Charades

Photographs lie.

Extraneous reality is framed out.

Perspective and lighting are carefully selected.

One moment out of an infinite series of moments is chosen.

And yet they can convey something important.

Eyes aren’t much better.

We notice only a fraction of what we see.

We commit to memory only a fraction of what we notice.

Frankly, we interpret what we see without thinking through a lens of preconception.

And yet sometimes we do see.

Truth and accuracy are overrated.

It’s less important to determine how things really are than to recognize what they mean –

to me, to you.

I already think my photos are good

enough for the company.

I want to know which ones you like, and why.

They mattered enough to me to show.

The question is do any of them mean something to you?

As far as I’m concerned this is all one big game of charades.

I have gestured my clues.

I have pantomimed one idea after another.

I have jumped up and down, flapping my arms.

I have slapped my forehead in disbelief.

One day, you and I will be walking across the bridge

and I will point my finger out over the water winking sky and sun

and then, finally, you will see what I see

and touch the tip of your finger to the tip of my nose.

And we will hold hands and jump over the railing –

and ascend into the ever blackening sky,

up through the empty, empty spaces between the stars

until finally we hit one

and are drawn deep into its fiery core –

and then we will continue as we usually do

to the other side of the river

like nothing has happened.

Writing Nonsense in my Head

Ran into Starbucks.

A silver dollar

for an unlined sheet of paper

and a number 2 pencil.

My cache is full.

Words,

whole lines

are spilling over

into the cracks of the sidewalk.

A half-polished thought

slipped through my circuits

and rolled into the storm drain.

Coffee can wait.

I’m losing my mind

faster than I can cram

new ideas into the leaks.

Should have bought

that smartphone

before pens

became scarcer

than swords.

Learning to See

Consider Paul Jantzen's "Prairie Wanderings," which I have been reading a few essays at a time. What he has seen in places I have sped by, not to mention his ability to note in poetic detail as well as explain how these fragments connect to the broader world, astonishes me. He has an exquisite gift and a highly-developed skill of seeing.

So how does a person learn to notice and appreciate the wonders around them?

On my walk to the river, I pass the same sights. The time of day and the seasons change. Sometimes I am struck by what see. Sometimes it’s background.

I am more likely to find aesthetic satisfaction if I look for it. Trying to take a good photograph can provide that focus.

Clearing my mind of rubbish helps.

Noticing something for the first time is intrinsically satisfying, I think. Yet seeing and appreciating the same thing repeatedly builds a kind of depth.

What is this appreciation, other than the recognition that something is good? Or is it the act of recognizing something that makes it good? Some firing of reason and emotion in my brain that connects who my species has become to what I now value?

But to continue, without clear understanding.

For now and then, when I am in the act of putting one foot in front of the other, I am halted by a sensation, sometimes euphoric, that what I am experiencing is so wonderful that I am simply and profoundly grateful to be alive at that time and place.

And then the sensation will pass. But it lingers, etched in memory. And perhaps I walk the same path again and again hoping to find it again.

But a good walk, with only small satisfactions, is often more than enough. And apparently, easily missed.

The question remains: How do I learn to notice and appreciate the wonders around me?