tiny trucks deliver to tiny shops, as if there was room on roads. pedestrians learn quickly. out of the way! (no suitable translation springs to mind.) everyone moves aside, quickly. tiny trucks go slowly by. white-painted roads in a beautiful place. tiny trucks leave no dirty tracks on the streets. shops sell a few amazing things: exquisite art, a bowl: carved of ancient olive, grown thousands of years ago. cool shade is an under-rated blessing. just stay cool!
ruins and palms have little value in my daily life. in my memories they are magical. stories of ruins, of the things that happened there and there, well I know that i ought to say: something's very special about the stories i don't want to hear. like the palms, they are not related to my own stories, or my life. they have a very different mesage, maybe, while i might have none. my own stories or my life nothing important, because i must be about as important as an ant in a hill. would i like to be more important? what kind of responsibility comes with that? maybe to be an ant is enough. and what about the palm and its importance? and the wall?
drifting along a beautiful seawall on an island, they have no agenda, nor purpose. nothing's important on a day like this. quarried stone holds back waves, waves breaking unnaturally on hard stone. make no mistake; any rock weathers on these edges. some last longer than others. these stones last longer than we do. for us the people are always the story. and here, the story is that the people do not seem so very important. not much going on, no real dramas are unfolding. the drama here is all unseen, and unseeable, or maybe the drama is the landscape.
that morning the north end of the adriatic sea, looked like a scene from a monster movie, after the crowd ran away. venice started out that way, a barbarian army at the edge of a swamp. nothing much has changed an awful mist hung over the grand canal, as we looked toward a modern art museum. maybe it excited her to support men who might some day be known as greats. you never know. a carpenter might become a fisherman; a slave might become a famous sculptor, a plowman, a poet. and we had faith that sunshine would come back.
somewhere near, a road-building project destroyed a historic wonder, i made a photograph: a very old log house. sunburned from probably a century of summer sun. logs turned rich brown and black, cracks filled with old white plaster. whitewash, maybe. i don't know the stories i can't see. i can always believe nonsense; it's a very human thing to do. the creek flowed silently past the old log house. maybe it was drinking water, though today it looks murky, a bit dangerous. old stories are impossible to prove, a bit murky, digging for truth a little quirky we turn over stones, looking to see clues to untold stories, stories we can't see.
through those ancient doorways ancestral feet wandered in through those doors, and out. masons built such solid walls, brick and mortar last so long. nothing is forever, it is said. two thousand years those bricks held strong; there's little left of the old town; the doorways now are falling down. through those ancient doorways ancestral feet wandered in through those doors, and out.
she's such a gruesome creature, waiting quietly for something foolish enough to wander close enough. she will pounce and sink fangs in deep enough to inject her poisonous venom. two workmen watched me capture her image, to make this photograph, from what they considered a safe distance. her bite might not be fatal for someone my size. it might make me very sorry. and sorrier, her mate, who i am not, may be killed and eaten. i am not him, and keep my safe distance. she is so beautiful in her hunger, almost a majestic creature, with such gruesome expectations. she is amazing, a thing of wonder.
springtime, in the floral department, looks like this. many times, in a long cold winter, we craved warmth, wanting what we did not have. maybe it's always springtime, in the floral department, i wouldn't know. there are things that i don't need to see or hear or say.. but i fear that i am no wise monkey, and see so much that makes me sad. springtime, in the floral department, looks like this.
Looking Up insignificant beside the hill, i begin to understand my importance in the scheme of things. if i were to think about my time and the scale of time these hills represent, i'd have to be impressed by my time as much as by my stature. how important i am not! i think and words come out, not always exactly appropriate; it can be a struggle. layers of sand, turned to stone, containing all the stories of so many ages. i seee it all, amazing, i am amazed. humbling, but i am not humiliated. loving the chaotic beauty of this wild place!
Vivid Sky why do i think it's the edge of night? just before the darkness smothers colour then darkness comes, and sticky eyelids stick shut until morning. why do i think it's the edge of night? why not: the edge of day? or something else unusual? maybe we should consider mid-day and midnight. but nothing seems unusual about either. maybe we can forget middles and edges and make it all about the sky. seahorses in the clouds!