence / 10

I’m following your posts from the trenches. I read somewhere just recently that deciduous trees shed 
their leaves in winter precisely to avoid bearing a burden of limb-fracturing snow. Oh dear. I share your 
grief. I remember when a tropical windstorm broke and toppled the massive old cycad outside my 
bedroom. Other green things, big and small, over time, filled the void, but I miss that grand old lady. 
I’m told Staten Island really got pasted in the hurricane. I lived there for ten years after fleeing 
Manhattan in the late eighties.

Leave it to your youngsters to turn things around. They still have the instinct to find an opportunity, in 
everything, for play. Isn’t that why we’re here? When did we lose that? 

I never understood daylight savings time. I always thought they got it backwards. Who needs daylight 
at 9 pm or nightfall at 4 ? 

Have you seen Mamet’s (screenplay) “The Edge”? He has a knack for dealing with primal stuff, 
especially among/between men, in a fresh way but with big classical themes and gestures. 

Your blog makes me miss New York. Your take on it seems so much like mine. Central Park has a 
story-book quality at times, in places. Your shots of it abandoned to snowy serenity brings that out. 

I remember when I stood before a Warhol for the first time at MOMA, the gold Marilyn and the big 

Elvis, and being shocked by their physical beauty. I’d already “got” the pop aesthetic, having pored 
over reproductions in high school. But the canvases themselves were a revelation. The Metropolitan has 
one of my all-time favorite big Monets.

It’s cultural resources like that, and so much more, for which my soul sometimes aches. But the 
creaturely appeal of a life in t-shirt and shorts (plus a couple of critical entrenchments) have trumped the 
well-known drawbacks of life in Florida. Or better said life not in New York. Though I sometimes 
think of Florida (the east coast, anyway, and the Keys) as Gotham’s tropical outpost. Parts of the gulf 
coast still have an otherworldly, end-of-the-line, film noirish character that I love, but only in small 
pockets anymore.

Be strong. Stay warm.




December 21, 2012

December 18, 2012

December 15, 2012

December 12, 2012

McSassy

I stopped by McD a while back for a breakfast burrito and a cappuccino (not bad). The burrito comes
with salsa, and when asked if I wanted hot or mild, I said "One of each... you know me." The counter
boy flipped back "Yeah, you like it spicy... and then mild." Impudent monkey.

I stopped by not long after that for a coffee. Sparky was there. I ordered the coffee.

“What, no chicken?” he said.

“Not this time, thank you. Just a coffee.”

“Let me guess. You like it hot.”

The kid is a riot.



slice / 228






December 8, 2012

The audio portion

When I opened the door, there stood Edna, my nearly deaf elderly neighbor 
who lives alone on the ground floor. "I think my smoke alarm is going off," she 
said. My own hearing isn't what it used to be. But even with the hearing in my 
left ear half gone, I could hear the hypersonic squeal, a distant mosquito, from 
the second floor. It followed us to the elevator. Still audible as we approached 
her condo it didn't, oddly enough, seem to be growing louder.

Once inside I could still hear it... but still faintly. It was not the smoke detector. 

So where was it coming from? Some other condo? Somewhere in the 
neighborhood? A feebly dying appliance? I turned to Edna so that she could 
read my lips. There it was. The squeal. I moved in closer. It was coming from 
her hearing aid.

"It's coming from your hearing aid," I shouted. 


"What?" 


"I said it's coming from your hearing aid!" 


She dug it out of her ear, and the feedback bloomed like a sound check at a 

Grateful Dead concert.

She got it fixed... I'm not sure why. I suppose it's doing her some good. A few 

days later I was in the lobby talking to a neighbor when Edna came by to get 
her mail. I was telling Pete that I was going to Target to get a Christmas 
wreath. It was one of those uncanny breakthroughs that the hard-of-hearing 
have when you're talking low, to somebody else, about something of interest. 

"Would you mind if I come along?" Edna said. "I'll get my purse."



December 5, 2012

December 2, 2012

November 29, 2012

November 26, 2012

Correspondence / 9

I enjoyed your meditations on autumn - new beginnings, yes, and butterflies. La de dah, la de dum - 'tis Autumn. The praying mantis is an elegant creature, a slender old parson. I wonder who had the bright idea of starting the new year in the middle of winter. It should start with the autumnal equinox, in my opinion.

The association you mentioned seems to have turned out to be a false karass - a granfaloon. They often do. But as you know I'm wary of kingdoms of any kind. Go in peace. 

