Tag Archives: Beauty

Beauty Is Real

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Is something real, beautiful, or is something put into words beautiful?  I keep looking at the building construction outside my office window, and I keep seeing beauty in the materials, the strength in the colors of the cement and the wood and the steel.  Sometimes the rhythm of nail drivers, sometimes hammers, and even shouts of men’s voices and the crash of the things thrown, have a beauty that is heard.  The saw and the hum of the crane and the bull dozers is constant, like the many voices in unison can be heard, but not the words.

This scene is most welcoming, and almost soothing, in the morning after an hour commute.  Something human is constructive.  With a long day ahead, it is reassuring to believe it will work, that the frustration common in work is always happening, but things will be greater than this–especially the sounds continuing towards the establishment of something new–or even just a new building.

So, is the world filled with useless work?  Is some of this work needless, and wasteful?  Is the only goal to do something every day that you can do?  Or should your job verge, always, on the pleasurable?  Is it important that you be loved, or loved for your role, your position, your job?  If you have no money to spend on your home, do you still have a home?

In utopia, there is no money.  Only endless jobs to do, and therefore continually, and endlessly, make the universe work.  There is no demotions and promotions, related to money, but just achievement, the goal, since this is what makes people happy and proud.  At this point I think of my mother’s home.  For decades now, she has kept a special list, titled, “A Happy Home Recipe.”  It mentions things like love, loyalty, forgiveness and friendship, plus another four that deal with others helping you out, hope, tenderness, faith, and laughter.  For the longest time, I felt this was the most perfect, more beautiful thing of all.  The way I felt as if I were  being hugged, and loved.  I have no memory of being with my mother on a shopping trip to particularly buy this plaque, and I think, this is why I don’t associate its message with money.  I still think of it when I visit my mother.

Now, back to beauty.  Are beautiful things the only things that are real?  To take a thought experiment to the extreme end, the foible of human beings is to assume that beautiful things are naturally rich, and better, and easier.  Take all the glam and money in Las Vegas….  The stores there only have things that can be bought with a mortgage, and it is assumed that if you go to Vegas, you have some money to spend, or invest.  I have been there, and I do admit that my thoughts tend to run on and I see fountains running and spraying with coins rather than water.  It is like money can make the impossible happen.  Is it beautiful?  Is it even real?

Sometimes, I wish for more privacy than the hordes in Las Vegas can give me when I am on a trip or vacation.  The idea, I think, is that crowds there, fill the void common in any city or town.  It is along “the strip” that I am thinking.  In any other city, at a place of beauty, there is no sense of abandon.  That people are carefree and laughing, and not thinking of the priorities that need to be done by next week.  The “strip” is teeming with hordes of people, especially the young and rich, who exude this energy.  There is no rush, no hurry.  Only pleasure and enjoyment.  And, yes, lots and lots of money.  For most people any other trip or vacation cannot rival the wealth and riches of Las Vegas.  The non-stop flow of money in and out.  Taking a cruise to somewhere comes close, though.

So, in my thoughts, I am guessing that beauty is not limited to “real” things.  Every day, I draw breath, at the small things that happen.  The brown hare in our backyard.  The call of the infrequent owl at night when I have opened my window.  The construction sit that builds and moves slowly, by increments, like watching a stop-action camera become conscious and produce a film over months.  I love the first snowfall.  So delicate, and light, as if the snow is the real color of transparency.  I love the beauty of the old parts of town, where artisans have set up shop, creating and selling wares, of beauty and imagination.

I am looking forward to surprising my children to a two week vacation in December, for the Christmas Holidays.  Filling their days with some warm sunshine, and, hopefully, a sense of carefree joy.  To suddenly, one year have a Christmas away from snow, and attending too many get-togethers and parties.  I am sure where we are going, there will be a “Midnight Christmas Party.”

