here there were wonders on the northern edge of the sea. we see beauty all around us; a dome towers in the background; as it is upstaged by a tower, which is, in its turn, eclipsed by a very old street lamp, all very beautiful. then there is a bridge, something that anchors us, reminding us that the photograph was made, someplace in venice. all that water, everywhere, it was strange, another kind of world. venetian bridges and murano glass were best: things to remember and cherish.
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.
Brown Bridge Pub in princeton you sometimes go to the brown bridge pub, to tell stories and drink some beer, making the hard edges soften, simplifying every complicated mess until it becomes bearable and sleep, of a sort, brings a morning thunderstorm inside a throbbing skull that feels like it should belong to someone else. colours are so bright that it looks like a happy place to visit, so bright that you can't imagine staying too long, surely not so long thay they'll throw your drunken body out the door, into an imaginary alley, with stinking garbage bins, because that's a bit too shameful and sad. but those bright cheerful colours are a little garish after not many drinks, it's a kind of torture, and we have to leave.
(near the temple of Artemis,) the ferility goddess, and divine huntress, (in a major port and distribution centre,) our mystery is: where did all the people go? earthquakes shake everything as african coastlines crowd closer to european beaches. and if that violence didn't destroy enough, there are droughts, and sandstorms, famines and epidemics. people move on. so far, there are many of us left. nothing is certain, and we cannot predict how successful we will be, people die out, sometimes.
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.
Stairway on Mikonos looking up an old stair, where dusty tired feet have worn this path for many sleepy centuries, in my shifty memories, i saw sunlight bouncing, from side to side, making all the ancient shadows disappear, for centuries, they were on a pathway to nowhere. white walls have so little definition, no shadows make it so difficult to see detail, those wonderful ancient stories. unless, of course there's nothing there to see. so difficult to believe!
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.
Tortured Tree i don't know why it grows like this, this tortured tree. looking like six scary movies rolled into one tortured tree, something seems to have happened here again and again. maybe it grew towards an opportunity we never saw, something that seemed to come but disappeared, unexploited, causing this twisted wonder to try again, looking for a better way to grow. i too look for possibilities for nourishment, if not for my body, which seems fairly unimportant, then maybe for the real me.