You wrote: " I've come to realize that nothing has changed.  Nothing.  Halleluyah! Nothing has changed. I'm still the essence of who I was yesterday and the day before. Growing yes, learning- yes.  But my core, remains steadfast. I'm really blown away by this. I think this is true for all of us." I'm often aware that beyond my thoughts, beyond the passions and flux of my soul, there's a still, unchanging life that sees and knows. Call it the spirit. Or the will. Someone said that our senses are God's way of experiencing us. Like that.

I just received the Metropolitan Museum of Art Christmas catalog. What don't I want! I'll probably get a box of Christmas cards. This morning brought the first cool breeze of the year, windows open, socks on. I made a big pot of chili. Funny name for a hot dish.





November 25, 2012

pssst...


I ran into a neighbor yesterday on my way out. I said to her "Don't mention to anybody what we talked about." She looked at me puzzled.
"What did we talk about?"
I looked at her admiringly.
"Oh, you're good." I said and walked away. Laughter followed.


November 23, 2012

November 20, 2012

November 17, 2012

November 14, 2012

November 11, 2012

November 8, 2012

Blind sided

I was at Coconut Point mall, truckin’ along in my “chipotle” red All Stars high tops and heading to Starbucks for a double espresso. This blind girl, her guide dog, and her girlfriend are walking my way. They’re talking and laughing, pretty girls, both of them. As they approach, the blind girl looks down, looks up, and says “Fabulous sneakers!” If she wanted to blow my mind, she did.

“Thank you,” I beam.


“Your welcome,” she smiles back, while her girlfriend giggles.


It takes me a moment to realize that they had coordinated their game. But it was still a cool effect. I felt punked and praised at the same time. A bit of a flirt. True, the sneakers have a nice vibe. But perhaps not quite the extrasensory impact implied...




November 5, 2012

November 2, 2012

October 28, 2012

Tom

It was a luminous autumn day, cloudless, in late September. It must have been one of the
last weekends before the school year started in earnest, one of the last lazy weekends that
Tom and I, both of us eighth graders, were to spend at the cabin. I was going to say that
it was one I’d never forget. But I did forget. For decades, I had forgotten. I thought of
Tom this morning for the first time in years.

The cabin, surrounded by miles of Michigan wilderness, was a nice piece of family
weekend and summer real estate, outings to which I divided amongst my three closest
friends, Barry, Ken, and Tom, according to a metric that is lost to me now, most likely
Tom’s availability. Of the three Tom was the brightest, the most fearless, the most
doomed. My imagination found a playmate in his courage. There was scarcely a dare he
would not take, but with the smarts to deftly turn the tables on, if I took it too far. We
made crank phone calls. We philosophied and opined. We filched cigarettes. Tom was a
straight-A achiever. I was an artsy prodigy and a mediocre student whom teachers liked. 
An intimacy sprang up between us that I kept instinctively, if salaciously, cloaked, but
which he, simply for the sake of arousing my chagrin, would unexpectedly, and publicly,
flaunt with a kiss or a grope that turned my ears to stoplights.

A city boy, Tom was enchanted with all the country things, boats, guns, field and stream,
that I took for granted. Those country weekends were a kind of manful world unlike Tom
had known. A world wherein two fourteen year old boys were allowed set off for a tramp
in the woods with .22 rifles, and the trust of adults that made him practically throb with
pride - and assume a sense of responsibility almost querulous in its propriety. In return,
his incipient thrill-seeking often catalyzed the surroundings, so familiar to me, into a
framework for adventure. Those were days when youngsters, though much less indulged,
enjoyed in many significant ways, more freedom.

One summer Tom suggested that we take the boat, a little wooden two-seater, all the way
upstream to the “big lake”, which he had heard me talk about, but which expedition only
my older brother had heretofore pulled off, and alone. Of course Jack’s cautionary
account, complete with water moccasins and strange cries heard among the cattails, only
whetted Tom’s appetite. We announced our intention at dinner that night. By morning my
mother, always a trooper at hiding her maternal misgivings, packed a paper bag of
sandwiches. My dad informed us that if we came a cropper, my brother would get my life
insurance. Three hours later we were casting lines into the lake, under postcard summer
skies. When the buckets were full of perch we started back home. That was when we were
confronted with a handful of inlets which we realized were impossible to tell apart. We
picked the most likely and within an hour, and under deepening skies, we found ourselves
in an unfamiliar, and inexorably narrowing stream, and soon a thorny tunnel scarcely
wider than the boat, choked with bramble, our skin poked, scratched, and mosquito-bitten.
A treacherously rocky riverbed sheared the outboard’s cotter pin, rendering the propeller
useless. We clawed our way along with the oars. I don’t remember any of the
conversation, but it probably went something like

“Oh, shit.”

“Heh, heh… yeah.”

