a window into a life, a conversation with a soul, a gateway to a heart
Author: David Koblentz
Inspiration is a fickle muse. Sometimes empty, sometimes overwhelming. These words I write are my own but they seem driven by something else (perhaps?).
taken from my car while moving (hey, I know, I know), garden state parkway, outerbridge to staten island exit (that line above is what popped into my head as I tried to take this picture, the sky has been so miserable lately this was a welcome change, and it was like seeing the horizon smile just for me)
Corrugated metal warehouse wall that bordered the parking lot I was in, 18th Avenue, Brooklyn NY, find beauty wherever you may be (trying to live by the mantra I laid out)… sure, this is not some arboreal forest, or cloud forest, or heck even a common maple tree, but it hit me, just walking to my car, a moment, take that moment, take that time, smile at the sky, smile at everyone, sure, there is some amorphous atmosphere out there, the sun is a huge sphere incalculable miles to our mind to really grab, but the sunshine is still there delayed or not, open up, absorb it as such, even just for a second, turn the ordinary into extraordinary, this is a day, this is a life, rejoice my friends, rejoice, embrace as much as you can, at least try, I fail at this as well, but just wake up and realize, every morning, the gift, your eyes, you are alive, I am alive, I am alive right. now. right. now.
waking up when the sun is not seems to add a layer, or blanket of foul mood on the day, cover that in a covering or a smothering of traffic winding down the GSP, for only two exits mind you, across the outer bridge, through Staten Island, cross the Narrows (for an admission fee of $18 that might even make Jim J. Braddock blush) and finally on to Bay Ridge (literally named so as it is a ridge above the bay) and the parts of Brooklyn past there, a solid hour plus to travel a meager 20 miles, get home after the sun, get up and do it all over again with glee on Tuesday, and tomorrow, the prospect, I came home tonight and collapsed, feeling like the lone survivor of a shipwreck, crashed on my mattress face first, first right into the bed, no pillow in reach, washed up like flotsam on to this shore, carried in the surf, I drift off imagining how these things are supposed to go, the high tide leaving me up the slight slope of beach, the gentle waves lapping at my feet, sand on my face scratch, too tired to care or move, seagulls circling above endlessly like vultures, little crabs scurry in my shadow knowing I am prime picking real estate, and in no state to swat them away like flies, the relief of surviving the wreck is not a wholly fulfilling experience, even if it should be, I wait for the part of the tale where that tropical sun bears down from dawn and lifts up my very soul, recharges my life force with wonderful unbroken sunlight beams, gently warming my skin as the day grows from begin, I imagine, I can hear the waves, the sounds of palms rustling in a soothing Caribbean breeze, the rise and soft crash of the waves, like a massage over my body deposited here on the shore, all care fades away, I feel I could lay here… forever, so I pretend…
my phone is not cruelly right over there, taunting me with the specter of some chosen gimmick alarm sound (just who let those dogs out?), counting the hours down, for soon enough this dream is spent on the morning’s break, dragged into the shower, hopefully my mind will have been away, on a little island holiday and re-energize this engine machine, to face the world with a true genuine smile, until it is worn down again, until I find another device, the recharge period of life, a dream… a dream…
notes.. not for nothing, but why do we always survive shipwrecks on to a desert island, romanticism I suppose… we never dream of waking on a beach of rock and steam… of cold and cliff… the video is what I sleep to, or try to sleep to, most nights…
“as I close my eyes to dream might I become the song of a bird to race out upon the breeze and find comfort to nest in the ear of a child and conjure forth a smile of innocent wonder”
notes… reincarnation in a thought, I would hope to have an impact, or at least create something positive, I also wanted this to read in a certain way, in waves, up and down, it works for me, but hey, that isn’t real critique, I hope it works for you…
putting bread into the bird feeder good enough for me good enough for them this is winter they should write me thank you letters by letting me watch their behaviors but so much more advanced am I I do not speak their languages and perhaps this is not the same bread I use this is more the leftovers turning stale but I deem this good enough for you you are certainly more studious you built your own house and raised a family even if through basic instincts I am here alone stuffing bread on a cold quiet night into an empty feeder swinging in the tree spinning left and right
notes… I do not post to show you brilliant poetry, I post what is going on in my mind at the time, at least that is the goal, I fail, as we all do, but that is what I am up to, I write like this naturally, always have, I was just afraid in the past (stupidly) to be me full on, full force, so here I am, better or worse, I like to think I am exploring perspective, well, I try…
“a whispered prayer to the affirmation of life for spirit to fill me up with the strength to leave the past behind shed molted skin so I may emerge renewed once again through that gate beyond that door so I may be one a child of the sun once more”
notes… I read this to myself like waves licking the coast, sort of that flow, rise and fall, up and down
(previously posted but now with annotations, links and such. being a bit nerdy today… sometimes more goes into a poem than I care to think about… sometimes…)
dear Miranda, (*1) but just a glimpse a fading pass (*2) for you hide and dance forever show the same face (*3) within a tempest born (*4) the scars of stars upon your form all about craters worn from drunken horde, magicians wand (*5) father Prospero’s hand, Stephano’s yard Trinculo’s joke read out on your garb your scarps take breath Verona Rupes in all the moons of this solar system our bed your light touch would save (*6) twelve minute fall and might I discover the patterns the sulci in which your lines are read, may we see you again (*7) not just a glimpse but a visit then.
