Lagoon city

   I saw the photograph below in a news magazine that I subscribe to called The Economist. I didn't understand just what it was about it that fascinated me then, but am trying to understand it a little better as I put some words together. For me, writing is in many ways a process of discovering what it is I am trying to write about.

   Perhaps what is most beautiful about the picture is that it does not look to me like what it actually is. To me, it resembles more an illustration than photograph, and this interruption of definition helps me to feel a bit freer, although grudgingly so. I question the limiting judgments that I place on the people and world I live in, because I realize that things, like the image, may not be as I seem them to be.

   Adding to the akwardness of the photographic representaion here (and I mean that in the liberating sense described above), the buildings and freeways depicted in it seem to rest inexplicably on top of what looks like a lake. The magazine calls the metropolis shown, Lagos, Nigeria, a "sprawling lagoon city", and although there must be some solid engineering there that I really just don't understand, I can't fathom how those structures stay afloat like that. 

   It seems like they couldn't possibly do that, and in that I find a world of possibilty. It's a kind of science fiction in one of the few ways I can imagine liking that genre.

   

Definitely swampy

Beautiful advance

   The picture below was taken from the New York Times on August 24th, 2016, and shows a Turkish tank advancing to its' country's Syrian border. For the purpose of this blog entry, the country or reason for the impending incursion is unimportant.

   I must admit that I feel a bit insensitive to the death and suffering caused by military matters in choosing the photograph below for basically aesthetic reasons. Still, I find the photograph alluring, and believe that I should be able to speak about matters of beauty without too much worry or guilt.

   Although the hazy quality from the kicking up of dirt must have been quite uncomfortable for the person taking the picture, it gives the image an appearance of a cool, blue-grey tint. I find it pleasurable and relaxing to look at, despite the circumstances of the environment there. It reminds me of sepia tone photographs and the soft focus often used on the lenses of cameras for the filming of self-consciously aging film stars. 

   I've now looked at this picture a few times since I first saw it a week ago, and I have just noticed for the first time that the tank actually seems to be moving away from the camera. I had previously seen it as moving towards it, and perhaps I am still incorrect in its' orientation, but I like that it appears ambiguous enough to me to have this confusion. It leaves more room for my imagination to wander when looking at it.

   And what about those big black letters on that white background? Although I am sure they serve some military purpose, I can't help being reminded of the bibs worn by athletes to identify themselves during sporting competitions. It leads me to see the vehicle both as a tank and tank top, and therefore more difficult for me to construct a simple narrative when I look at it. This helps me see it less restrictively.

   While I wish that the open-ended were more comfortable to me outside of times of quiet meditation, like writing, I hope that I can use these times to better unlock those others.

Thoughts on simplicity

   I took this picture yesterday morning as I walked in Golden Gate Park. It was nearly completely dark when I began my stroll around Stow Lake (the official sunrise being nearly thirty minutes away), but it was still light enough to see where I was walking, though just barely.
   As I passed the north end of the lake, near the boathouse, I saw in the darkness what appeared to be a plant sticking out of the water, though I couldn't make it out clearly. This was fine with me, as I find the natural world infinitely more alluring when it is difficult to define. As I continued walking, I thought to go back the twenty five or so feet to this thing and take a picture of it.
   I knew that I would need to use the flash in my phone's camera for anything to be seen at all in the low light, and even though I almost never use this feature (I prefer photographs that are unadorned or altered), I just knew on this occasion that the result would be satisfying and agreeable to me. I felt that it would capture, in picture form, something like what I had felt when I saw the plant there in the darkness.
   In the arts, I generally feel that simplicity and a lack of obvious expertise are better, and the reason that I have chosen to write this short blog entry at all is precisely because I actually chose to employ a technique (the flash) to capture a basic sense of wonder, and had trusted that it would do so.
   In the past, I have tended to think that for the most part, that which inspires the most complexity in thought is usually achieved by the absolutely simplest path. And although pressing a button to activate a flash is not difficult, it does contradict some of my previous ideas on the subject.

Thoughts on the word "revolution"

   As I was walking the other day I saw a sign in the window of a car. It was bright outside and the glare made it difficult to read, so I stopped for a moment. Perhaps I did so because I was able make out the word "revolution" (which always intrigues me when I see it displayed publicly); perhaps it was precisely because it was difficult to read.

   As someone who considered himself a radical Marxist-Leninist for at least a few years (some years ago), I am always keen to see how ideas about revolution and radicalism are portrayed, because I know that this is a place where battles are waged for which social class or group gets to determine what these words mean to the greater public.

