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

Advertisements

What The Dickens…..

vibrant

Spending an afternoon strolling around the flora and fauna of St Augustine compels one to want to create.  This town feels so organically grown, so free of stereotypes and so open to allowing in the well-to-do vacationers to spend money to their hearts content.

The art community is so plentiful that I dare say it is over-populated with well meaning folks like myself who consider themselves an artist whether or not any one else considers them so.

If art for meditation is what you are looking for–look no further, St. Augustine offers a plan for the sincere to the talented.  Walking with my camera in this town let’s me challenge my concept of beauty at every nook and cranny and corner or circle that I come to.

These are the best of artist and the worst of artists, misquoting Mr. Dickens.  And while we are on the topic of Dickens an image from a Tale of Two Cities comes to mind.  All that glitters is not gold.

For some, the struggle of homelessness is as real here among the tranquil serenity as it is in the sub-ways of grand cities.  Poor is poor; and, as more of us are becoming poorer and poorer, there is an upper-crust of society that is as rich as any previous Guilded Age.

Our delightful, little, oldest city on the continent is no exception.

decay charcoal and color

My fickled brain loves Augustine again, not despite its decay, but because of its decay…impermanence is much easier to swallow in the warm than in the cold.

In My Craft or Sullen Art

In My Craft or Sullen Art

BY DYLAN THOMAS

In my craft or sullen art   
Exercised in the still night   
When only the moon rages   
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light   
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms   
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages   
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart   
From the raging moon I write   
On these spindrift pages   
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms   
But for the lovers, their arms   
Round the griefs of the ages,   
Who pay no praise or wages   
Nor heed my craft or art.
 Image
 
To be engaged in life, with life, is the gift of consciousness; an alert consciousness, a consciousness that is deliberate and pays attention to those activities and moments that
resemble something that makes us smile and gives us joy.  
Have you ever heard the moon raging–I have, it sounds like the baying of wolves.  It is a sound of anguish flooding the immediate universe with pain or concern and not a soul
hears the cry of their most secret hearts.
The tears in the night that linger in a dry eye, the lack of a common wage, a spirit broken because the hopes have become empty wishes and there is no vision beyond what your eye can see.  These bayings of an empty heart howl across the lake as the full moon shines down to emphasize the stillness.
It is for these souls that I write and for mine and yours:
 
But for the lovers, their arms   
Round the griefs of the ages,   
Who pay no praise or wages   
Nor heed my craft or art.