I chose Miranda for a number of reasons. One is that the previous four discovered moons of Uranus were named after fairies. Miranda was the first to be named after a human (well, a character in a Shakespeare play). Besides that designation the topography of Miranda has baffled scientists with it’s seemingly unique (at least here in our Solar System) nature and formations.
Miranda was discovered by Gerard Kuiper in 1948, it was the last moon discovered in the Uranian system until Voyager 2 passed on by in 1986 (after being launched in 1973).
Like our moon, Miranda has Tidal Locking, meaning the same side (or face) always faces the planet it orbits.
Obvious reference to William Shakespeare’s The Tempest from which Miranda was granted it’s name. I was thinking of a loose association of how the planets and moon formed. There was a cosmic tempest of sorts and then the celestial bodies fell into place like their own little islands (and life on them, well, at least Earth).
More references to The Tempest characters, read more here.
The gravity on Miranda is a fraction of ours here on Earth, so even a fall from Verona Rupes (the tallest cliff known in our Solar System) would take quite some time (twelve minutes is kind of an arbitrary number I picked that could be reasonably accurate).
A reference again to Voyager 2 passing by but also that NASA has hinted at revisiting Uranus in the 2020s (you know, this new decade).
“origins cruel perception the trick of life am I the culmination of thought of dream my parents decision cosmic reconciliation into being”
sometimes I have a strange view on life. is this all a dream? how would I know, how would I really perceive it, and conversely are dreams real, are they reality, we think of something so it does and did exist because of that thought, it did happen, at least somewhere, in some space, in our mind, but yet we may dismiss this as not reality, what is reality, what brought us forth, a thought? perhaps, it is all a circular firing squad from there, a never ending loop, are we in the act of creating merely by imagination, or is imagination the cauldron of truth, of life, all determined by perception, a house looks much different from the inside than from the out, a mountain looks different when staring at the base than when peering from the summit, and that is a matter of feet, not a cosmic mile like looking at earth from the moon or taking a ride on neptune’s 165 year orbit to look around the solar system from another view, these are the things swirling around my brain this day…
an endless trail of red tail lights slithering inches off for miles, as far as I can see, I try to concentrate on the lobster mac n’ cheese waiting for me, sitting, stewing, a frog in a Jacuzzi, trying to find the right soundtrack to alter my mood, new year’s eve and here I am again, isolated in a forest of people trapped in tin cans, finally, an accident up ahead, better yet a car was on fire, at least the payoff was there, I hate to sit though bumper to bumper stadium seating with no show, as long as no one is hurt of course, there is no ambulance present, unless I missed it, that is, and with that time jolts, as if a starting gun bang, down the stretch they go, burst forth from an invisible gate, a car, new york plates, blows by me at about ninety I think, “did you not just see that mangled wreck? !“, I scream, in my head at least, screaming at a car screaming by would have no effect at all, of course, white lines flash, speed up, speed on by, white line links in the road, that boring morse code, how soon hopeless waiting becomes the quick past in the rear view mirror forum, another year, another year I whisper in my mind to myself, what does it mean, seemingly stuck in the same old themes, rinse, repeat, today is your birthday, I know, do I send you a note? would it be for you, truly, or words that would be serving myself, mostly, every day possibility seems dimmer, but there are still stars in the sky, out of reach, but still transmitting light, no matter how far away they may lie, I know, I know the pain I caused you, put upon you, mine, mine has never gone away, like they said it should, would, sometimes I think I am wired wrong, but complaining to the manufacturer will do no good, at this point, anymore, at least I can hold you in my thoughts, you were, you were a reality, a reality that I had parallel, I try to hold you from fading into history, even though, it is, with each passing year… tonight smells like winter, a hint of wood smoke as somewhere someone stokes a fireplace, a delicate drizzle drifts in and out of phase, a cold wind chills the air just enough to catch breath, the trees are just bare limbs, frozen in the night, the bamboo rattles against the siding of the house, sometimes rapping, sometimes tapping, or fingernails scraping against the windows, there is quiet on the street, no moon, I step inside, the comfort of lobster mac n’ cheese offers a temporary shelter, tomorrow another day, another year, shall rise, shall I? when times are darkest, no matter what the mood, the view, the doom, there is life, and let that be my lantern guide…
