CITY ISLAND LINES
When the wind blows, I mean really blows, trees are sent through the shredder. Massive and stately old oaks are snapped like carrots, crushing smaller more supple saplings as they plummet. Lines of arboreal inheritance are upended when the wind blows.
When the wind blows, it blurs the line between land and water. It furrows the worried beach's brow. When the wind blows, it is like watching a raucous cabaret that's too outrageous to understand. When the wind blows, seemingly sturdy objects are flung about like toys of a spoilt child. When the wind blows, an attempt to rescue an unsecured item can feel like summiting Everest. When the wind blows, windows shudder in fear and doors groan with worry and weariness. When the wind blows, nature reminds us of her might and the daily forbearance that usually shields us. When the wind blows, we curl up in a quiet place and hope for clemency-- to be spared nature’s wrath. When the wind blows, it rattles our mental cupboard and shakes our confidence off the shelf. When the wind blows, we understand humility and fragility in a visceral way. It teaches us respect and gratitude….. and wonder And when the wind stops, we skitter about like unleashed schoolchildren glibly ignoring the fact that the wind will blow again.
0 Comments
I embrace winter. I know that it carries a lot of baggage, having snuffed summer and elbowed out autumn. I know it brings runny noses, squeaky heating, and infinite layers to put on, take off, put on, and take off again. I know that ‘daylight hours’ becomes something of a euphemism for the brief interruption of darkness with a few scant and anaemic glimpses of sunshine.
Nonetheless, it seems that misery really does love company, and something about the shared suffering of shuffling and snuffling through soggy streets in unwieldy and uncomfortable outfits makes people a bit more sympathetic, a bit more inclined to help, a bit more likely to smile—even though the effort might crack their chapped and desiccated lips. I was in town yesterday, and I found myself near Rockefeller Center. In spite of the gormless hordes of tourists, the giant tree was a genuinely magnificent sight. And opposite it was a young man ringing his bell for the Salvation Army, beaming at the crowds, dancing and clapping to catchy Christmas tunes. I stopped to stuff some bills into his bright red collection pot. He looked at me brightly and said, ‘Now you have to dance with me!’ Well, that seemed way better than the usual ‘Thanks’. So I mustered up one or two rusty 80’s moves and grooved with him for a minute or so. A few blocks later, just beyond the colorful Christmas village and skating rink at Bryant Park, I ran into another Salvation Army outpost. Here a young woman with an angelic voice was singing along to old-fashioned carols. I added my small contribution to her pot. She looked up and said, ‘God bless you, and make sure to stay safe and warm.’ I suddenly realized that, with my excitement and exertion, I had opened my jacket and removed my scarf and gloves, in spite of the freezing temperature. She must have thought I was half mad! Of course, winter wonders are not restricted to city streets. In the woods, a sort of alchemy has taken place with the summer’s sea of green transformed into thick fields of bronze and gold. Trees are now stripped of their leaves, shrinking self-consciously from one another, their nakedness exposing spindly and stubbly limbs. Only the evergreens, previously hidden by the showier trees, now proudly stand tall in their elegant fir coats. Below, squirrels scurry and chatter as they stash their final safety deposits before spring. Then the snow comes, erasing all the world’s pockmarks and blemishes, leaving a soft, clean, welcoming white sheet. Here is a canvas to showcase blue jays and cardinals; even robins and Canada geese look regal and resplendent on such a backdrop. Finally, ice settles on the scene, adding its brittle sheen and occasional shine, like a patchwork of diamonds. Yes, I know that winter brings darkness, discomfort, and inconvenience, but it also brings such stark beauty, a sharp and striking contrast to the gaudy imagery of summer. So I am happy to embrace winter and all its challenges. After all, who knows how much longer winter will be around? 12 Dec 2017 Am I alone in my protest? Evicted from the mainstream because of my confusion? How can people take pride in the right to bear arms when the only fruit that arms bear is the loss of innocent life? Where does liberty end and accountability step in? Why must everyday people summon heroic instincts when attending a country western concert? How many innocent children must make the ultimate sacrifice (or be made the ultimate sacrifice) before awareness of causality and culpability dawns?