   Besides my interest in the political fight over the meanings of words, I also try to be very careful in my choosing of them from an emotional standpoint, aware as I am from years of personal experience of their ability to make one feel great, but also to hurt deeply. I have often felt the effects of them in both of these ways, and too often, I believe, have wounded others with them, too.

   I don't want to occupy myself in this blog piece assessing the relation between the emotional power of words and the sociopolitical structures which control their reception, but let me just say that I see them altogether as too important to not treat thoughtfully. Because of this, I am bothered when they are used in a way that does not grant them with care. 

   An example would be the laissez-faire current use of the word "awesome", which in my view is too often uttered in place of "very good" or "I agree". When did this word begin to be so widely used to describe anything but that which inspires awe? What word will take it's place?

   It makes me sad when I see words that I find wonderful in their capacity to describe beautifully become distilled and cheapened. It points to what I fear is a general lack of quality in the world. 

   So, as I return to the word "revolution", I'm not completely sure, but I believe it was being used in the picture below as a kind of advertisement for a car ride-sharing service. The idea that the word is employed in this way obviously bothers me because of my own history, but I think specifically because the reader of it should "sit back" and "enjoy" it in this case. I find it painful that a word that once had so much power has met such a demise; to me, it is a disservice to history and the language which it is a part of and which gave it meaning.

Not awesome

To remember what is gone

   I took the picture below of what I believe was a tree in Golden Gate Park. When I came upon this scene and decided to take a photo of it, I was confident that I was correct in my assumption that a tree had been there, though I couldn't really recall it. I found it strange that my memory was so nonspecific in this case, as I walk here daily, pass this spot at least a couple of times as I complete my laps, and consider myself to possess a strong visual memory.
   As I began to think about my poor recall on this occasion, I realized  that changes that occur in my visual field, such as objects I've seen in specific locations, are sometimes striking in their absence, while on other occasions, like this one, seem to disappear both physically and from my brain.
   While I know well about myself that I tend to best remember the things that I find most important, in this case I can't figure out if this tree, or the area where it was located, was any more or less important than any other area of the park to me. I feel like I would normally be able to visualize quite well things that I choose to see often, it seems that in this case that I am just having difficulty seeing the absence.

It was a tree, wasn't it?

Absence

   This is a still image from a short video of a coyote that I took a couple of days ago during a morning walk in Golden Gate Park. I was feeling quite depressed at the time that I first saw it off in the distance, and although the animal appeared worried by my presence and kept its' distance, the sighting helped me feel a bit better, at least for the the moment.
   When I looked at the clip a bit later, it was apparent that the coyote, which was already difficult to see clearly, was nearly indistinguishable from the surroundings in the video. Although I was a bit disappointed, the experience remained important to me, in spite of my not-so-good mood.
   As I continued walking, I used an application from my phone to try to produce a still from the video, hoping that maybe there was an image where the coyote was not only a bit clearer, but distinguishable as a coyote. After a bit of trial and error, I settled on the image below. and thought about the feelings I had at the time. As I experience other feelings now, I am aware of how delicate and fragile is my sense of presence and permanence in the world. This holds true for me, and well as those in it.
   Much in the same way that the coyote appears barely there (it is the grayish-brownish object in the gray, upper center-right), I often sense that the people in my life that I rely on the most are not always fundamentally present. I don't always find that a person's physicality makes feel like they are really with me. It depends on the person, as well as me.
   Though it is hard to show that an individual standing before you is not fully there, trusting my own feelings on the matter should be less difficult.

Is there a coyote really there?

Something

   When I first passed this blob on the sidewalk many mornings ago, I was struck by its' design; translucent with areas of yellow and red accents. I first saw it as the vomit of an animal, or perhaps a poop, but it seemed too much like plastic for that. I gently nudged it with the tip of my shoe, and it moved in one piece, wholly. It appeared to be fairly solid.
   I reflected for a moment, and thought that maybe it was a more organic looking, realistic version of the fake plastic vomit gag that I would see for sale at Woolworth's, or advertised for in the backs of comic books when I was a kid.
   I wondered why a company produce something to look like goose excrement or vomit instead of dog shit or human vomit, like they did years ago? Was it conceivable that a demand had developed for a version of the old-time prank that would fit more seamlessly into places where wild animals resided? Had the market become so specialized?
   I decided that to know that the identity of the thing was not as important to me as the fact that it had captured my attention; when I realized this, I understood that the moment was the essence in this case, not the understanding of knowledge of something from it.

 
Question mark