The Art of Time and Space

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This summer has been rewarding for me, as the mark of the first summer that I spent time on a new hobby.  I think that my family probably wishes that I did not discover painting, but I do, indeed, love to paint.  I am but a hobby-ist right now, but I can put all my attention into a canvas, and definitely churn out a painting….  From start to finish, in about a month.  It is something I think that I didn’t know or understand as a child and student, even when I was being pre-occupied with the more “artsy” and “socially-oriented” subjects, like music, literature, and drama.  These already allowed me to express my more artistic self without much loss, without much missing.

So, as I attended the first class, nervously wondering if I had everything that I needed, I was surprised that Night School for Adult Learners, is very relaxed.  The place, usually a school during the day for teenagers, becomes a classroom full of art, color, instruction, and usable tools for the trade of painting.  The talk and conversation is surprisingly mature and it is as if we all followed the stream to this place of enlightenment.  Suddenly, a visit to the Art Gallery is much more interesting than the thoughts I had in the past while walking by all the talent.

One of the first subjects we tackled, was the issue, “What do you paint?”  We started listing things that we see all the time: portraits, still life, and landscapes.  Then, there were the more modern, and some would say, more experimental objects, like a lily flower, the foyer of a cafe, a pile of old shoes and boots, and surreal dreams.  Then, the big discussion, “What do you think abstract paintings are about?”  This took us a moment, but then, the thoughts came: irony, balance, color, strength, pride, honor, desire.  Armed, within the first twenty minutes of the class, with these beautiful words that describe painting and visual art, we became more certain that we could do this class.  That we knew how to be painters and visual artists.

This class took me into the summer.  I was very excited, as the end of June approached.  I dreamed of the beauty of our cottage just by the lake.  I dreamed of this beauty with the imagination of someone unsullied by failure or disappointment.  I took time to “picture” the scene, and I started imagining the mixing of paint, to create color, and then, the big decision, should I create texture by adding a gel medium to my paints?  To build leaves of grass that could stand up, and ridges into the wood used to build the house….  I dreamed, and I dreamed.

Then, the first weekend at the cottage arrived.  I packed everything I needed into the car.  Easel, canvas, palette, brushes, and paint.  Everything, including my husband and my children, arrived safely….  I was ready to just jump into my painting clothes and start!  We use our cottage all year round, so there was no need to undo anything and set anything up….  I started to move all my material and instruments out to the back sun room where there is a perfect view of the backyard leading down to the lake.  The sun was still out upon our arrival, and I stood there a moment, deep breathing the scene inside.

It is the most precious moment I have of the this particular view.  To walk into a strength of beauty after a long ride in the car is utterly amazing.  It is like taking that first deep breath on the morning after a big snowfall.  My breath rushes down, and I forget that I breathe.

So, being flexible in work, not only did I have weekends to spend absorbed by my new hobby, I spent up to a week, one week this summer, just lost in painting and relaxing by the small piece of space that most feels like home.  It has been rewarding.  I may not be able to paint the Mona Lisa, but I am able to capture that beauty, that she is associated with.

We have also partly re-decorated the cottage walls.  Taking down anonymous paintings of terrestrial beauty, to be replaced by my own exploration of beauty and meaning.  I am looking forward to the start of the night classes again.  I am already planning what it is I will paint.  Perhaps, still life, this time.  I would want to try to get a painting finished before the fruit rots and the flowers wilt.

I think about ironic things too.  If I can get enough of my paintings together, I would want to have a gallery show, somewhat along the lines of Virginia Woolf‘s style of publishing.  I would have a “Vanity Show,” where my work would be displayed only for as long as I could rent the space, rather than as one of the Gallery’s standard list of artists.  And suddenly, I could find people who could like my work.  Just like writers want to be read, so, visual artists want to be seen.

I am spending the last week of summer trying to title my two paintings.  I have a million titles, but it is hard for me to find a title I love.  And, very silly of me, I think I am purposely taking all this time, to see if I can come up with as many suitable titles as I can.

And so, as I imagine one day being able to paint the thrill of riding in a convertible down the highway, just like I imagined painting the quiet beauty and strength of a view of the lake, I like to imagine that I can do it.

