shadows cast where they may reside measures the distance drawn out from the sun intoxicated by spin
so here I am on the days where they pull longer
notes: do shadows influence us? subconsciously? I was driving to work and this revelation sort of washed over me… I mean I had the time to think about it being stuck in traffic.. but noticed how the shadows have been creeping one way, it all seems so sudden if you pay attention, the pavement is nearly a mirror, the earth does what the earth does… shadows are like anything else of matter, they want more, or is that our own protection, a backup drive for our bodies from the sun ?
so I was getting out of work, about 7pm today, I worked late last night, got home past 1:30 in the morning, such is my life, not a complaint, just description for your edification, I was working last night in the bronx upgrading a supermarket computer system, I think people hear “the bronx” and have wildly different mental images, the bronx is as bad as you have heard and nicer than you may have heard, it all depends on where you are, I was in the morris park section, which (like Arthur Ave) is an old Italian section, so lots of lawns converted to concrete statues and such… but really a well kept nice neighborhood, anyway, back to today, our office is in Hackensack NJ, not exactly scenic, by any stretch, perhaps to a blind man with no sense of smell, but I digress, our warehouse/office is across from another (like an ugly mirror), so on the side street I was parked between the two buildings, for some reason, for some providence, the two owners planted cherry blossoms on both sides in parallel lines, much like washington DC if you have been, or even more local here in Jersey… so anyway, I took a moment to stop, ignore the concrete ugliness and take all this in (some deep breaths)…. and the words wrote themselves… which reminded me that this is spring…
white cherry blossoms the first, are racing to bloom the birds are singing
Notes.. I suppose I should have snapped a photo or two… maybe I will, but this does speak to the idea of adding beauty to the urban canvas… it works.
descent; soaking in the last breaths of the smoky slumber sun sets.
Notes… just a quick glance at the sky while driving home, even after some forty odd years on this globe I can still be amazed, the days are nearly never the same, sometimes the paint up there is just different, all just moments, snap shots, moving pictures, shorts really, all stitched together in the feature that is our life, so sometimes you have to sit back and watch the dailies to see how the whole project is going…
and for all my bluster, and flowery language, inevitably the world reverses course, something about a bloom on a rose I suppose or colored glasses in the same pose, for today the world turned (as it always does), I guess I would call it a ‘heavy rain’, for it is, with weight, there is probably some technical term but I am certainly not a meteorologist, at least not in this life mix, the once lovely pure-‘gelic snow of a day or so ago is now reduced to sludge, and choppy dirty flotillas of mini-icebergs worthy of a titanic miniature collision, stark white has turned dull grey in best case, and worst case near chimney-innards-soot black, stained by the dirt of roads and travelers by of all ilk spilt upon the canvas, once gingerbread perfection has now fled, from roofs – swiped swaths of vanilla icing missing, stolen by wayward fingers of solar and wind, a receded white hairline revealing flaws and spent youth or the truth of time reality, the shelf life of pristine is a delicate phrase, and the rain, local buckets of spots, the kind of rain that always winds up with a huge lumbering drop in your eye socket as you walk out the door, because, because it just does, or a big slap of wet right on your bangs that bend and drips that branch forward down your face before you manage the escape scramble to the car, then the inaccurate art of getting the wipers at the right speed to match the pace of rain, they never are, so you settle some where in-between, such is life, the dance of compromise rather than the exact right, which makes perfection or sheer beauty that much more of a delight, since the visual has left the dream maybe my ears are more attuned, not the sweet soft calming silence mid storm swoon, now I hear every little thing, every drop, as I park to embark to my office confines, I hear the world siphon into the sewer drain, drain, I should not let the drab drain me of drive, for I am alive, just muddled in the middle of snow becoming dishwater soup in a cafe serving up grey, there will be better days, for there always are, and if not, memory serves, serves them up warm… if I just close my eyes, think on the sun, two dollar neon pail and tiny shovel in hand, molding castles to serve this little lord of the sand land, waves gently lapping at a moat’s door, far away from this, and I can feel the sun, I know I can feel the sun.