3.25.12 Everyone's Best Friend

Isla and and her owner accompanied me on my morning walk, and it was a pleasure to chat about the island and share some of our histories with each other, while accompanied by a minor angel (why minor?), who was unabashedly overjoyed to meet every other soul who crossed our path.

This post is just for Isla and her owner, in celebration of the angelic qualities so common in dogs and so rare in humans, which make living and connecting with other living beings a pleasure and a privilege.

Life flows on, in and around us—and sometimes you can know the inclinations of its heart by the movements of its tail and the openness of its smile.

D.E.S.

Meet Isla, an amiable creature who is thrilled to meet anyone who may cross her path, or anyone within eyeshot, for that matter. She is a fairly recent addition to the family of a neighbor who has become a friend in recent days, and who is every bit as engaging as Ayla. They are well matched. As for Ayla, I think one of my favorite authors, Jonathan Carroll, perhaps said it best:




"Dogs are minor angels, and I don't mean that facetiously. They love unconditionally, forgive immediately, are the truest of friends, willing to do anything that makes us happy, etc. If we attributed some of those qualities to a person we would say they are special. If they had ALL of them, we would call them angelic. But because it's only a dog, we dismiss them as sweet or funny but little more. However when you think about it, what are the things that we most like in another human being? Many times those qualities are seen in our dogs every single day--we're just so used to them that we pay no attention."

3.24.12 A New Season Begins

A bit of a murky morning, but you can take my word for it that spring has arrived here in Minneapolis, freakishly early but nonetheless welcome for that. The island has been crawling with tourists and other interlopers (read: non-residents) over the past couple of weeks, and it certainly makes it a more lively and interesting place. Yesterday, we met a number of neighbors and stood outside chatting for quite a while. Nice to finally meet a few new people, for instance, those we've only seen in passing, acknowledging each other with a wave or nod. Turns out the fellow next door who appeared somewhat aloof and curmudgeonly throughout the winter is actually quite friendly and has a nice smile when he chooses to unveil it.



Started my morning walk by taking the picture above of the railroad bridge, a shot which I feel has a nice balance to it and a bit of colorful interest supplied by the inexplicable orange hose hanging loose at its end, and the two orange lights beyond it. Love the latticed reflection in the river also. To the right are a few waterfowl. Well, two waterfowl anyway, with an island interloper in the form of a pigeon snobbishly turning his back on the other two. Unusual to see two ducks and a pigeon hanging around in such close proximity to one another, even if they are keeping a respectful distance. It seemed a good time to take a walk to the center of the bridge, so I did.

Here is the view to the southeast, where the river begins to veer off in an easterly direction before turning south again and continuing a short way before realizing it has forgotten to visit St. Paul and swings a U-turn and heads back north to do just that. The river does some very strange things before finally leaving Minnesota behind and riding the eastern edge of Iowa farther southward.

At this point I crossed the tracks and took a shot of the other side, where the river descends from the northwest. I realize this appears to be a grim gunmetal day, but I assure you that the sun is now shining and the island is in its springtime glory at this moment just outside my window. There's something very cool about being able to wander to the middle of this bridge anytime I like. I can leave my home and be here in less than one minute, and if I continue all the way across, in downtown Minneapolis in less than two minutes. Pretty awesome! Tonight we will walk across the Hennepin Avenue Bridge and continue through downtown until we reach Orchestra Hall to enjoy a performance of Varga, Haydn, and Schumann. It'll probably be a 30-40 minute walk, and hopefully the weather will remain favorable.


I couldn't resist sitting down in the center of the rails--in between the eastbound and westbound tracks--to take this shot. There's just something wonderfully lovely and romantic and aesthetically pleasing about train tracks. Maybe it's the cold hard industrial look of them, or the promise of travel embedded within them, of leaving one place for another, or maybe the idea of how much arduous labor went into laying them--I suspect all these factors contribute to the overall feeling one gets when contemplating a photo such as this one. Fortunately, a train didn't come along to disturb my tranquility. I took my pictures and sauntered on my way, back to the island to continue my walk.

