having your “head in the clouds” is not such a bad thing; a lot can be accomplished when you do put it up there (or down or around or however you get to your own cloud. do remember to stay out of other people’s clouds, it’s only polite), but then they come along and make cloud computing a thing and it really takes the wind out of your sails cloud and suddenly there’s all this extraneous stuff just floating around out there…little 1s & 0s all a-jumble and who, in their right mind (or wrong mind, for that matter) can make any sense of it any longer, conceptually or otherwise, i ask you? [otherwise known as things i said to take up digital space and call it my own. --ed.]
how often can you write about the clouds, the sunrise, the canyon, the bluffs, the palms, the pacific ocean? when do you think you’ve said, you’ve written, you’ve photographed these same things enough?
you’re not expecting me to answer those questions, are you?
aren’t these photographs enough proof for you that there is no limit to the variations, the subtleties, the grand gestures nature provides us each and every day? do you not see beauty everyday?
i challenge you to prove me wrong. tell me of the day you did not encounter one beautiful thing, moment, animal, word, thought, deed, action, heartbeat, kiss, look.
what choice do we have when confronted with such evidence as this? there is the fact that what you are looking at is a photograph, which has had just the slightest of manipulations (i cropped it, i punched up the saturation–not unlike a boxer working the heavy bag at that little dingy gym you pass on the way to the subway everyday and in the summer the door is open to the street and the sounds of workouts and the smell of cigars and sweat cross your path–wrists and hands wrapped — that slap, slap slap), you see it captures a moment just like that only not like it in anyway. that is only my interpretation; you will make your own determination about what it should (or shouldn’t) mean to you. it is not important what it is a photograph of–and what photography means to you is consequently corrupted, that voyeuristic desire to witness other lives not your own, although it is easy, while sitting with your computer (in your lap, on a table at ___________, at your desk at home/office or on your goddamned phone, it is easy to imagine that this non-subjective image (although you must admit it is subjective to me) has nothing to do with you and perhaps you’d be right (you may also be wrong, but again that would be determined by your commitment to the photograph and your degree of interest in its interpretation, even its strength of purpose should you care to carry/worry/consider/chew on/mull over/contemplate what it means to you.)
i cannot tell you what it means. i am only a witness to its being what it is and how the light and the moment captured what it is while i held a small metal box (rectangular and cool, with its beeps and pulsing red light as it counted down to open its shutter/eye–asleep until i set the exposure time, adjusted its flash–i turned that off, this photo was taken at night with only the street light providing illumination–the dogs pulling the leashes taut as they waited for the exposure to take hold of what was happening in front of me, they had no interest in what i was doing or seeing), and captured something i thought was interesting in its own way, a heart beat (and for those of you who have spent anytime reading what i write will recognize as a moment) of time in an evening filled with other random thoughts and ideas of beauty for its own sake (something i firmly believe in, that beauty for its own sake is as valid a statement, particularly in photography, and is as potent a statement of what is happening as a photograph that does so more literally; you are free to agree or disagree with any of this at any time–to turn your attention elsewhere, as i surely know you will; by now you have already relinquished more of your time than you had intended or reserved for someone like me and what i have to say.)
but. should you have ventured this far and are wondering what in the hell i’m after, what could i possibly be leading up to and whether or not i will satisfy your human need for literalness–admit it, we all want to know what something is, so we can impose our life upon it, to objectify the experience and subject it to interpretation through the lens of our mean lives (yes, even you and you, whose lives most of the rest of us would consider gifted) lead a mean life, with the same anxieties and triumphs, but perhaps with a bit more gilding, at least in this life; who can say about the next?
and so. obscured by light, color, intent, it shimmers and dips and glides, an aura, an energy, a cloud in the night sky, with you on your back, arms behind your head (a cradle) and the longer you look at it, the more you begin to imagine what it represents to you and now it is just a feeling, a sense of something indistinct, perhaps not unpleasant, warm and comforting, hot and exciting (or everything you want it to be.) do you see it?
the weather report as seen in today’s l.a. times – orange county: The onshore flow will be stronger than recent days, resulting in low clouds.
it appears to be true.
do you ever wonder what other people’s interior monologues are? when you see them on the bus, train, walking down the street, in the car on their way to ____? are they watching you and thinking the same thing? what could you be thinking about–what little snips & snatches of your day are playing out in your head; lists, despair, the whys and what fors, the sighs that accompany “why me?” (lists inspire despair, all that work to do, with the possibility of no satisfaction at the end, just another day of lists.) the inventory you take; did i remember to bring ____, i’d better check my bag to see if i ______, why didn’t ____ give me a kiss on the way out the door?, will _______ be okay?, i must call ______ on saturday as i promised. my knee hurts. i didn’t do a very good job cleaning my glasses. that man is picking his nose and looking at the results with eyes crossed. she smells. that hair! and that little run-on at the end, etc. & so forth.
another moment of your life floats by. will you mark it in your calendar of consciousness?
occasionally those moments, the ones you pay attention to, are replicated just seconds later, your consciousness making subtle changes to the facts to suit your life.
are you paying close attention to your life? savoring each moment or sailing serenely through it without a care?
the complications and prickly nature of each day’s conversations, interactions, silences grabbing at you as you float across the sky.
after the storm, the clouds were pulled back (red damask curtains with fringe in a proscenium arch) & a world appeared (all false but for the lone actor with his back to the audience, standing at the chasm of the orchestra pit.)
after the storm, an orchestral work was composed for clouds (& offstage, the crows & finches were heard tuning their instruments.)
