Crossing

Here’s how poet, Sylvia Plath, put it about sixty years ago:

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Crossing The Water

Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people.

Where do the black trees go that drink here?

Their shadows must cover Canada.

A little light is filtering from the water flowers.

Their leaves do not wish us to hurry:

They are round and flat and full of dark advice.

Cold worlds shake from the oar.

The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.

A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.

Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?

This is the silence of astounded souls.

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Not bad, right? Especially that part of the “silence of astounded souls.”

By contrast, all the astounded souls who crossed the water last evening made lots of noise—enough, in fact, to cause the purple-haired park ranger to contact Bellevue’s finest for a look-see.

Good news, however: the shenanigans of (chronological, if not psychological) adults pale in comparison to those performed by teenagers, who literally flip heads over heels from great heights while their elders do so only metaphorically.  Interest on the part of the authorities wanes, therefore, pretty quickly when the divers depart.

And maybe it’s only imagination at work, but it sure does seem like the water on the fancy side of the lake is more pleasant than its western counterpart; it’s not hard to believe that every morning those eastside municipalities send out divers with pinking shears to trim the milfoil; that’s how nice it is, really.

And if that weren’t enough, consider this lagniappe: turn your head around while crossing the water back and witness the full Strawberry moon emerging from behind the lakefront ridge.  I’m not sure that this counts as one of the “expressionless sirens” Plath was writing about, but it sure was blinding in its valedictory pale hand.  

“Stars open among the lilies,” sounds about right to me, too.

Agog

We live in a paradise, aesthetically speaking for sure and almost certainly from the standpoint of options for recreational experience, as well.  There is no end of natural beauty to admire and many of the human constructions are worth looking at, too, while shaking your head in wonder at the endless ambition of our species to keep building upon building.

You don’t want to get too comfortable at the first lookout point because there’s still so much to see, the prime example being all of the mountain in the distance that’s probably the main reason all of this is here the way it is, as our ancestors in the area no doubt knew much better than any of us—even given the view we’re afforded beneath the power lines.

The most enjoyable downhills are typically followed by the worst (that is, best) uphills, but it’s worth it: how else will you find yet another descent, this one all the way to the water that’s another reason for this existence, as again, those here long before us attested to by that very existence itself.

The first swim of the year is an event to be celebrated, as it will, one hopes, portend many more immersions before the season runs out.  You know the drill: air and water essentially the same temperature, a cold beer consumed and simultaneously drained; that this joy is ephemeral makes is even more joyful, a paradise, evanescing, indeed.

A color that’s shut-your-mouth lovely in the western sky would be unspeakably horrific were it a bruise on your body, which just goes to show that context is everything.  If you were dreaming this life, you’d have to believe you were dreaming.  That you’re living it is an unimaginable dream of its own.

It’s no surprise that things splinter at the end; too many options and not enough names.  Each of us, though, retains some of all of us; this much is too much for anyone.

Patience

It’s pleasant to observe how the 1% live; apparently, you get to drive your Cadillac Escalade or whatever right up to your corporate suite at the football stadium; also, apparently, the poor wage slaves hired to keep an eye on things from the security of their glassed-in booth at the entrance have been brainwashed by their corporate overlords to believe it’s their responsibility to make sure no two-wheeled miscreants sully the panorama by riding around and drinking beer on the rooftop platform; the good news there is it means that a mere fifteen minutes into the evening’s festivities, you’ve already been rousted out by some semblance of authority so, for the rest of the night, you’re playing with house money, so to speak, and even if there are no other occasions for breaking stupid rules, one of the main criterion for success has already been met, which means it’s not necessary to be locked into the dusk-closing park just for the hell of it; nor does it become a requirement to start a fire in someplace where the odds of detection and early extinguishing are increased by time or illuminated regulations; instead, one finds their way well into the woods and an all-weather spot, pretty much custom-made for just the sort of warming glow to take the chill off a cool, dry, and moonless late-spring night, only a week or so short of what would be the shortest darkness of the year, and standing around, finishing up the remains of the day, you can reflect on how it was and will be, all the way back to where it started, more or less, while continuing to enjoy this version of things, which, once again, has its own unique charms and souvenirs, none the least of which is yet another chance to glide slowly back the way you came, savoring the late-night view of all you’ve seen before so many times, but never tire of seeing like this.