Once in a...

It's a blue moon tonight. 

It's quite possible that earlier this month, I saw the greatest moonrise I'll ever see. It was a cloudy evening. We were on the patio on the edge of the tropical sea listening to the unseen waves crash into the rocky shore.

A pale, nearly imperceptible glow appeared on the horizon, perhaps a fire from an ancient pirate ship scouring the depths for treasure. Moments later, the tiniest sliver of gold appeared from behind a cloud. In an instant, we knew it was the moon.

As it began to rise amidst the luminous clouds, the ocean formed a deep black line, a powerful frame to the ever-changing scene above. As it moved higher, it created an invitation to connect in the form of a brilliant reflective path on the water, direct from the horizon straight to the land.

There was absolutely nothing standing between us and the edge of the earth and the endless open sky. It was pure magic. And it was a lesson in the conflict of beauty, that even as we yearn for these unexpected moments to remain, their splendor exists only in the passing of time, and in what remains fixed in memory.

Even though tonight won't compare, I still can't wait to stand outside and watch the moon rise behind the giant fir trees, bright piercing white against the dark slate sky.

A summer sunday

Sitting in the afternoon breeze on the deck writing tiny little stories. The grapes are nearly ripe. A teenage boy stops to finish a cigarette at the bottom of our stone steps. If I knew him, I would lecture him.  Today, I just observe unseen, with amusement.

This is the story I like best so far:

The girl looked forlorn on the faded blue seat of the train. So out of character when measured against the usual inhabitants of this line -- the delusional espousing their grand visions, and the long-since-defeated mumbling under their breath with rage -- occurrences that might normally call forth alarm or pity, but when experienced on a daily basis, simply become routine.

It was a rainy day and her maroon hood still covered her head, grazing her brow to starkly define those dark, haunted eyes.  Maybe she'd had some sort of fall from grace.  Perhaps it was anticipation of a trial or tragedy to come. Or it could simply be that she had the heart of a dove and someone had cruelly sliced it in two. 

But what can you ever really know from a chance encounter with an unfamiliar pair of eyes? It all suddenly felt like I was being duped into telling a story that had no potential to do anything for her or myself. It could just be that she was simply born with veiled eyes permanently fixed in that reflective state. It could be that she was, in fact, the happiest person on that train.

Bukowski

on the anniversary of the birth

of Charles Bukowski

a friend posted

a poem of his

about a bluebird trapped

inside a heart.

I replied

“I love him!”

(meaning

the poet.)

he wrote back

“this I would not have guessed.”

which makes me wonder

why.

I know it started

with just one

poem.

it always does.

I look

in the usual places

and find no evidence.

at the library on Saturday

I check out

all

the Bukowski books

because

I need to know.

I sit on the back deck

and devour the pages

without pause.

there's a torn piece of pink Kleenex

left behind to

mark page

131

a poem called

heart in the cage.

I vow not

to leave my Women for Obama

sticker inside when

I’m finished.

in the end

I cannot find the one poem

that began it

all.

this I know

he writes

like a

man

a little like Hemingway.

about drinking and gambling and 

power

and I would say sex

but he calls it fucking.

and it’s all underlined

with

disappointment and 

hunger and pain.

maybe

that's what I like.

maybe

I want to know

what men really think.

or maybe

I already know

what they think.

and maybe

I just like

that he has the guts

to actually say it

like it is.

my friend is right.

these poems

are nothing like

me

on the outside

but

a little bit

like

us all

on the inside.

most of us have learned

to hide it

but Bukowski

he refused to look away.

Go for the gold

I miss the Olympics.  Being completely drawn in. Staying up too late for the final race. The unlikely feeling that the world has paused to embrace the spectacle together.  The utterly irresistible moments burned in memory.

It's my sister and I sitting on a bed in a motel room in Yakima, watching tiny Olga Korbut win gold, on the very same day I finally learned to dive down to the very bottom of the deep end of the pool to retrieve a gold ring of my own.

It's all four of us lined up tight on the family room sofa to watch Franz Klammer barrel down the mountain to win gold at a speed that could only inspire awe compared to what we would ever dare to do on the slopes. 

And it's that summer between high school and college, standing in front of the television, waiting anxiously to see Mary Decker run to victory, only to witness her collision with fellow runner Zola Budd that put her out of the race and caused a wailing display of disappointment that in itself, was shocking.

I've always loved running the most. One person. One track. An expression of pure and uncomplicated speed, power and stamina. No question of where you stand.

A couple months ago, I met Mary Decker Slaney.  For a while, I just watched her from across the room and wondered how she dealt with her many disappointments, since she's been largely taciturn on that front. Finally, I walked up to her and told her I thought she was awesome.  She laughed, and said she'll never get tired of hearing that.  Then we chatted a bit about her running these days, which is quite limited due to injury.

I hope that when she watches the games today, she watches with the thrill of knowing she was once a part of the magic, rather than with the regret that she never got to have that fleeting moment that proved to the world she was the best of all.

Noontime walk

Statuesque heron
in the shallow pond
tail feathers dance
as he pretends to ignore
the noise around him

Teenage ducklings
miniature versions of mom
with downy feathers
that still say
it's not quite time to fly

Classic playground
a tall metal slide
that burns
the back of your legs
in the summer sun

The merry go round
that so far survives
our declaration of dangerous things
still sharing the joy
of spinning for hours on end

Wine and art

You know you're getting older when your idea of Friday evening fun is to meet your friends for a party at the art museum.  The cheap wine flowed.  The hors d'oeuvres were thin, and the lines too long. So, slightly tipsy in a place that normally commands more serious attention, we ducked inside to look at some art.

The first sight was eight wax heads hanging from the ceiling, bound together with black wire. Seven were the color of pink plastic baby dolls. One, the green of a suspiciously healthy smoothie. Prominent veins graced the scalps.  Tongues hung out, and the necks were cut off in such a way that you could peer inside the dark hollow cavity.

Across from the heads was a set of caribou, reindeer and foxes stacked tall in a circus-like pyramid. The most noticeable element was a plethora of thin legs in unnatural poses.  A Berenstain Bears book instantly came to mind, Bears on Wheels, where the bears wildly ride bikes in pyramids and all crash together in a heap in the end.  Undoubtedly not what the artist intended.

The signature exhibit was Ellsworth Kelley, a famed modernist abstract artist whose paintings are bright, flat, vivid fields of color, in simple geometric shapes. The kind of art where the form is the content. My artist friend Arthur, told me that you're supposed to feel the emotion of the color, line, shape and space playing off of each other.  All I felt was cold.

Our last stop was a look at some bright and diverse paintings from the California Impressionists who worked in the late 1800s and early 1900s. In front of a small painting depicting the crest of a wave, I was reminded of my great grandfather.  He was a painter in both Maine and the Bahamas during this time.

I wonder whether he became an artist because he was driven to do so, or whether he simply saw it as his way to make a living. What exactly is it that makes people create? And what makes us hold back?

I'm curious to know what I'll see when I return in the light of day.