Library Books

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One year, when I was working for the winter in the Public Library, due to my contract there, I travelled to one of their central branches–the storied branches that held more than the usual books on more than the usual topics.  I noticed, quite early on in the contract, that there was a little room run by volunteers (little old ladies with white hair and light blue smocks on) where books that had been withdrawn from circulation and donated books, were being sold at the incredibly cheap prices of $1, $2 and $5.  Even, now, with inflation, these are cheap prices.  The books were not necessarily current, and they had never been on the bestseller list, but there was appeal in their timelessness, and anyone studying on any topic could probably get a very good start in understanding it–much more than taking the introductory 101  could, at the local university.

So, one afternoon, as I was finishing up for the day, I decided to see what this little room was all about.  When I say little, I mean, very small and cramped.  All it was missing was the musty smell and the dim lighting famous in many university libraries.  The two little old ladies were by the door where there was a desk and a little money box. They did not pry, as, I guess, they were not librarians.  So, I disregarded them after a smile, and proceeded to look at the shelves to see what this room was about.  Not the Dewey Decimal System.  (I was relieved.  I would have walked out without any interest lost.)  The shelves were labelled with English words (and not universal numbers) that described broadly what the subject of the books were. There was an entire book case where each shelf on it was reserved for several of the more languages in the city.  I can’t read anything other than English, so I skipped it entirely.

Even though the room was small, three walls were filled plus two long rows down the middle.  Some books were old and breaking, almost beyond repair, and I guess people looking for a gem, even if it were slightly damaged, would pay the $1 or $2 for it.  There was also a good collection of children’s books.  I did look through it, at the time, because I already had a niece, but I didn’t happen to find anything.  There were two shelves reserved for random movies, and because I am not overly interested in this genre of entertainment, I gave the most cursory glance and moved on.

I got to the bottom shelf on the bookcase against the back wall, and I gasped in delight.  It was filled with large books of photographs on various topics.  My experience with large books of photographs, even if the photographs were not taken by famous photographers, is that they are very expensive.  Many a time I have spent over one hundred dollars on any of a number of impressive books.  And, the hobby of photography is incredibly expensive, even now, in today’s world when you don’t have to rent space at a local darkroom to get the photograph you want developed.

So here, I felt as if had found the fount of gold, and the river just kept flowing out with the gold.  Even just glancing at the shelf I could see several books I was interested in.  My limitation, today, was the weight of the books, as, at the time, I had taken transit to the library (it was in the central part of the city.)  I knew that they would not be so nice as to hold on to the books I bought, and that whatever I bought today, I would have to take with me… even if I bought ten.  So, I began to calculate, in my head, the best way to solve this problem of space and muscle and strength.  In the end, I settled on three very large books, with photographs on every single page in between the covers.  They must weigh at least twenty pounds each.  The way I decided to let go of any of the others?  Easy, I chose every single book on the country.  One, about the United States, one about Canada, and one about the mid-West.  The pictures were priceless, and I only paid $5 for each book.  I find that when I go to the commercial book stores, the photography and art books appeal to the greater public and that the topics are therefore very broad and have no subjects that would involve any great and deep understanding of politics, color theory, history, or a foreign point of view.  All that is needed is the ability  to see and understand beauty.  So, now, armed with this new theory as to the type of photographers and the domain covered by certain books and experts, I found beauty in the books that day.  I still have these three books today.  They communicate, more, than what words alone can.  My favorite from the three books is in the catalogue of the mid-west.  The picture is of a winter evening on a small hill looking downwards to the small valley, and the rise beyond where the setting sun sits in command of it all.  The evening coats the thin layer of snow in a regal, purple-lish glow, and the bench in the foreground in relief as almost only a shadow.

I am quite content with my purchases, considering that they are not the usual fare.  I find the older I get, the more I value the things I couldn’t understand before.   I value what it is that others have and what others are.  So, to this July’s celebration of the incorporation of the country, grow older happier and richer in experience!