Some of you may recall the photo included in an early post of this same sidewalk under the Hennepin Avenue Bridge, where someone had chalked in large block letters the words "FREE BRADLEY MANNING" -- this at a time when I'd had no idea who Manning was. It appears that the message has been updated, likely by the same pair of hands and same set of political convictions. The new message reads:
HOORAY FOR WIKILEAKS!!! FREE B. MANNING! FREE ASSANGE! INFORMATION MUST BE FREE!!!

Not being one to dwell on politics, I continued onward to the southeastern end of the island, where I chose this image to symbolize the arrival of spring. Rather lovely, I thought, the tree's first tentative thrusts of bright green contrasted against the comparatively dull, though sunlit, waters of the everpresent Mississippi River. Rebirth, it seems, is now all around me.

Returning home, I noticed the tree beside a neighbor's house, which only a few days ago, or so it seemed, was completely barren, yet here and now it has donned a garment of wondrous white, reminding me of a song I once sang to my children about "popcorn popping on the apricot tree." Though I doubt this is an apricot tree, it has nevertheless popped, and we are all the richer for it. When I was outside just a short time ago, getting something from the car, I noticed two men strolling along our block (tourists), who stopped to smell the blossoms on this tree. Good for them! Would that all of us could and would take the time to do likewise!

Life flows on, in and around us—and though it may remain dormant for a time, always it springs to life anew, within and without.

D.E.S.

3.18.12 Fishing for Information

It wouldn't be right to begin this day's post without a backward glance at last night's green-tinged festivities. Here is my lovely companion and I just after the Minneapolis St. Paddy's Day parade, in a local nightspot to which the various parade marchers had adjourned. We watched the parade curbside, and were surprised when our former nextdoor neighbor came marching along playing a sax. Who knew? We lived next door to him for the past 11 years and in all that time never once heard a single honk from a sax.

We began in the afternoon, walking over to the Northeast side of the river to Keegan's Irish Pub, where we partook of a corned beef sandwich and a couple of Harp Lagers. Later, we walked across the Hennepin Avenue bridge to the downtown side and watched the parade along the the Nicollet Mall. We joined our old neighbor at the Seven restaurant for a couple of beers and the complimentary food available there: hot dogs, beef stew, nacho chips, and bread: an odd assortment, and not particularly Irish, but it was free so who were we to turn up our noses?

We returned home to drop off my jacket, which was highly unnecessary given the crazy warm weather, then hopped a bus (all bus rides were free courtesy of Minneapolis Mass Transit) to Lee's Liquor Lounge to see the band Little Man perform. The downtown area was absolute chaos, streets jamed with revelers and traffic so that it took the bus 20 minutes to travel a single block, but Lee's—a couple blocks west of downtown—was, sadly, quiet and empty. I felt sorry for the bands who found themselves playing to a mere handful of people. But Chris Perricelli of Little Man, whom you may recall as the chap who recently took my record collection off my hands, played a great set and the band which followed was reasonably entertaining as well. That is, they played well enough to allow me to dance my ass off. Since I didn't have the camera handy, this shot of Chris is from a different show, but you get the picture.

Guess where we ended up at 2 AM — that's right, none other than White Castle for a couple orders of murder-burgers, as my friends and I once called them. And, as I also recalled from the past, there's nothing else that quite hits the spot at 2 AM after a night of drinking than those little onion-encrusted dainties.


Which brings me to this morning's stroll around the island, and the one photo I have to share: an older gentleman fishing on the eastern end of the island. I approached him and asked what he might hope to catch. Catfish and small-mouth bass, replied he. After which, we had a pleasant conversation about the island, where it seems that, long ago, he had been a resident. He shared bits of interesting island lore with me that I hadn't known. For instance, that long ago there had been a couple of bars on the island (talk about bad timing!), and a general store. He talked about St. Anthony Main, and a time when the only bar there was Pracna ... which is still there today.



I left this fellow to catch what fish he could, and returned homeward. Near home, I hailed a neighbor who was out tending her yard, and had a nice chat with her as well. Trees were budding, the sun was shining, birds were singing, and I had to pinch myself to make sure that I really was in Minneapolis in the middle of March. This is going to be a great spring, summer and fall!

Life flows on, in and around us—growing inestimably richer when we share it with others.

D.E.S.

