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SUMMER READING CORNER

Moments and More, by Brandon Jones

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The Watcher

     Dull and lifeless buildings rise up on both sides of me, crowding out whatever daylight filters in from the rectangular strip of gray sky above. It seems too dark for two in the afternoon.

     The cobblestones beneath my feet look lacquered and feel slippery from the damp, wet air. Their unevenness matches my own sense of unease, heightening my sensitivity and lowering my mood.

     The pervasive mist drizzles down into the narrow, empty streets of Citta Alta, a comprehensive relic of 12th century Italy. I zip my jacket and turn up my collar as thick, cold air seeps inside. November can be chilly in northern Italy.

     I walk slowly through the eerie streets, with no particular place to go or time to get there. Slightly depressed from the weather and traveling alone, it seems that sadness drifts about in the insidious mist.

     Turning a corner, a wide-open courtyard with old stone buildings rising on all sides spreads out before me. Nothing resembling modernity in that place sways my thoughts from the immediate and penetrating sense of oldness, of a time long past, long dead. I stand alone at one end of the Piazza San Marco, ancient in look and feel, shrouded in wet air and backlit by the weak light of the ashen sky. The heavy air presses against my skin.

     High above the piazza at one end, a series of ornate, gray-black stone Roman Arches span the piazza. Towering behind and well above the arches, an imposing 12th century Gothic church looms starkly against the gloomy sky.

     Centered midway in the arch and just below the long, flat top, the ancients sculpted the majestic figure of a lion from tan-colored stone. Every line smoothed into oneness from centuries of weather, it gracefully rules everything around it. The lion dominates the piazza, a lasting symbol of the great power the Venetians once exerted over this city.

     On the back of the lion, two angelic wings point upward toward the heaven-less sky. Directly below the fearful maw and in line with the hunter’s eyes, an open book rests in one powerful paw. Without a doubt, it knows I am here.

The Lion stands forevermore.
His winged back tight for flight,

a dream at best,

for the Romantic shall stand watch,
‘til vision and blindness are one.

The Lion reads forevermore.
His open book upright in sight,

a page at rest,

for the Learned shall stand watch
‘til wisdom and ignorance are one.

The Lion guards forevermore.
His potent stare says might is right,

an endless quest,

for the Strong shall stand watch,
‘til power and weakness are one.

For centuries past and to come,
above this timeless square,
this sagacious beast carved on high,
stands watch in stone.
The ancients have made it so …

On this eerie day,
gloomy and gray,
when misty veils drape,
like shrouds on spirits
long lifeless, yet adrift,
I sense.

In this solemn hour,
damp and dour,
when uneasy thoughts hang,
like moss on trees
long leafless, yet upright,
I feel.

At this exact time,
sullen and sublime,
when unsteady emotions sag,
like couples on edge
long loveless, yet staying,
I write—

A thousand years have washed this place,
and countless souls
have tread this spot well worn.
And now,
The Watcher watches me.

Il Fiorentino Piange
(The Florentine Cries)

     Will this rain ever stop? I am wet, and my feet ache after walking the streets of Florence for most of this miserable day. Nevertheless, once again, this great city has opened up to allow me a small taste of its rich culture. On the other hand, the warm apartment that awaits me on the other side of the Arno river is a welcome thought indeed. Down this narrow street, a few short blocks to the Ponte Vecchio, and I am home.

     As I wind my way through the labyrinth of streets in the late afternoon, the misty rain continues to fall. Turning down an unfamiliar alleyway in an effort to find a shortcut, a tiny patio with six small, round, blue tables unexpectedly appears. To the left is a double glass door that reveals a bar. Behind that, a woman dressed in a white shirt and black vest is waiting just for me to order a glass of wine.