Beauty

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Is beauty all given to youth?  Is it that the only people, and animals, perhaps, that are beautiful, are the young ones?  The beautiful ones, who exhibit, display, or create youth?  Can an old shriveled up grape, its skin wrinkled around a hard flesh, itself around a hard seed, be considered beautiful?  What sort of lighting and lens work would be needed to create the sparkle in this desiccated grape?  Is it because we know the grape at this stage, is nothing, but fibre and inedible pit?

Is even a photogenic old man, with full head of white hair, a slow gait helped along with a carried cane, and dressed in patent brown leather shoes and houndstooth jacket and pants, a sight of beauty?  Is being like this, a sign of health, or a sign of wealth… or, perhaps, a sign of wisdom and knowledge which makes a sight of this old man beautiful?  Is it his cleanliness?  Is it the fact that the clothes look familiar?  A man of strength and girth, and courage, and education, perhaps?  Or am I rating the clothing?  Is this old man beautiful because he has retired, or is it because  memories like this are kept in our minds from the time when we were young children growing up?

So, is beauty, something inside our heads?  We gather from  experience our collective knowledge or what we want to be beautiful.  Is that famous man, Hugh Hefner of the Playboy Mansion, still so virile because of the house-robe he wears in all his interviews?  Is he beautiful, for being daring, and always suggestive of sexuality, which is the domain of young, beautiful, virile, bodies, or because of his status as The Playboy who built Playboy Mansion?  This may be a tough question to ask and to answer, but it takes us one step closer to accepting… and maybe deciphering, the idea of beauty.

I have a definition in my head from one of my professors who spends his time trying to “type” human beings for a living, and it is a very good living, too.  It will take some thought, but one of the most eye-opening theories of human behavior is revealed in the simple definition of garbage.  Garbage, is actually something that does not belong where it is.  For instance, in a garden, we will plant flowers and trees and bushes.  But we always put in all our effort to dig up the weeds, and sometimes we will risk serious disease by using chemical weed killer.  And, for anything that has no more use or has expired, we will discard.

This brings me to why I have a little box, of wood, that I keep the bits of jewelry that I have been given to me by people in my  life.  The very first piece, a bracelet, is still in this box.  I can remember that it was summer, close to my birthday, and my mother had the box with the charm bracelet inside.  She was notorious for giving birthday presents early.  And I, immediately fell in love with it as soon as I opened the box and saw it.  I remember, being so young, looking up, and sparkly-eyed, at my mother.  I said something, like “Wow.  It’s so pretty.  Thank you.” And, to me, this bracelet and the box it is in, are young.  When I think of this box, and when I take this box out, and when I talk about this box, I am young….  That age of a child who has shiny blond hair, carefree, and able, surrounded by love and feeling free to give kisses to demonstrate that I have love to give.

So, from the examples of these five suggestions of beauty, I have a good idea of beauty.  It is most importantly, what we know to be beautiful.  Myself, I go scourging throughout flea markets, and exhibitions, looking for those things that are beautiful.  I will even pay one hundred dollars for a very small thing.  The first moment is always my most treasured thought of the thing I buy.  And, in a way, I find myself addicted to this behavior as something to fill space, to fill color, and to fill accountable time.  It is probably one of the healthiest things I do.  Eating charred meat off the bar-b-que is one the worst habits for my health.

Tomorrow, long after I will have published this to the web, I will start filling my date book with things that I need to do, with things that I have to do, and with things that will be filled in pencil that perhaps I will need to do.  And I do this every week, sometimes, with many deadlines, I will do it daily.  And in these in-between spaces of time, I look forward to finding beauty again.

Her Fearful Symmetry

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The first time I saw beauty in the most fearful place, I held my gaze and could only turn away when I started to breathe again, my shallow breath only allowed in when my muscles around my chest and neck could work once again.  I took a deep swallow, and asked an odd question, “Why is there two of that girl?”

