People don’t always see things in the same light. Reactions will differ, from something to nothing at all. Even in seeing a blade of grass. The same blade of grass in a sea of millions of other blades, an observer might ask: why are you looking at that blade of grass? -singular, like yourself. – And if you choose to answer them they still may not understand. You simply have to move on.
En un barrio de Santiago, Chile, que conozco bien, la madrugada amanece un poco antes de levantar el sol. El nogal enfrente, muriendo de la sequedad de esta zona es símbolo del cambio de clima y de la escasez de agua. Todos los árboles del jardín están perdiendo hojas y fruta. Pero a pesar de lo negativo que ocurre, en esta foto, una belleza y soledad tremendas se capturan en el cielo colorado, salpicado de nubes grises, y la silueta de las montañas en el fondo, llama la atención a uno de lo bueno que significa sentir el latido del corazón.
Been going to Chile, for a long time. Believe it or not, I hold a sort of love hate relationship with this country. A place I hold near and dear, for many reasons, but truthfully I remain affected by the injustices I’ve seen, the stratification of society, and the patience of the ‘have nots.’ Having the advantage of growing up in a wealthy country vastly opens my eyes to the inconveniences one encounters. It may consist of the simple matter of the quality of the tooth paste or the dish soap, which just doesn’t seem to lather up. It may be the broken down condition of appliances, and just plain lower quality and inefficiency, the absence of, for which we take for granted in the U.S. But to make up for these annoying and frustrating details, there is something in the everyday, working class people, and the value they have for life that makes all the rest unimportant. I hope these few pictures here will convey the layers of dissent, sadness, solitude, love, and giving that I encountered by simply walking down the streets of a town like Talca.
September is gone. October, begun. The first day of each month is like beginning anew. Turning a new leaf, strumming a new song. I read a poem, by a poet named Wordsworth, today. Quite outdated, but not really. The lines in one of his poems rang a bell, for me. He wrote,
Up the brook
I roamed in the confusion of my heart,
Alive to all things and forgetting all.
… I gazed and gazed, and to myself
I said, ‘Our thoughts at least are ours.
Wordsworth, from “Poems on the Naming of Places”
‘The confusion of my heart, alive to all, forgetting all. “Our thoughts at least are ours”,’ describe the freedom I feel outdoors, and it dawned on me, why it is that I love rivers, streams, lakes, and the sound of water, so. In places like these, I meditate, without even knowing, and feel at peace. Out there, I am not alone.
Facade of an old shed, difficult found on the curve in the road. Worn and weathered, it stood out on this foggy day, in February, 2019.Old Red Barn. New England in March 2019.A triangle shape, in the tree. Geometric shapes intermingle with the snow covered hemlock. March snow. Or maybe it was February.A tangled mess of prickly brambles, on the roadside. These overgrowths are usually a dark purple color, and make me think of the arteries inside the body. They are ominous, and not to be approached with your hands, or any other part of your body.
Autumn leaves dappled in warm afternoon sunlight. Fall, 2018.
We’re all in a hurry, and want to get things done. Completing tasks that lead to an accomplishment, is a challenge in itself. So many parts go into a final project. One detail of that project might be a source of inspiration. We may be able to envision the final product, but getting there is key. This young man, climbing the hill of the ‘Philosopher’s Way’ will be enlightened when he reaches the top, as his lungs fill with air, and the crisp autumn surroundings envelop his form. He comes from the Ancient People, like all of us. If we’d only come to realize…
July 2018 – 5 months ago this photo was taken in the town of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. It prompted me to conjure some memories of my visit to this village. Stockbridge is an upscale community, and former residence of Norman Rockwell. Nearby, one can go and see this famous artist/illustrator’s home, studio and the museum featuring his art work. Stockbridge is also a convenient place to stay if you are coming from out of town and want to go to a concert at Tanglewood, an expansive park where artists of many genres go to perform. Concertgoers bring their blankets, chairs, and picnics to enjoy the musical sounds, under the evening sky. At Tanglewood, there is a small museum into which I ventured inside, and learned some interesting historical trivia. For one, there was a small red house on this property owned by a wealthy New England family, whose name slips my mind, however, inside this house lived the writer Nathaniel Hawthorne. Hawthorne was a native of Salem, Massachusetts, and author of “The Scarlet Letter”, “House of Seven Gables”, and numerous short stories. He is an author that interests me for his stories and his links to Puritan thought and heritage. It is no wonder one of his books is entitled “Tanglewood Tales”, a collection of stories based on Greek mythology, composed for children. And so goes the memory – a single photograph that produced a few bits of essential information stored in the confines of my brain. Call it an exercise, a jungle gym of mind play, or what you will. Had I not pushed myself to write, all of this would have been left to dissipate into thin air, like used up space crafts orbiting in the hemisphere.
A memorable moment, in Rome, a few months ago. This wonderful group of musicians performed for the public a block down from St. Peter’s Square, right beside the Castel San Angelo, which houses the Mausoleo di Adriano. It was April 21, 2018, and the Romans were celebrating the birthday of Rome. Romulus is said to have founded the city on this day in 753 BC. Everyone loves Rome, but no one loves Rome, more than the Romans do.