3.17.12 Luck O' the Irish

Last night I returned from a week long business trip to Sacramento, and it was the first time I had ever been eager to return from California to Minnesota for the hospitable weather. It was raining from almost the moment I stepped off the plane in Sacramento until the moment I boarded the return flight, while the unseasonably delightful weather in Minneapolis the week I was gone, and when I returned, has been and is nothing short of freakish--and very welcome. And so, upon my return, stepping out of the airport and into the warm and sunny disposition of Minneapolis, I counted myself lucky in the extreme--which seemed suitable for St. Paddy's Day Eve, when we all try to cash in on a little 'luck o'the Irish.

The first thing I saw, upon starting off on my island walk early the next morning, was a horde of people streaming along the far side of the river, most of them wearing green shirts. It seemed that a St. Patrick's Day 5K race was afoot, so to speak. I snapped this photo and continued along my side of the river, observing the progress of the race as it snaked down toward the Hennepin Avenue Bridge and beyond.

Here is the second shot I took, in which the race participants can be seen underneath the arch of the Central Avenue bridge, as they begin to make their way onto the Stone Arch Bridge. I would have liked to participate in this race, but I'm not sure my body is quite ready, and at any rate, I hadn't known about it. But my body had better prepare itself quickly, for I have enrolled in the World Without Genocide 5K Legacy Run scheduled for April 1 inside the Metrodome--if I'm not sufficiently ready by then, I'm afraid I will deserve to be branded the April Fool.

Down at the eastern tip of the island, I observed this form as it moved through the river, as though with purpose, thinking it was a creature of some kind. Surely it couldn't be an alligator? Of course not--merely a piece of driftwood, playing tricks on my eyes with sunlight and watery wavelets. I love the reflections of the buildings falling toward me across the water.

As I rounded the tip of the island and began heading up the eastern shore, I noticed something new. Someone had done some trimming of tree branches, and as I walked I noticed where limbs had been cleanly lopped off, leaving flat-headed stumps of exposed pith whose whiteness was set off against the smoky-hued bark of the trunks and remaining limbs. I thought: Amputations.

My initial feeling was regret, and related censure, that the sylvan beauty of the area had been reduced by so many picturesque tree limbs. Yet I promptly realized that those who had perpetrated the scourge in question were most likely not depraved or sadistic nature haters, but more likely paid civil servants performing a task intended to facilitate and prolong the remaining life and overall health of the trees. And that thought led me to extend the analogy to human nature--not with respect to the actual amputation of human limbs, but rather with respect to the necessity, on occasion, to prune elements which threaten to infect, overburden or even lethally poison our lives. These elements may be unhealthy habits, they may be stressful or unsatisfying jobs, or even other people whom we have allowed to blight our happiness and future potential.

As suggested in these photos, the troublesome agents may be close to us, at ground level, as it were, where we see and interact with them closely every day, or they may operate upon us from a distance, with no less harmful effects. So many of us continue to live with these damaging and dispiriting elements, often because the efforts and operations required to amputate them from our lives appears too arduous, too fraught with fears and perils. And so we choose, often silently and sometimes subconsciously, to settle. The lesson taught by the surgically altered trees on this lovely St. Paddy's Day morn is this: we need not settle for the luck we've known until now, or for circumstances or people who are doing us harm and preventing us from growing; we can prune away the unwholesome elements, however difficult or fearsome it may seem, and resume a safe and healthy new life, in which we can pursue and achieve things we once could only dream about. We may not find a pot o'gold, but isn't peace of mind, freedom from unhealthy elements, and the opportunity to live our lives to the fullest even better?

Life flows on, in and around us—and flows most freely and joyously--like river waters through a sluice--when burdensome and toxic sediments are filtered out.

D.E.S.

3.11.12 Friends Old and New

Last night an old friend surfaced on Facebook to re-connect with me. It had been close to twenty years since I'd seen or spoken to him. Since that time, our lives have taken us in different directions, to different places both literal and figurative. Yet we have spent those years in many of the same ways--we've raised families, been part of a community, earned a living, and gone through each day doing what humans do--eating, drinking, loving, sleeping, pursuing our interests, and contemplating the universe. For, as I recall, he was a contemplative soul much like myself.

