Aura

Although it cannot be seen in the poor quality image seen below, there was a visible glowing ring around the moon when I arrived in the park when I took this picture. Looking up as I stretched out my legs before walking (yes, I am that old), the light formed a circle around the moon perhaps twenty times its' size, emanting out in all directions. I wouldn't sat that it illuminated the nearby stars (because light near stars tends to make them harder for me to see), but rather created a buffer of blue-black before the stars reappeared to frame the round glow.
   As I looked up at that light, I kept thinking of a dull light bulb, even though what I was looking at was nearly otherwordly.
   Sometimes, the ways that I have been so thoroughly socialized saddens me.

 

There's an aura there, I swear!

Feather out of place

   I took this picture because I found the way the feather stuck out from the body of this Muscovy duck beautiful. I felt an immediate warmth towards it.
   Even though I already had sympathetic feeling towards these animals (having seen them and watched their interactions with one another regularly during my daily walks around Stow Lake), there was something so endearing, so real to me about this particular one.
   As I thought about writing the word 'real' above, I felt badly about the choice, like there was another word, or something else that I was really trying to say but could not find a better way to say it.
   I almost wanted to write human.
   What I was trying to convey was that the errant feather, figuring so prominently, acts for me as a kind of invitation to enter the animal's world. Where there is visible imperfection, I also see a door that I can exit my own experiences to a degree that I can better perceive others'.
   Where the unfinished business of living is most obvious, the presumptions I have about living things have the best chance of becoming obsolete, at least temporarily.

Is my humanity is sticking out?

Red, black and white

   I saw the picture below about a week ago in the online edition of The New York Times, and was at immediately struck by it visually.  

   After looking at it a bit further, then and now, it appears to me that the composition seems to be of greater vitality than the scene depicted. In addition, the blocks of color present more descriptively as shapes than as representative of figures, either foreground or background. Even though I can see clearly that there are two figures in the picture, viewed from above, their humanness is trumped by their visuality.

   Far from having much interest in the formalisitic in general, what holds me here is the strange way that I am unable to move past the pictorial. I cannot manage to convince myself to believe what I know, and there is something in that which I find both unsettling and beautiful.

Can you see past what you see?

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

Delicately hanging

   I slowed down for a moment from my brisk walk when I saw this small flower bud hanging from a tree. I continued walking, but returned back to examine it further. As I think and write about it now, I feel proud that I look close enough at my physical surroundings, at least some of the time, to be able to see something so small and delicate in a world filled with so much velocity.
   The creamy yellow object hung there, barely swinging from what I imagine was a spider web. It was there in a way that seemed like it might not actually be there. Perhaps there was a spot on my cornea making me see things that didn't exist.
   I find the idea of not really knowing what I am seeing beautifull and freeing. In concept, not knowing how to think about things is equally alluring, though more frightening.

Is it really there?

Broken key

   I first saw this object from perhaps twenty feet away, spotting it because it was the only thing glistening in the area. Although it was still somewhat overcast in the morning, the sun seemed much brighter that morning due to the dark, stormy weather we'd been having here in San Francisco in the preceding days.              
   While it was the shine that first attracted me, as I got closer I noticed that the broken key looked as if it was embedded in the surface where it laid, as the recent rainfall surrounding it seemed to envelop it from all sides. The entire shape looked like it had been placed in a half-cooled container of gelatin, and reminded me of when I was a child, and would place slices of banana into Jello that was setting.
   I wondered whether this breaking of the key had been intentional, and if not, did it inconvenience the possessor of it terribly at the time of the accident?  I also imagined that the former owner couldn't possibly have any idea how beautiful its' placement had become for me, nor of the allusions and memories it had helped to foster.

Peeled paint

   Commencing my morning walk the day when I began this blog entry, I was quite aware of my plans to write for a while when I finished. I felt at a bit of a loss for subject matter, and was aware that I was searching for some ideas in my environment. I note this here because I have at some point developed the view that if I really have to 'look' for a subject to write about, then the writing won't be any good. I imagine that this is a notion that I've come up with and convinced myself that is true (as opposed to being a cultural concept that I've heard somewhere), and is probably one of the techniques I've developed to criticize what I do. It probably has very little veracity outside of my own head.
   So, as I walked and wondered what to write about, I came upon this pole, one which I've passed hundreds of times, but which struck me at this time. Maybe it only seemed important on that occasion because of my wish for inspiration, but the layers of knicked paint revealing things below (and the red mark in the upper part of the picture) set me wondering about the things that had happened around it to make it appear the way it did on that day.
   I wondered what it had looked like when it had been freshly painted, when and who had applied the brush or roller to it to cover what had been visible before, and how long it had taken for something to first interrupt that perfect, warm gray field.
   As I ponder the layers that mark its' labor and use, it occurs to me that it's appearance reminds me of what the process of writing often consits of for me; in it I can imagine the beginnings, reworkings and sometimes wholesale editing of large sections. Often times, I just end up covering previous ideas with new ones, uncomfortable with what I've written; the pole below seems more comfortable showing its' process than I am.

 

The honest writer

New growth

   I noticed this patch of soil and grass as I passed a spot in Golden Gate Park that I had just recently wrote about in another blog for the frequency that I see skunks here. Having nothing to do with the skunk population as far as I can tell, I noticed this area for the small, young spurts of greenery which looked beautiful to me in the early morning, illuminated as it was by hints of direct sunlight, which have been few of late, though I'm just fine with the rain too, for now.
   Living a life where I sometimes find it difficult to see the movements and changes of the natural world as much as I would like to (but certainly a lot more than than all of those years that I lived in New York City), I find it wonderful to see something as simple, small, yet beautiful as a bit of green coming up from the soil from where it springs. Although certainly not heroic, there is something still valiant here to me.
   When I remember to slow down a bit and really look closely, I am reminded that all living things are probably just trying to make lives for themselves the best way that they are able to, even those people who I really dislike and rarely apply this thought to.

Layers

   As I was walking a few days ago I noticed a patch of asphalt where the surface smoothness had been compromised, forming a depression which revealed the material below. Within this area there was a small puddle formed by the rains of a few days earlier, though receded a bit from the day before when I first noticed it. 

   In the picture below, it appears like what you are seeing could be an aerial view of a lake, but what interested me (and perhaps it looked quite different in person than it appears in the picture) was not this, but were the layers created by the revelation through the damaged surface, and the resulting creation of another surface by the collected rainfall. 

   I don't know if other people can feel the changes that occur through the passage of events, but I have a really hard time understanding time and its' supposed passage in a physical way, so seeing its' evidence, as in the photo, serves as both an illustration and proof that it actually happens.

  

Proof positive?