     Large canopies above the tables give protection from the easy rain. At one of the tables sits a couple leisurely enjoying their wine and each other. It is a warm and inviting picture. His right arm and hand rest easily on the table and his left drapes the back of the woman’s chair lightly touching her side just inside her arm. She lovingly cups his one hand on the table with both of hers. Their foreheads are inches apart. His eyes warmly look to the crown of her head; hers caress the movement of fingers gently roaming over his hand. Both glasses of half-full white wine sit ignored in their instant of communion.

     The invitation to rest here and cap off my day cannot be refused. I order a glass of white wine from the bar and sit down outside, two tables away from the only other people there. The wine tastes good, and it accomplishes its purpose—my body and mind relax. This moment of ease in the rain is quite beautiful and peaceful.

     Then, like a ship emerging from a deep fog, two women materialize from the street. In the misty rain they stand, not quite onto the patio. Together they have stepped up to the edge of our tiny world in that dreamy outside bar so far away from home. Clearly, both are distressed as they embrace tightly. The taller woman strokes the hair of the smaller one. The smaller one, her face buried deep into the shoulder of the other, is sobbing silently.

What light remains is fading fast.
I’ve forgotten where my feet have passed,
I only know the die is cast—
my journey home has come at last.

Quickly now, this way leads home!
What is this—a bar unknown?
Small and quaint, it stands alone,
a Siren’s tune for tired bones.

I heed the song to taste this place,
a hidden world, behind its face.
A couple sits, their eyes embrace.
They’re drinking wine without a pace.

Misty tears from secret eyes
lightly veil the cloud-gray sky.
The tables blue do not ask why;
they simply call to passersby.

“Come in. Come in. Please step inside.
Come sit, relax, release your stride.
Our wine has fame far and wide.
Please sip a glass of maker’s pride.”

And so I go the tables’ way.
I drink a toast to end the day.
I drink a toast to lovers’ play.
I drink a toast, since I may…

Peaceful, yes, our world has been,
then two young women step within.

They stop and stand in deep embrace.
We only see one woman’s face.

She gently strokes the hair so wet
of the other whose face is buried yet.

We watch them hug, their bodies close,
a tug of love, a double dose.

Apart they split, now we can see
the other’s tears flow ceaselessly.

A kiss is pressed upon her brow,
a careful touch of love know-how.

A look, a step, they’re on their way.
Away they go, but not to play.

Moving slow, they shuffle by,
head to head, not eye to eye.

A moment played, then quick to go,
a blessed gift to witness though—
that tender tryst amidst our glow
from wondrous wine that stills the flow.

My moment’s mates arise to leave;
they cast a look that I retrieve.
Our common thought I do perceive—
one broke a heart, the other grieves.

I cannot say what thoughts they take.
Perhaps each fears that heartfelt ache.
The lesson here, make no mistake.
The art of love is what we make.

Like mine, like yours, all hearts do play,
but break they might, when in a fray.
So knowing this, the price we pay—
is in Love’s game the place to stay?

“Another glass of wine, per favore.”

The Herd

     There are bigger, more majestic, and perhaps more dangerous mountains than the Sierra Nevadas, but none could offer more peace or solitude. At least I don’t see how I could get more of what this is somewhere else. Rising above me to heights of 13,000 feet or more, these mountains singularly make me feel simultaneously small and grand. Sitting here in this wide valley, on the edge of this not so deep, dry gorge cut from the flow of winter’s melted snow, I feel somehow in touch with something, somewhere out there. Perhaps it is not out there at all. Maybe what I am connecting to is in here, inside of me. Perhaps.

     I guess in a manner, it is true that the connection I am feeling is to me, myself, a sense deep in my consciousness. But the slight tingling in my spine, the almost imperceptible touch on the back of my neck, and the pervasive sense of presence in this spot are my clues that beyond me, outside of me, here and yet not, some working force knows me, understands my deepest needs in a moment, and is forever laying opportunity at my feet. This working force—a thing of a magnitude beyond my comprehension— never directs me to see what’s at my feet. It seems its role here is to present, not to inspire or to move. No, inspiration and movement surely must come from inside me, which is of a nature different than the force around me. No, it is my job to do something with what is presented. This is why I ponder these abstract notions of what is and isn’t. This is why I come to this quiet spot in this majestic place.