I remember Tom’s now-we’re-in-for-it grin. I suspect it was a lot like mine. Stripling
commandos we were, confronted with nature’s heart of darkness, if not our own. We
made it home, miraculously, by dinner. The only thing we admitted to was the broken
cotter pin, for which I received a paternal lecture and a garnished allowance. My mother
eyed our scratches with suspicion, but was disinclined to press the matter. We feasted on
lake perch. My brother, spookily astute as usual, made sly references to the “road not taken,”
about a poem he claimed to be reading.

We were down at the stream fishing one autumn day, casting night crawlers off the
bridge, not far from a treacherous curve in the road that the local folk had long ago
dubbed The Devil's Elbow. It was flanked on both sides by a marsh, a peat bog, really,
thought to be all but bottomless. It was said to have swallowed, over the years, quite a
number of cars, families, pets, and lovers, all sucked to their doom who paid too little
respect to the hairpin curve. Once in a rare while, a tow truck would show up, hauling out
some car or pickup truck, dripping with black muck. Those were the lucky few that had
gone in right next to the road. Many others, it was assumed, were out there in the bog,
travelers, passing through this remote country, never located nor seen again.


























The Devil's Elbow, on Stockbridge Road, had a creepy desolation about it. Tom,
although more daring than I, showed little interest in exploring the area, beyond our first
and last hike past the oddly still twist, not far from our habitual fishing hole at the bridge.

As we stood casting for sunfish and blue gill in the stream that day, lost in our own
thoughts, we heard the familiar soft crunch of distant gravel and turned to look down the
road, past the Elbow, for the approaching vehicle. The crunch of tire on gravel grew
louder but the usual cloud of dust, the visible herald of what our ears told us we would
soon see, was oddly absent. Then suddenly rounding the feral curve came an old red
pickup, of some throwback vintage that neither of us had seen before. We heard the
music, coming from the truck's radio. It stuck in my mind for some reason - an old big
band rendition of Little Brown Jug. As the truck passed, we glimpsed a young family,
mom and dad in the cab, two boys and a dog in the back.

It strikes me now, as I write this, as it could hardly have occurred to me then, how
comprehensively one can discern a complete emotional dynamic in a passing glimpse. The
man was laughing behind the wheel, while the woman stared straight ahead, unamused.
There was something a little mocking about that laugh, heedless. The woman’s stony
silence looked deeply etched. Neither the elder boy nor the dog seemed to notice us in the
least. Only the young boy looked at us as the truck sped by. I remember every detail about
him. The baseball cap, red, with a yellow ear of corn, half-shucked, on a logo advertising
Picknell’s General Store. The tattered white shirt, with its bone-colored buttons, short-
sleeved, frayed at the collar. His cornflower-blue eyes. His gaze was fixed on Tom as the
truck careened past the bridge, nearly driving off the road. A gaze of the utmost
compassion, little brows knitted, a soul crying out from some deeply timeless place for an
explanation… an answer…

We watched the truck disappear among the far trees, its passage still weirdly unmarked by
the cloud of dust to which we are said, when all is said and done, to return.

“That was weird,” said Tom. “Yeah, man…” I said. And that was all that was said. And
that, it turned out, would be our last weekend together at the cottage, or anywhere else.
School intervened. Other voices, other rooms. By the next year the friendship that seemed
beyond a second thought, like the hill on which the cottage stood, had vanished in a cloud
of noise, new friends, rivalries and dust. Tom fell in with some old friends from the city.
Sagacious, street-wise friends. Friends who had no use for stream-fed idylls or the vile
affections that were rumored to be turning him queer. He faltered academically the next
year. He was in and out of trouble. In high school he was suspended for smoking in the
parking lot and mouthing off to the civics teacher who caught him. The cocky brilliance
that made him a leader in grade school, was informing his delinquency now. Or so we’d
heard. After his suspension, he never returned. For my part, new friends, new pursuits,
closed in around his memory, until it was clammed away with my broken heart. I learned
from Barry, over breakfast at Denny’s years later on one of my rare visits to Michigan,
that Tom had been killed in a car crash, years ago, coked to the eyebrows, on Middlebelt
Road on Halloween. Hearing that, I stood up and bawled. While a discretely unobtrusive
speaker somewhere played Bobby McFerrin singing Don’t Worry Be Happy, I cried my
heart out.





October 26, 2012

October 23, 2012

October 20, 2012

October 17, 2012

October 14, 2012

October 10, 2012

October 7, 2012

Newspaper and coffee

I sat down at a sidewalk table at Starbucks and this girl was reading aloud from a newspaper to her two friends, college kids I would guess. It was some inane story about city council deliberations. But she was reading in a voice dripping with contempt and sarcasm, rendering the content hilarious. Think Angela Hayes in American Beauty describing Ricky Fitts to Jane Burnham. Her friends were laughing. People were auditing. I sipped my cappuccino and was entertained.