Identical people puzzle me.  They look like each other, and often tail each other closely, starting and finishing each other’s word to the complete agreement of each other.  They dress in the same dress, and for some reason become completely lost and awol when the other disappears.  They tail each other from the time they are born to the time they pass on.  They are completely famous without the fame.  In public, people recognize their existence, albeit, only from the point of view of being in the presence of two beautiful and exceptional people, but they are recognized.  It seems, twins, and being a twin, makes for interesting gossip and talk and fulfills the need in some people to have confirmation of the extra-ordinariness of life. The very bodily existence of twins is very strong and loud evidence of life.  It is confirmation without true proof as to what life is.  Is it a brain?  Is it the beauty of models’ bodies?  Is it the strength and accuracy of athlete’s muscles?  Is it our ability to talk?  Our ability to create fictions, and stories and plan for the future? Is it our ability to create and rate and fall in love?  Do we create love?  And if so, do we create life?  Is life and love a very spontaneous accident?  Or is there a scientific method and law as to how it all happens?

I am looking at a conversation that two people are having.  One of them keeps insisting that twins are better off than all other kinds of human beings.  To have a bond that never breaks because there is nothing that is the match of that bond….  no words, no actions, no ideas, no love…  This is a very deep thing to say and think!  That being a twin for life literally means neither will ever be alone, even if one passes on, or if they find someone to marry, the twins to each other are never truly alone.  They would share that love as well!

I imagine this situation, the one in the overheard conversation….  To say that if I am in trouble, that there will be someone who will be there to save me…..  This, too, is very deep…  Any girl would like to be in this situation!  To have security forever!  I imagine this situation, and I think, I would be very satisfied!  Perhaps, twins are better off than any other type of human being!

Unfortunately, I was not born a twin.  I am single, and I am this way for my entire life.  I have learned to live with this “difficulty” in a way that makes me more willing to try my luck and to try to make friends, even in an unlikely situation.  I am often in a lonely job, as writers tend to have to do their work in isolation, and in quiet, and in full concentration of brain work  so that they can hear their own thoughts.  Writing is messy, and if you don’t catch your thoughts and ideas quickly… they will fly off and disappear!  So, this is how I feel secure….  Hearing myself and editing myself and creating word-filled pages that work and feel like magic!

So, am I resigned to this life?  Well, of course.  There is nothing that  I would wish undone.  There is nothing that I would wish redone….  (Sometimes when I am angry, or feeling jealous, I do wish that my entire life were redone… but that is a situation that even twins cannot outwit.  Being angry and /or jealous is natural even if your twin is perfect evidence of what the situation is.)

So, here is my life.  Summer is just starting, and I am becoming very busy with all the plans that are floating around the house.  My husband wants this….  My kids want that….  And then, do we have time to visit grandma?  Will there be time enough to buy a season’s pass to the theme park?  And, are the kids ready to take on over night camp?

These are not necessarily easy decisions to make.  Being bad and getting slightly poor grades are not conducive to going out to play at the waterpark…  It is more likely that summer school will be the result and consequence of that!

Life is not easy….  As the anthem of my generation states, “Life is a mystery, and we must stand alone.”  It is tragically beautiful, and, I bet, this is one thing that twins do not understand!

Summer Cottage

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The dock and a canoe and an eagle flying down from the mountain up ahead.  The music loud–and the neighbors joining–a surprise to us–we thought there was a noise bylaw.  This year, the water fowl have gone to the lake south, leaving our lake a pristine, still, and quiet place–for one summer at least.  There is only four more weeks we will be in the little cottage here.  We share rooms when we are here, unlike back home, in the city.  There, everyone has a bedroom for themselves.

This year, we remembered to bring an alarm clock….  One that doesn’t need to be plugged in….. we missed the early morning hike to the waterfall, which if you walk behind, underneath the rock face, the sunrise shines through the falls and creates a beautiful rainbow to look through.  My brother wants to catch the sunlight at the angle that makes the whole cave wall a rainbow.  So far, we haven’t caught it yet.

We got hungry one day, just wandering on the lake.  We had planned on only going down the path that winds between nearby cottages, but, we ended up taking our walk beyond the end of the path.  We continued our walk, sticking close to the lake.  There were places where the lake water had come up higher and it left many stones and pebbles.  It was more difficult to walk, but we like to pick stones and see if we could skip and the right-shaped one further than three hops.