In silence, from nowhere,
like scouts of western fame,
deer just crossed into my space,
unaware they’re near the place
I hide for peace and quiet.

Their color like autumn grass,
these agile creatures prance,
five-dozen do their dance,
through chaparral thick
and deep sand soft.
Forward motion,
carefully timed,
remaining in synch—
trained soldiers parade
no smoother.

Halt!

Some danger sensed.
He with striking rack
and muscled back
stops.

Look!

A search begins.
He with a slight head nod
and shoulders broad
turns.

Icy still, he stares,
sending tacit signals.
The column freezes
like victims of Medusa—
statues forever in stone.

Across the narrow gorge,
eyes alert, ears engaged,
he sniffs the high-desert air.
Looking for me,
as attentive as he?

The game’s afoot,
no hoof will put
a print in sand,
‘til danger leaves
or is at hand.

A test of will,
no movement, still—
rocks rooted in the earth.
Neither he nor I
blink an eye.

At last, a sweep—
the search complete.
His great buck horns
aim east again,
needle points to journey’s end.

The freeze thaws.
His column marches onward.
Commanding, as sentry he guards,
while all others press on.
Another secret message sent.

The last deer passes.
Vigilant he lingers, duty-bound,
just a moment more holding ground.
Turning, his unease dismissed,
he leaps away.

Into its future,
the fading herd dissolves,
melting into valley color.
His impression still felt,
I wonder, who won that game?

Dear great artists of old,

     We hope this letter finds you all in a truly wonderful place, as here you are all held in great esteem with places of honor.

     To you, the best creators and replicators of history’s magical moments—those “snapshots” that hold in the center and stretch to their very edges, replete with richness, deep saturation, and utterly profound meaning for Everyman as well as Kings—we write to convey a sentiment held by many, but not all, certainly. Please understand that the conveyance of this feeling in no way intends to lessen your contributions; rather, it is a humble attempt to levitate the artistic creations of us, the lesser mortals.

      In your times, as in ours, hubris can drive creation, so thank a god for excessive pride. Still, though, mimesis was a dangerous game at your lofty heights. In your day, Beauty was a gift from Heaven’s portfolio, and the models for such imagery rose high above the mundane of ordinary life. The gods were surely watching.

     Your beauteous moments were flights of fancy captured in the instant of fruition. A slice of that perfectly ripened fruit was but a taste of life in its most poignant and inspiring position; yet, our moments too are flights of fancy captured in the instant of fruition. Do we capture them to your artistic degree? We dare not say. Our moments, though, are rich, beauteous, and magical in their meaning to us. If they are universally profound, it is not ours to say either. Time will make both judgments. Better still, there is no chance to offend any god, as our art is a gift from life unfolding, and its models exist ever-present in the reality of daily living. Thus, for anyone, any moment that touches deeply is one to both savor and capture.

      We understand muses inspired your great efforts. Perhaps, unknowingly, it is the same for us. Or perhaps inspiration for us comes in a moment as simple as watching a mother, her small daughter, and their dog walk a stream in the woods on a sunny morning. Although the representation of that moment may lack in comparison to your great efforts, it is, we dare say, as poignant as any art ever created.

     In closing, we humbly ask that you understand we direct our artistic efforts toward trying to rise above what at times seems to be the pallor of our coldly, factual world. Though we will never flirt with the wrath of gods, we will, in our most human attempts to capture Beauty, bang our heads on the ceiling of our own limitations.

Sincerely,

Artists of Now

Summer rays peak golden
in the late morning sky,
cutting through canopies of green,
shaping shafts of shaded light,
gleaming off rippling water
gurgling gently on its slight
downhill run.

