for the love of climbing trees

I like trees. I like what they contribute to me and to this planet.  I like that they are home to so many creatures.  When they eventually die, they rot their nutrients into the ground enhancing and making fertile a womb for even newer growth.  I like how they entangle themselves into each other so that they remind me of how a brain grows, sprouting dendrites and attaching here and there in the most random of order.

They purify the air and they are such fun to climb.

They are a part of me and i am a part of them…it saddens me to see them treated callously as if they have no life and are an endless resources for man to exploit.  Finally, they are a thing of beauty and as a cluster they form a kind of chapel in the wildwood.

trees

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Even as the Wind Takes the Sails Away

rock beach impasto

 

Even as the wind takes the sails away,

and the faintest hint of a mast disappears at the horizon,

even at that hour of the day, I am still here with you in my arms.

 

Even as the waves swallow the bridge and the vessel begins to descend into the darkness

I have a lingering memory of you keeping my soul alive.

Even if the waves engulf me and my heart sings a last melody,

I have had the good fortune of a taste of that autumn nectar.

 

When it is here, it will have been worth while if I can say, for certain, that I have loved,

and heard the beating of another’s heart in mine.

Cold winds may make me weary,

a covering of ice will chill me to the bone,

but as long as I have a breath there is no darkness in the beauty of your light.

You who have been my guiding star,

you who held my tomorrows when I had no strength to hold on,

you who vanished one lonely night,

you still guide me as I descend one final lap and swim into the jaws of eternity, you did this for me.

If you know who you are, Thank you.  If you were lost forever that winter of our discontent well these words will have served me well as a final yell into the universe…it was worth it after all.

Images of Galleon in St. Augustine

Galleion

As I mentioned in the previous post, I pass by this 17th century Spanish War Ship each day that I cross from Anastasia Island to Cathedral Square.  I want to post a few more photo-impressionisms of this glorious work of art.  It is both beautiful and an architectural wonder.  Yet, we can not forget its purpose.  It was build to be a massively destructive war ship…so much for the fusion of desire and aggression.

But desire and aggression are not the issue this morning blog.  This ship is the center-fold.  Please enjoy a few more digitally crafted images of the Spanish Galleon.

250px-Spanish_Galleon

The above image is from a dictionary definition of Galleon, a ship built for war.  Don’t you just love the art of pen & ink.  I do, a precise, clean, black and white and grey rendition of the world.

Speaking of black & white this is a photo taken at sunset looking west over the town.

Image 3

Here she is, as if ready for a sun set cruise.  What must it have been like to live on one of these or to be and Oar-man on one of these.  The world must have appeared very small and dirty.  Yet with the sun setting on her bow, she looks pretty as a princess ready for a ball.

IMG_4358I could post more shots of this ship and when I board her to get a close up, I am sure that I will add details.

North of the Laurentien Mountains

This multimedia abstract depicts a fantasy village north of the Laurentien Mts, in Quebec, Canada…the colors imply the temperature in the village. It is both Native American and French Canadian in tradition. The person in the photo is suspended between earth and air suggesting the Roman Catholic ideas of heaven and earth. 
This region of the world is populated with memories of stories told to me by my wise grandmother in post cards dating back to the late 1940’s and in the stories she told me when she would return from visiting this holy ground where she was born. 
The stories were surreal to a young american boy hearing them through an imagination. What I remember most was the letters written to her by her sisters who had remained in Canada after the potato famine in the late 1800’s had brought many Canadian immigrants to the textile mills of New England.

She was born in a small village named St. Prospere. Her sister Marie Louise still owned a farm and frequently she would lament the loss of chickens because a grizzly bear from the great woods would have emerged from forest and raid the chicken coop…Bears could be seen walking down the paths and roadways. They would try not to kill them but when they became too aggressive they had to be hunted and a posse of men with rifles would take to the streets and the forest in search for the last bear that had become too familiar with the houses in the village….

Many of my paintings reflect memories of what villages and what life might have looked like from the perspective of a boy hearing the stories. Memere would say, ” matante justine called last night, the snow was so deep they had to carve a tunnel from the front door to the wood shed. The snow was over her head and the bears broke into the chicken coop again.”

These are images and memories etched like fairy tales in my mind…they linger as an unconscious source of creative energy and some of my paintings seem to reflect these embedded visionsImage