How does a day or hour so important pass
I was half awake this morning
when the sun rose,
and I didn't look at the time,
just smiled as her first beams peeked in the window,
gently warmed my face,
stirred me to wake
I rose and began that Day,
with each beam I found.
Went from room to room,
delighted by each glimmer,
as she danced to me
through the cracks in the blinds.
As she revealed herself completely
I drew every shade
and welcomed her inside.
The house warmed
and I could open the windows,
to let in the breeze.
I set out walking knowing she'd be with me.
Over hills and through forests,
and her light followed.
I saw where she shone more brightly
and chose that for my path.
sharing our yesterdays, and
dreaming of tomorrows together,
But I was content
just to walk in her company.
I'd pause to stand in a clearing,
and allow her warm light
to penetrate and saturate me.
I saw how her light shone brightly too
in other lands
and on others,
but nowhere so bright as where I stood.
My mind embraced her;
I sang my love and gratitude to her softly as I walked,
and trusted she understood
the fullness of my feeling.
I walked and walked,
and we talked
At some point in the day
I started to wonder
why she didn't seem to shine so bright.
The trees and hills cast shadows on my path
and I began to chill.
It wasn't til we arrived back home
that I saw how close to the horizon
she had drawn,
And she told me how weary she'd become
from the long day
lighting my way.
I ran to her,
and promised Tomorrow.
I looked further down the road
toward the next town
and saw her light, still in full force,
and I ran and ran.
But she was leaving quickly now;
said she needed rest,
And I was full of fear.
I called on my friends
and shared with them my fear,
shared with me my own light.
And I knew
that I was weary from walking, too,
that as much as I felt ready
to set back out from home --
that with her light I could
walk with her always --
That sleep might be good for me, too,
and that her departing helps me
what she means and
what her light brings me.
I think back on the early morning,
trying to place in time
our journey's beginning,
to commemmorate it
and let her know I treasure it.
Such a long day has passed,
but no time at all.
Would she believe that
in my focus on our day together,
I lost track of time entirely?
As her last rays
disappear behind the horizon,
and the moon appears
bearing her light for me as reminder,
I remember numbers again;
and the only time I'll count
is til her return.
The technology evolved by man is thus far amateurish compared to the elegance of nonhumanly contrived regeneration. Man does not spontaneously recognize technology other than his own, so he speaks of the rest as something he ignorantly calls nature. Much of man's technology is of meager endurance, being comprised at the outset of destructive invention such as that of weaponry, or for something in support of the quick-profit, man-invented game of selfishly manipulative game-playing and rule-inventing for the playing of his only-ignorantly-preoccupying value systems.
The greatest and most enduring discoveries and inventions of humans on our planet are those of the scientist-artists, the name joined, or artist, or scientist. The name of artist or scientist, though often self-professed, can only be accredited to an individual by others who in retrospect discover the enduring quality of the symmetries with which the individual converted his conceptioning to the advantage of others, and realizations of increasing interadvantage in respect to survival__the gradual discovery of the function in Universe which humanity has been designed to fulfill.
-- R. Buckminster Fuller, Synergetics, 173.00-174.00
In this world men become envious of others, just because the others are good, while they themselves are not so good, and they cannot bear this. It is strange indeed that men should not suffer even virtue in others.
When authorities say we should not politicize something, they mean that the politics of the status quo should not be questioned.
-- Rebecca Solnit, Looking Away From Beauty: What remains hidden behind the nationalism of the Olympic Games (Orion Magazine)
Found via Toban Black, Athletes and nation-states at the Olympics
I walked out of Art Etc. feeling full, connected, buoyant: way more than I paid for.
The look of the frame is called distressed, and that was probably the look on my face, too, when I saw it. That splotching wasn't there in the frame sample I'd chosen last month, though the previous attendant had spent quite awhile helping me select just the right match for the photo. Edie cheerfully offered to do it over. That would've required more time and another cross-town trip, though, and I explained I'm not so mobile with such parcels on bicycle. (I didn't tell her Jenita's Christmas present was already 7 months late.)
She said she carries framed photos on her bike all the time, but offered we experiment with the frame a bit -- and brought it into the studio. Steel wool and solvent to tone down the high-contrast speckles. Evened it down and odded it up ~ til I was happy.
She asked about my least favorite routes to ride.
Begin with art, because art tries to take us outside ourselves. It is a matter of trying to create an atmosphere and context so conversation can flow back and forth and we can be influenced by each other.
-- W.E.B. DuBois
Commiseration / Bridging: the Lorain-Carnegie puncture lane, fishtailing after rain on Columbus's slippery steel grating. Charging up Cedar, freedom on Hough, the highway that is Chester. Roads and roads.
She and her husband ride the winter too. Wool, neoprene, gore-tex. Balaklavas, breathe-ability. Boots in 40-or-below to avoid losing feet heat through clipless cleats. Racks, fenders, panniers. They have 18 bicycles in the garage: cargo bikes, winter bikes, touring bikes, a tandem...
Cars beget rage. The people inside, cagers. ("private metal pods with blackened windows".) Her cager friends ask just how to say "Hi." Two short beeps means hello. Anyone that lays on the horn is obviously saying something else.
She packaged and wrapped it when the paste had dried. I sat down and we continued talking. The world of cars, our house of cards. The future, if people don't wise up. The fun of slowing down. (If only they knew!) And one's freedoms at another's peril. Interdependence. The brick roads underneath the asphalt will resurface.
The gift of the multiple crises we face is that in order to address them successfully, we will have to fundamentally change who we are. Some say people don't change, but they do when they have to. And part of that change is the capacity to listen, to put aside those things that separate us as unimportant, and honor the core values that unite us.
We're wary but hopeful. She calls it skeptimism.
She's sure that we'll see each other out riding soon.
I'm sure that I'll suggest Art Etc. to anyone that wants a really great custom frame, and to find out what Etc. can mean for them.
So how about this? How about we plan our communities to be social and business hubs that people can walk to and from--cars unrequired--and participate in in meaningful way? How about we attach these hubs by public transportation? How about we build our communities in ways that both help people feel less alienated and let them lead less resource intensive lives?
-- Colin Beavan, (aka No Impact Man,) More on community versus consumption--smart growth
My neighbors produce ungodly amounts of trash. Most of the time I curse them when I see the pile at the end of the driveway, but if there's something good, I'll curse them, then grab it.
Apparently, they didn't want this wok anymore. I didn't ask if they wanted the dinner I made with it tonight.
It sat on my living-room floor for a few weeks because I didn't know what to do about its stickiness and propensity to rust. A few short YouTube tutorials, though, and I learned how to properly wash and season it.
It makes a nice stir-fry. I wonder what they didn't like about it, or what they did to it... and if they have a hoak to go along with it.