My eyes hold fast,
bathed in dry white light,
a warm image of now,
and what will be.

Two lives as one,
hand in hand,
gingerly stepping
on mossy and not so rocks
resting in fluid glass.
Careful and more so.

Tall and small,
one clad, the other not,
delighting both
in Nature’s gift
of warm woods presenting
“Dancing Light with Shadows
Upon a Clear Woodland Stream”.

Inches only deep,
the brook flows clear
and not so swift;
yet swift enough—
slight curl against ankles.

So ancient is the teaching
of older to younger
mother to daughter—
A way without ways.

Black dog tromps gleeful
in the now-moment present,
splashing in unknowing,
scaring scores of skating striders,
having already learned,
but not by his mother—
instinct only …

Not so, little bare one.
She must watch, feel,
touch, hear, and trust
her teacher high above her.

One life from two,
innocent in ignorance.
Awe and unfettered joy
hold the tongue; yet,
Her eyes wide speak,
“I am safe.”

Rock and pebble,
precious one, the other too,
value both.
New, untested things
belie the education; yet,
Her stretched smile reveals
school can be fun.
And she of covered virtue?

As beautiful as magic makes
in any moment—
calm, patient, loving, giving
to Her of naked naïveté.

Learn well child,
for your mother knows.
And you shall also—
for yours one day.

Dusty Dancer

     The alpine day is closing. The light wind blows gently from the west. Too much heat is turning to just enough warm. Soon it will turn cool and then cold in this alpine valley, but for now, the warm rays pleasingly caress my skin.

     From this hill of ancient, volcanic dust, I can see 360 degrees. Behind me loom the high peaks of the Sierra Nevada Range. As they stretch far to my left, their monumental stature shrinks into a panoramic of impressive rock. To my far right, the White Mountains, the dividing line between this alpine valley and the desert floor below, glow in the fading light of the late summer sun. Across the valley, directly in front of me, the Glass Mountains reach out with their growing dark fingers to steal the brilliant light from their far-off neighbors to the east. My eyes close to a deeper connection. I am alone atop this heap of petrified cinders. As far as my eye can see, I am alone.

     A slight shift in the gentle breeze, east to west for an instant, calls me back. My eyes open and there she is, a dust wraith spinning in the air. This way and then that, she dances beautifully without consistent form. In a soundless world, her fluidly, conical shape twists and spins, now and then lifting and swirling small pieces of refuse from the valley floor.

     Wispy fingers loosely curve, conforming to the whirl of mass in motion, while pointed toes touch and skip across the gray-sand floor, carefully sliding past props of chaparral and sagebrush. Faster and faster, she twirls to the beat and rhythm of unwritten music, becoming ever more frenetic, more passionate, more wild.

     Another slight shift in the easy wind, from the west, it breathes again. With that, she is gone. Having fallen from the heights of artistic adulation to scattered particles lost in the sameness of valley dust, she has dissolved into nothing. For a natural moment, she graced the scene, a free-form artist, unknowing, unseeing, unfeeling, completely engulfed in magical beauty.

Quietly,

Nature’s warm western breath
rouses dusty Earth,

Formless forms
in Magic’s way
a movement.

A pirouette, perhaps.
A flight to music
heard only by her,
Air’s passionate prancing waif.

A whirl, a wind,
as misty thin
she glides,
ghostly pale on feet unseen,
tip-toe touch, down to her mark.

A twirl, a spin,
as on a pin
she dances,
wispy flight on wings unfelt,
light-lift leap, away to her scene.

Ethereal artist,
landing lightly,
touching down slightly,
whispering brush aside,
sweeping easily across center stage.

Whirling round,
floating forward,
spinning sideways,
twirling backwards—
Graceful.

Flits and darts,
stirring all around her.
This way, now that—
Fleeting.

Now gone!
To sleep on Valley’s floor
’til Nature cues again.

Zephyr’s child,
dancing spirit, once, now

Nothing.

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