October 5, 2012

October 2, 2012

September 29, 2012

September 26, 2012

September 20, 2012

untitled 5




The streets at the beach
are crowded with weekend
togs and alerted elbows.
Darting glances and furtive
assessments, showy banter,
divert prickly interest
and the sun’s impassive gong.

Away from home
the paroled soul takes in 
the sensuous vista
a drink, a wave, 
the pleasure of having a body.
The tang and tease of a song 
snatched in passing
self-seeds and grows.

September 16, 2012

September 13, 2012

September 10, 2012

September 7, 2012

September 4, 2012

The eyes have it

I encountered two women in the last few days who wore color contact lenses. One set was flagrantly striking - golden banana with an outline of sienna, rather otherworldly. The other wore a more subtle hazel bronze. Seems this color range is in vogue. But regardless of how subtle, they render eye contact, one of the most enjoyable aspects of human interaction, impossible. There is no twinkle. No fleeting recognition of the life within, no exchange. You’re looking into the eyes of a lifeless, if clever, android. And the wearer generally projects an attitude of having an advantage. And they do. You’re shocked and repelled, but mute. Embarrassed. Some part of you needs to honor the sham. As if they really are replicants - but don't know. Someone who refuses to make eye contact at all, or responds with an averted gaze communicates, however lamely, something. But what the opacity of color contacts withhold, in their very engagement, is infinitely more profound.



September 1, 2012

Correspondence / 8

The lady in white, yes! I was watching my fav Woody Allen movie, Manhattan Murder Mystery, a couple nights ago and noticed that the newspaper Diane is reading as she and Woody walk into the lobby of their building is the Daily News. I remember it fondly.

I have wimpy wrists too. You can wear anything I can. I mostly liked the watchband - brown leather and olive canvas. Remember your dog, Olive? She puts in an appearance, snapping at the ocean waves, in my story Once Upon A Time In The Sand.


I enjoyed your video - it had a conceptual/minimalist feel, and a nice presence. Your August Break series posts and photos are tres cool. Love the one of the dinosaur menacing the ferris wheel.

Are there many things better than a toasted tomato sandwich?

I like your hair color. Blonde looks best a tad drab, n'est pas? I'd love to see you in a Louise Brooks style bob, maybe a little longer, but not much.

I'd be overwhelmed living immersed in that kind of history. At least at first. I guess after a while the usual concerns and delights of everyday life take the lead, as they do everywhere. I wonder if the wonder of it all isn't more intense when freshly perceived and experienced. The shock of the new. Though maybe the heightened perception never quite fades for non-natives. New York, though I knew it like the veins in my hand, had the perpetual allure that ex-pats feel in adopted locales, though it, too, eventually ran out. Still, like in most relationships, once the initial infatuation and obvious appeal are absorbed, new facets, deeper appreciation, emerge, fascinating excavations. Passions are domesticated and made comfortable.

So it seems Isaak is headed this way, the first in several years. Time to jug up some water and count batteries. Florida weather is exceptionally predictable - except when there's a hurricane. All things considered, it's a tolerable risk. See you on the other side...



August 28, 2012

August 25, 2012

August 22, 2012

August 19, 2012

Uncouched

When Gore Vidal, whose novels, as well as whose iconoclastic views and repartee, I admired and enjoyed, died, I was reminded of the infamous public spats he’d had with William Buckley and Norman Mailer. The witty calm he maintained after provoking such dangerous heads and egos to explode, while he nattily brushed off the debris, was a delight to watch. He once rendered Norman Mailer (whom I also admire, for different reasons) dumbfounded on the Dick Cavett show by calling him “a veal of a man.” How do you answer that? Some reckonings are so striking as to make further discussion impossible.

My roommate Bill and I shared a wing of a loft on Vestry Street in the late 70s. During the summer, we had the loft itself to ourselves, when the rest of the tribe took off for Key West and Saratoga.

Leo Luchese, a friend of ours, dropped a bunch of furniture off at the loading dock/storage area, stuff that was in transit to his new apartment. When he was finished moving, a couple of weeks later, he left behind a rather formless, hulking, brown leather sofa that he said Bill and I could have, if we wanted it. Bill and I went down to have a look.

It was pretty ugly. But I thought it had possibilities. Bill, however, didn’t, and rendered his judgment:

“It’s anti-life,” he said, and walked away.

And that - what could I say to that? - was that.