Does everyone really ‘need’ a gun? If so, where did our society veer off the path of civility and civilisation? What undiscussed pathologies ail our country so deeply that we gun down strangers, students, children? More importantly, how can we identify these ailments and seek to cure or at least heal them? I fear that such bare barbarism is becoming so commonplaces that we are developing a collective numbness. Yes, we lower flags, we lower our voices, we lower our eyes. We lower caskets filled with undeserving inhabitants. We lower our expectations and raise our guard. We lower our standards, and in so doing, we lower ourselves. Perhaps, one day, the count will click past an intolerable number, or the right person will be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Protest may finally swell from the streets. Pride may show its best and brightest facets. Those who died without purpose or meaning will no longer be alone. Senseless destruction will finally be evicted from this heartland and homeland. Perhaps then we can truly be a land of the free and home of the brave. 3 Oct 2017 After a weekend of travel, my head is still swimming in landscapes. Such a treat to be immersed in, surrounded by, above, below, behind, before and beside us so many novel colours, shapes, scents, sounds and instinctive responses.
It started with the (very) early morning taxi ride to the airport. The darkness was cool and windless. Stars spackled a cloudless sapphire sky. Even the eternally industrious squirrels were silent. We too remained wordless, as the black taxi sped through the inky streets. The next striking landscape was that of daylight stroking its warm fingers across the drowsy grey world below our flight. Silky silver tendrils of mist clung to the valleys, while green hilltops shook off the shadows to display their lustrous emerald contours. Many people I know are fearful about flight. I, on the other hand, feel like a child at a magic show. The world below seems familiar yet simultaneously surreal. Things are and are not what they seem. After several hours with a bird’s eye view, we descend and merge with the expansive desert landscape that is our destination. We drive along stretches of scratchy scrubby land speckled with stubby shrubs and occasional tumbleweeds. On the horizon stand a series of high mesas, but it is impossible to tell how far away they are. In this vast flatness, one’s sense of proportion, of distance, of scale, is confounded by the undeniable hugeness. Even the turquoise sky above seems to stretch beyond the edge of the world’s canvas. At first, the sun is sharp, even harsh. Light so bright that, ironically, it is difficult to see by. The intensity is such that many of the desert’s more subtle hues are practically blanched to the point that they disappear into the dusty rust-coloured backdrop. Then, slowly at first, a few innocuous little clouds begin to congregate in the west. Soon they are joined by elder brethren with more substance, their bellies heavier and more silvery. Finally, the crescendo comes: thick, tarry clouds that link arms and obliterate the last remaining wisps of blue from the sky. The rain itself is slatey and vengeful. Throwing thick sheets of sharp and shimmering lead at us. It is difficult to drive, encased as we are in wetness, darkness, and noise. Long after we have made it safely to home and to bed, Mother Nature’s tantrum abates, and we awake to a startling array of colour and scent. Walking near a river bed, elegant pines with perfect posture stand stoically, as we sniff their bark and needles. On the hillside, tiny lizards scurry, stop, cock their heads inquisitively at us, and then continue scurrying. Splashes of yellow and purple seem to make the rusty rose sand more beautiful. The air is so dry that we all start to sneeze but not so dry that we don’t break a sweat as we climb. Then, slightly sunburnt and quite satiated, we board the plane back. This time, the miniature world below seems more mundane. Mountains look like molehills. Housing developments look like dreary graveyards, each house a cloned headstone just like its neighbour. We fly forward into the darkness, which readily engulfs us. Below and unknown to us, lie many new landscapes, but we will return to our own home and relive our desert reverie. 26 Sept 2017 I have a few questions about Reality TV. First of all, what part of Reality TV is the reality. Isn’t reality what is shuffling and shuttling on around us? Isn’t reality the mound of unwashed clothes sulking in the corner? Isn’t reality the soft predictable snoring of the one you love? Isn’t reality the wrenching wail of a toddler who has tripped on a carpet corner?
The Reality TV world must, of course, be on many levels manipulated and contrived since it has been tidily trimmed into advertising friendly chunks and then scheduled for specific viewer-targeted time slots. My reality is never so orderly or predictable. Furthermore, the pre-digested reality that we are served in a microwave safe format seems more like an episode of candid camera in which all of the participants have attended a cut-rate on-line acting class. Not only do their reactions appear rehearsed and absurd, but they often seem to be surreptitiously marketing something that I am pretty sure I don’t want. My next question about Reality TV is, who are these aspiring idols that choose to abandon their own reality for one that has been created and tailored by someone else, particularly when this alternative reality is often the means of their own humiliation or undoing. Finally, I wonder what compels people to watch Reality TV. Is it the secret satisfaction of watching someone else fail or embarrass themselves—like laughing at the clown who slips on the banana peel. A supercilious voyeurism. Or is it the deep invidious belief that we too could be stars – and bigger better stars at that! If all the world’s a stage, then haven’t we had extensive theatrical training already? For my part, I feel no great desire or even interest in watching Reality TV. As a predictable corollary, I also have no desire to participate in Reality TV. I prefer to muddle through my own mundane and unobserved reality. At least that way I have a much smaller audience when I flub my lines—or slip on the banana peel. 22 Aug 2017 Once again, I find myself on a fruitless quest to find my glasses. My glasses belong to an elite corps of S-BITS Small But Important Things. They conspire to distract and derail me by concealing themselves – often quite cunningly in plain sight. They are mischievous not malicious but drag me on detours as curious and contrariwise as Alice’s.