after the storm, i arched my eyebrows in disbelief at the audacity of the clouds & their insouciant fluffiness seemed to foreshadow the denouement of act 1.
after the storm, the sun (the lead actor in this drama) made his grand entrance as louis quatorze & his brilliant interpretation (for which he has been known for milennia, not unlike a certain 19th century actor’s interpretation of the count of monte cristo) momentarily blinded even the scenery stage left.
after the storm, in an act of reconciliation, the ocean reached up to the clouds in mimicry, the earth continued to spin (its tale) & the heavens (in their box seat) politely nodded their approval.
that waking time, between sleep (nestled, eyes closed against the world) & out of bed, was punctuated this morning by the deep, guttural roll of clouds colliding. at first you don’t believe that the sound you’re hearing is the sound of the real world, that perhaps it is still part of the dream that’s disappearing from your consciousness, shredding itself as clouds do when they hook on a mountaintop, but it comes again, clearer, more insistent, a knock at the door, a deeper rumble, longer & stronger & you open an eye, just to make sure that it is thunder & not the dream that has finally left you (what was it again?)
& then when you’re out on the street, hints of raindrops plop on your forearm, but dry before they can roll off your skin, wet/not wet, in an instant, a heartbeat, so quickly that the sensation barely registers, the time between action & reaction so slow that it’s as if it never happened (even your brain can’t keep up).
as you walk along, you realize that the clouds, like crows, are scattering ahead of you, black wisps of molecules dispersing in the sunlight & warmth of morning (throwing the covers back from your sleep-warm nakedness)
the clouds let go of the moon (a fingernail, the cuticle cleanly defined) & it floats away from them, drifting off (like the pussycat & the owl in their pea-green boat)
as you sit up in bed, swinging your legs over the edge (you may scratch yourself here, arm, leg, chest, belly, groin) stretching your arms above your head & later when you look out over the ocean, the clouds are mimicking you, pulling back & opening up & thinning out & rising away from the earth (as you stand, bed warm)
in this short time, between waking & walking, less than an hour (what does that matter?) the clouds, the storm, the stress moves away; it falls to the floor (you had kicked off the blanket during the night, there it lies in the valley below)
& you sense your blood coursing, pumping, synapses pulsing & recording, sleep slipping from you (all this in seconds), moisture in the air billowing up & falling down (just not on you, but on someone over there)
& that golden glow greets the day, your face awash in the light of day (just as at the washstand, cool water rinsing night away)
the weather today will be partly cloudy & warm. there may be heightened emotions (there usually are) but the day is planned & what are we to do but let it unfold?
Joey, a dog, and I, a human, took in the sights & smells at Skyview Park, just a half mile from our house yesterday. Joey, as is his want, was much more interested in earthly delights while I (perhaps due to my height and completely worthless sense of smell) was captivated by the views.
Off we went down the yellow gravel path that leads to the ocean should you be so inclined; it’s a rather dramatic descent that makes the return hike an incredible workout, but for a portion of the trail, it is wide, smooth, filled with vistas (and with scents.)
Like a veteran’s cemetery, they have lined up markers along the trail denoting the indigenous flora, although one would be hard pressed to tell the difference as upon closer inspection each plant looked much the same as the last.
The vistas open up as the gravel crunches underneath & your footfalls keep time with the snuffling of Joey as he zigzags from scent to scent, from pee station to pee station.
Aliso Creek/Wood Canyon Park to the north of the trail.
And to the south, homes along the coastline, trying desperately to mimic the western coast of Italy — on a really clear day you can see down to La Jolla.
And as the descent steepens, Laguna Beach appears with the Palos Verde Peninsula humping like a whale in the distance.
Oops! Pee break.
Before the path narrows and descends to the ocean, you have the opportunity to glimpse, like a mirage, Santa Catalina Island. At this ‘rest’ stop there is a picnic table (as there are scattered along the path to this point.) This one was covered with graffiti.
Some of which showed promise artistically & philosophically, but others resorted to the usual demeaning tropes — as if ‘sucks dick’ was a bad thing.
But that was redeemed by this quote from William Blake:
“If the doors of perception were cleansed then everything would appear as they truly are, infinite.” In spite of the misspelling, that a sentient human felt compelled to share Blake at this view point in Orange County astounds me (and relieves me as well.)
Which made me look skyward for my own inspiration.
…and thoughts of Titian skies: roiling clouds as backdrops for Renaissance fantasies of religious mythologies; bolts of satin, heaving breasts (female), the plated armor pectorals of gods with swords poised to cleanse the world of its evils.
Baroque beatification of beauty.
An armada scuttling across the ocean with visions of wealth, the reality: death.
But up and out we climbed, Joey and I, toward a form of redemption through friendship grounded, open, and for a moment ours alone.
On Thursday last I began a day of fasting–medically prescribed–that surprisingly didn’t affect me as much as I thought it would.
In fact, it felt good. The indignities of aging are many and well-documented, but oftentimes the process on the way to the indignity is overlooked.
I felt purer as the day progressed and the process in preparation for Friday’s procedure continued its cleansing duties.
It cleared my mind, all manner of thoughts formed, like clouds in the summer sky as you lay on your back looking for faces, objects, places.
Hamlet’s soliloquy from Act 3 popped into my head: “…Whether ’tis nobler in the mind/To suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,/Or to take arms against a sea of troubles/And by opposing end them…”
Which seemed relevant as my body ages, requiring additional maintenance, suffering ‘slings and arrows’. Perhaps the outrageous fortune is that I’m here, now. Will old age be a ‘sea of troubles’? I stand against it for now.