This year, my parents allowed me to invite my boyfriend up too.  He was my first boyfriend, and we were very much friends with each other, so my parents trusted us together.  We were not the type to fool around.  The appeal was the fact of having someone of the opposite sex close, knowing  secrets, and valuing the other for more than it being fun to hang out.  So, I was actually having a very good summer.  When my boyfriend would go back to the city, we promised to call each other.  I had a fleeting thought of writing letters…  but it soon became undoable….

One day, during the week that my boyfriend was with us, he whispered to me that he wanted to try skinny dipping in the alcove of the lake further down, beyond where the path ended.  We were not allowed to share a bedroom, and I was sharing my bedroom with my sister, while my boyfriend and my brother roomed together.  So, the problem was escaping early in the morning…  when everyone would not be up yet, so we could skinny dip in some sort of privacy.  My sister would probably just groan at the alarm at 5am, and I guessed that my brother would probably just sleep right through it.  I did guess right as both of us, my boyfriend and I, ran into each other coming out of the bedrooms.  We immediately started shushing each other, as we both started quietly to close the bedroom doors.

Like me, my boyfriend had a t-shirt and pair of shorts on.  I had two towels also with me, as I was sure I wouldn’t like to be wet in my clothes.  When we slipped out through the door, locking it, we were surprised that the early morning air was so much cooler than during the day.  So we started running, my boyfriend being larger, he ran a little faster, and it made me whisper loudly at him to slow down for me.

Once we were out of  the sight of the cottage, and giving ourselves some breathing room, we started to slow our pace and eventually we slowed to a comfortable, slow, walk.  It was beginning to be quite bright now.  And there was a haze as lake water rose with the temperature.  It was still cool.  We walked side by side, thinking and wondering if we could even wade into the water.

The alcove we both knew from a previous walk  down the path, was about ten minutes from the cottage.  Just like that walk, we were both in flip-flops, and  our feet were becoming dusty from the dirt and sand path.  There was the occasional stone, but nothing that would make us twist an ankle or fall if we began to run.  If we walked lower down closer to the lake water, we would be walking on rocks and stones….  finding it impossible to avoid them.

As we got closer to the curve in the lake, and the ground became more level with the lake, my boyfriend started to run-jog, kicking his flip-flops off and taking his shirt and shorts off.  He yelled at me to hurry up and follow him.  And I couldn’t resist his exhortations and started to run after him too.  He had got himself naked by the time he was at the edge of the lake.  Although I didn’t tear my clothes off crazily, I also didn’t bother picking up his discarded things.  I stood there, beside the lake, watching him wade in, and I began taking my flip-flops, shorts, and t-shirt off too.  It was less than thirty seconds that I was doing this, and, soon, I was in the lake with him.

He didn’t wade in very far, but the water was at his waist, so I saw his chest.  He was very angled and chiseled like most teenage boys, and it didn’t take me long to run through the water to get to him.  The water came a little higher on me, but I still was very anxious and embarrassed about being naked, despite the water.  He stopped splashing around and had started to walk towards me, and soon, he splashed water at me.  I instinctively held up m hands and ducked, screaming.  I started to tell him to stop as the water was beginning to make me cold.  When he stopped, and I looked up, at him, he started to grin in a silly way, and he said, “You know, you really are very beautiful….  Can I come a little closer?”  My arms covered my chest and I was hugging myself.  I said, “You are such an idiot!”  But instead of stopping there, I pushed a wave of water at him.  Screaming and yelling from both of us ensued as we continued to splash each other.  Suddenly, because I had not noticed in the dawning of morning, my boyfriend had his arms around me annd he held me until I knew to be still.  He bent his head a little, and kissed my forehead, my nose, and then my lips.  We savoured our kiss, and slowly, let go.