and another year one and done in this instance nineteen but what do numbers mean there is no actual count as time wraps over and between time stops not to pause a line constant drawn
and so another year’s end approaches, one and done in this case nineteen, but what do those numbers even mean, we are not on the actual count, or the actual clock, some four billion and nineteen certainly would be hard to print on a credit card, or a calendar, I suppose we would find shortcuts, clever humans that we are, something like happy 4 BILL and TWENTY, and so drops the ball, over and over, just a different crowd, changing eyes, funny how the phrase “dropping the ball” is a negative connotation unless you are packed in like sardines in some square at the proper times, and then it is celebration (one I have never subjected myself to even though I am in the neighborhood), but anyway, back to my distracted point, the chinese calendar will be 4718, the hebrew calendar is 5778, wouldn’t logic dictate we go with the oldest? do we even question the year, 2020, a fraud by any count, or a real count, or should we determine the birth date of lucy and start from there? just an example of the subjectivity which becomes bedrock in our everyday lives, sunrise, sunset, when neither of these are actually happening, how soon we forget, how soon we learn but are we really aware, as dawn cracks yolk along the horizon, that we are spinning toward that light, feet tethered to the ground by an invisible force, just our normal course, there seems to be magic inhabiting science after all, or maybe physics is just the definition of magic, something like that, either way, as the world turns, a certain number of times, quite precise, with one leap of an exception, various degrees of tilt, we arrive, 365, one year later, and so here it is… happy new year one and all (and you).
Thanks to all and any who have read my words in my little space here in the cosmos of context in this online multiverse…
does looking at this image cause you some disorientation ? In fact, this most famous of photographs is shown here the way it was meant to be seen, or more accurately the way it was actually shot, Bill Anders (Apollo 8) was not thinking about the horizon (which pretty much orients our visual field), he was just a space explorer taking a photo as one celestial body comes into view from right to left (from the capsule orbiting another body). Amazing how that screws us up but yet is a great reminder on how much we take for granted in our daily experience (how limited we are to this sphere and maybe we should think outside of things sometimes, being stuck to the ground with gravity). More remarkable, to me, is also the Apollo missions themselves. Imagine, during the course of just a few years, continued space launches to reach the moon (and walk on it) with the technology of 50 years ago. There were no cell phones, no flat screens, no home PCs, no GPS, no finger spinners… OK, that last one seems inconsequential, I admit, but just chew on that whole for a minute… in the space of three years 12 people walked on another world, hard to even get my head around let alone yours. Just something to think about in the coming year, shoot for the moon they say…
(a nice outline of the entire Apollo project) and since I am being nerdy, here is a loaded poem, I will unpack it at some later date, lots of footnotes to date and take… can you catch them all? (hint: the one link I supplied in the name)
dear Miranda, but just a glimpse a fading pass for you hide and dance forever show the same face within a tempest born the scars of stars upon your form all about craters worn from drunken horde, magicians wand father Prospero’s hand, Stephano’s yard Trinculo’s joke read out on your garb your scarps take breath Verona Rupes in all the moons of this solar system our bed your light touch would save twelve minute fall and might I discover the patterns the sulci in which your lines are read, may we see you again not just a glimpse but a visit then.
Shades of My Garden 