I am looking for my glasses because I want to make a list of the things that I will do next week. I am a great maker of lists and sometimes believe that the simple act of writing tasks down helps to accomplish them. I will admit that there are occasional list entries that malinger and refuse to get themselves done, but, by and large, lists offer me useful buoys as I try to navigate the uncertain waters of goals and obligations. My list for next week is shaping up quite well. First I will tackle my shoes, socks, sweaters and belts. These are all currently running amok in my closet and making themselves largely unavailable through this smokescreen of chaos. Next week I will bring order to this colorful confusion, and, hopefully, I will find the mate for one lonely green sock that has been sitting alone atop the washing machine for some time now. Next week I will also address the enchanted forest of greens, grapes, sprouts, tomatoes, cheeses and cold cuts that has been flourishing in my ‘fridge. I get the sense that new life forms are emerging in there, and it’s high time that I took a look and did some pruning. Next week I also plan to read copiously. I have that book that my brother-in-law gave me for Christmas and the funny one from my mother. I also have a backlog of interesting articles filed in a sub-folder titled ‘Work-to read’. Finally, a stack of neglected New Yorker magazines has been glaring accusingly at me for longer that I care to admit. Next week they will get the time they deserve. Not only will I read, but I will also write next week. I’ve been meaning to send Kate an entertaining account of our move and all the adventures since her wedding. I also need to write to the insurance company to clear up the confusion with the address. And, of course, I will write to my sister to find out how her trip went. Yes, indeed, next week I will be a paragon of productivity. In fact, I think I will get a head start on things and tackle that pile of New Yorkers right away. Now…. Where are my glasses? 8 Aug 2017 Sitting on a rhythmically rocking train from Manhattan, I take a deep breath and allow myself to settle into the stiff embrace of a plastic passenger seat. An almost welcome change from the lumpy awkward sofa. A different sort of discomfort.
The rush of conversation, complication, contradiction, and confusion starts to recede. Finally, there is some semblance of space in my mind for freer thought, for observation rather than reflexive response. At the far end of the carriage sits an elderly black man, dressed as if for church or something even more formal. His cufflinks catch the fleeting lights on the tracks and seem to sparkle in a discordantly flashy way. His beige suit is immaculate. Between his knees sits an equally dignified, elderly, black dog. The man’s skin is dark and smooth and lustrous. The dog, in contrast, has a slightly moth-eaten appearance with rough grey patches and small random spots of hair-loss. As incongruous as they appear, they are clearly two halves of one whole. The man is blind. The dog has blind faith. Without one another, each would flail and fail. Together they are complete and indestructible. As we travel north, the colour palette shifts. Hues go from white to yellow to brown to black, but the mood remains reserved: each passenger on an individual trajectory—mentally and physically. Many stare into the bewitching gaze of their phone screens. There, infinite universes unfold, from the mundane to the magical. These people are making two simultaneous trips. The virtual one distracting them from the physical. Which one is more ‘real’? Buildings and bridges jerk past. Sky, water, brick, metal – they all seem to blur on a red-brown canvas. Stations are announced but in such a muffled way that one has little hope of recognising the name until it is too late. Luckily, my final destination is also that of the train. So I am free to watch the mothers and children, the co-workers, the shoppers, the travelers with no apparent terminus and perhaps no clear origin either. So many stories- all sitting side by side. An over-flowing library of life. Finally, the train lurches into its berth. We have reached the end of the line, and all disembark at our respective speeds. I pause to look back at the train, a treasure chest teeming with experiences, ideas, disappointments and dreams. Then I walk down the stairs to explore my own new life in da Bronx. 1Aug 2017 |
Proudly powered by Weebly