This walk to the lake and the skinny dip did not take us long.  We dried off, were dressed, and back at the kitchen in the cottage within an hour.  No one actually noticed that we had gone missing for an hour.  We made ourselves and everyone else breakfast and savoured our secret.

I Am Remembering the Last Night

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The beauty of a silhouette.  Dark.  Moonlight.  The sudden splash of lake water.  An owl or a lark.  Swoop of wings close to my head.

Swing high. It is only the street lights.  Swing your legs harder!  Screaming laughter and I can’t make it any higher!

Beautiful Miranda.  A girl only.  Saved by Merlin, who held a triton.  Love will always fall in love.  It was the first Adam who walked on an island.  To declare it occupied.  And conquered.

Millions are a lot.  Cars drive by the bump.  Oblivious to the true meaning of electricity.  Orange cones and red stop signs held by gloved hands, hiding skin.

Who are you?  You stare as if I am naked.  It is icy and colder than you think.  Ice and water both break…….  There may be no end to the long wait.

I remember the look of love.  It is ice and smouldering masquera.  A cigar with attitude.  And an accent.  I follow it with a sense of vanilla.  This is the other room.

I am of Michaelangelo.  My bones are marble and my skin of ivory.  People will miss the target.  Mice and men will always be about the lost one left out.  It is more than a smell.  The candle wax is drying on my fingers.  It is warm.

The chance is sung in an all-about-all-people song.  We are led to follow this tantalizing hope.  A home smell of chocolate chip cookies.  Ready to crumble if touched.

Time is going by.  Time is mesmerizing.  Time is slow.  We will fail to notice the time.  I will be home by the time it is dark…….   Because when I am outside, the sun will tell the time.

Happiness is a smile.  Beauty is a circle.  Laughter is contagious.  The purple flag blows in the wind.  The fan is on.  Red.  Orange.  Green.  And Purple.  And Papa Smurf wore the red hat to match with his blue skin.

Today is late.  There are too many minutes.  The clock runs fast.  The staring is like an animal preying.  The song is beautiful.  Have a run on the Hawaiian beach.

I would like you.  The tallness dwarfs me.  Hold on to the rock.  Wind, Rain, and Waves cannot change this place.  We will stand forever.  Face of the music.

Train of tracks and fire, running on steam.  It is good to be dressed.  Keep the doors and windows open.  You may need to jump!  And watch out for guns.  I would want to be close to the engine.

The first street is truly shallow.  Fish beach themselves on the wet sand.  Waves bury the corpses with silt from the bottom of the ocean.  My feet follow and I cringe my toes into the shallow depth.

It doesn’t get salty until you reach the edges.  And then, go far.  The wind will desiccate your eyes and your mouth.  Don’t swallow!  And stand, dry bone, with sandy, brittle hair.

The male chest is smooth muscle.  Take it in black and white.  The grey picture reminds of young birthday parties where laughter and screams drown the fun with  happiness.  Sweet drinks that make me burp, and pizza and hot dogs fresh from open fires.

We wonder about the matter of time.  It must be doing something.  It can bend the universe of nothing so that the sun pulls the planets toward the centre.  The circling pull of gravity is from a black hole.  Nothingness bending to the call of time passing.

Is there a limit?  Can we get lost in space?  Or, is being inside the universe just the easiest existence?  I wonder if I will breathe faster, feel warmer, or see the love of God if I were to fly out there?

Do we see loneliness in the dark of space?  Or do  we see the scaffolding of God’s structure holding earth, the planets, and the moon, close to the centre of the sun?

Beauty is always remembered more beautiful when it is alone.  Quiet.  Sweet.  Standing.  Quiet. Full of hope, and dropping all stares for closed eyes and sighs.  Let us hum and intone the beauty and the moment.

I was there.  The fresh landscape with pine and log cabin.  Cracking of stepped-on-sticks.  Surrounded by woodland animals.  Majestic.  Clean.  Bloodless.  Free from rodents.  and litter.

This is the last night I was somewhere.  The drive took one day.  We were never there before, and have not been there again.  The beautiful smell.  The easy sight.