August 15, 2012

August 12, 2012

Correspondence / 7

I'm going to call you Gilly Lillyseed. You could be a character in a fairy tale - tossing seeds, with a graceful swoop, from your magic bag. Then everyone wonders 'where did those flowers come from?'

I like your new photos - the pastiche. The yellow throw and the stripey blanket. Your hair has drabbed out nicely. Cool bangles - there's a slightly industrial touch there.

No, I haven't taken the Myers Brigg test - which strikes me as being probably gratifying, but the way occult knowledge is. A pretty snare. It's related to my aversion to kingdoms.

In my ongoing quest to integrate some more low key athletic activity into my low key life, I started thinking about options featuring more strategy than sweat. I remembered that my neighbor Frank had asked me to join him and his buddies on the local bocce court. So I bought a bocce set and went to the court, after hours, to see if I had any aptitude for the game. I suspected I would. The physics appeals to me. I stayed for about an hour, playing against myself, had some beginner’s luck, and threw many balls that could have been laughed off the court. But I started improving pretty quickly, and have since joined some pick-up games, and practice with my friend Cathy. The Italian guys from New Jersey are a riot. "Hey Fank-ay!" Being welcome amongst them is a nice experience.

"The love of fireworks lies in the mitochondria." Wowzer. The Big Bang is in our cells. Remember that crazy synchronicity at Hooky Beach with Patrick and some of the rest of us? I was in bed last night with Richard Ford's Independence Day, which a friend of mine recommended, and read this...

"Somewhere on the water a boat neither of us can see suddenly becomes a launch pad for a bright, fusey, sparkly projectile that arcs into the inky air and explodes into luminous pink and green effusions that brighten the whole sky like creation's dawn..."

Hello. Co-inky-dink? I think NOT, as Po used to say. Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes, they call me on and on...



August 8, 2012

August 6, 2012

August 4, 2012

August 1, 2012

Correspondence / 6

Thanks for inspiring me! I went over to your blog and by then you'd posted something a little bitter (one of the four flavors of meditation, as I once noted somewhere), followed by something sweeter. I like a variety of sensations, don't you?

How was the falls? Still there I trust.

"...a cottage bug", heh, I like that. It's true - that's where we saw fireflies. I've never seen one in Florida. But I was changing into my shorts this morning as the day began to warm, and noticed that a little green beetle, clinging to my pant leg, had followed me into the house. I transferred it to the fern on the lanai.

They closed off a half-mile of the city's downtown main drag for the Independence Day festival. My friend Cathy and I went down for a while, and watched the fireworks. I have a fancy that the reason people are thrilled by fireworks is that they touch off some elemental resonance and deep recall of the Big Bang that started it all... Ooooo!  Aaahhh!


It's always cool to realize that somebody has looked in the archives. I like video for the possibilities in gestures, snatches, moments, that extend a bit beyond the the limits of the photograph. And the emotional import of music. Bill Evans is my favorite collaborator - though, of course, he doesn't know that. I saw him once at a small club in Greenwich Village. He played his quiet, tenderly rendered Santa Claus Is Coming To Town that night. You could have heard an ice cube clink.


“New Jersey is like the back of an old radio.” That’s a great line. I just got back from biking to the library to return two books. The only Ford they had was a book of short stories - "A Multitude Of Sins" - so I got that. I'll probably reserve Independence Day. Is that the one you read? It won the Pulitzer.

I hear good things about Moonrise Kingdom. It's in my Netflix queue, though it will probably be a while before I get it. I don't think it's even been released to disc yet. It isn't the kind of big-screen blockbuster I see in the theater, especially with today's prices. If you can wait, we could watch it at chez Jeaux.

I like to play late in the afternoon, around 4:30 to 5, when nobody's there. Tomorrow?



July 29, 2012

July 26, 2012

July 23, 2012

July 20, 2012

July 18, 2012

To the mall


Look at this watch. It’s a Coleman. The the same outfit that makes kerosene lanterns, tents, and camping chairs. I think it looks better with a few beads.



Maybe I’ll spritz on some Safari, gather up the bud and head down to Coconut Point mall. Sip coffee at a sidewalk table and see what people look like this week. This mall is a world apart, I think it has its own zip code. It’s so gorgeous and peaceful that you feel nothing bad could ever happen there - the corporate rulers won’t let it. That's the illusion, anyway. Its all-out dedication to materialism is both relaxing and fizzy, a glass of Coke. 


As a photographic locale, I like the mall. I like the modernity, the lush manicured foliage, the people, the possibilities for composition in the smart colors and keen sterility. It's not the iconic gritty street of a metropolis. But I find suburbia fascinating, germane, and less explored.



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