When last I'd seen this friend, he had begun to carve a chess set out of wood. At the time, he had completed a single piece--a pawn, I believe. Over the years, I have often wondered if he'd ever finished the entire set. Here you see the answer to my wonderings, and a sight that makes my heart glad. When considered against the myriad worthy endeavors which so many people set out to achieve but--for whatever reasons--never do, it is gratifying and admirable to behold my friend's achievement of this unique and challenging and time-consuming objective. Bravo!

Yesterday on my Saturday morning walk around the island, I made a new friend. A delightfully friendly and interesting person named Sarah (hmm, h or no h?), with whom I spent the better part of an hour chatting about the island and the experience of relocating to Minnesota. She herself had come from North Carolina, fairly recently. Sarah was a perfect model of how easy it is, or can be, to be friendly--something which, sad to say, many people have yet to understand and put into practice.

Just before meeting Sarah, I'd been looking out over the river with my feathered friends, who really behave as though, on this island, they rule the roost, so to speak. I noticed a couple of them just this morning, gracing with their regal presence one of those circular docks in the river. But I think this one picture of them will suffice, they've received enough exposure already through my lens.


A few steps farther along, and I passed Sarah sitting on a bench, on the rear patio of the Nicollet Island Pavilion building, accompanied by a canine companion and looking out over the river. It was a beautiful morning. We exchanged hellos as I walked past, but upon leaving the patio I stopped to regard something which I knew had not been there the day before.

That's right, these upright space heaters, about three of them, which gave me pause. I turned to survey the parking lot adjoining the Pavilion and noticed it was filled with cars and trucks, and that there were men unloading chairs and various articles. Ah, so there was to be a wedding reception or other event here today, hence the space heaters. Mystery solved. But as I stood there observing the parking lot activity, Sarah came along and asked if I was all right. I guess I may have looked a bit lost at sea. I assured her that I was in full command of my faculties, and we began chatting like old friends, just like that--although, in fact, we were brand new friends. It can be just that easy, folks! I guess we were really new acquaintances, perhaps to become friends in time, but I prefer to think of people I meet as friends, rather than as acquaintances, which is just too long a word and too much trouble to trot out.

But Sarah was not the only friend I made--here is her faithful companion, Taylor, who I suspect may have been expecting a treat to emerge from my pocket rather than a silly camera. The three of us continued around the island together, enjoying pleasant conversation and the occasional pause to urinate (Taylor, that is, not Sarah or I). I may have bid some very dear friends farewell (my LPs), but I have also made a new friend. I will continue to discover new music and perhaps listen to and store it in more contemporary and economical ways. And I will continue to make new friends and cultivate new experiences, travel to new places, and hopefully, think new and interesting thoughts, achieve new goals. But for now, I will simply enjoy what's left of this beautiful springlike weekend on Nicollet Island.



Life flows on, in and around us—friends come and friends go, and sometimes, they come again when we least expect.

D.E.S.

3.10.12 Shedding and Renewal

I had appreciated (or thought I had) the sacrifices that downsizing our lives to inhabit this compact apartment on the island would require, but today one of those sacrifices was undertaken swiftly and with finality, and it was perhaps the most meaningful one I've made thus far. If I lived alone, and did not share my daily life with another person, this sacrifice would likely have been unnecessary, but I do share my life and limited space with another. I recognize and embrace the value of being one half of a partnership, with all of the challenges and rewards of so doing. I believe that it is important to cultivate the ability to compromise, to listen to another person, to give and receive on a regular basis--I believe that such a life makes me a better person, a wiser one, and a happier one.

And yet, the possessions I have acquired and lugged around from place to place throughout our life together--possessions which, it seems, had come to own me rather than the other way around, were now--with only 600-square feet in which to live--crowding the other person out of my life. My things were clearly dominating our living space, and out of fairness and concern for the other person's happiness, it was time for me to chuck some of my ballast overboard so that she could rightfully claim her half of our limited space. And so, yesterday, the turntable and hundred or so LP's I have owned for the past 35+ years, were put out to pasture.

I felt as though a piece of my heart had been torn out and cast upon the waters, to float away into the great abyss. No, I didn't toss them into the Mississipi. Instead, I found someone that I suspected had a fondness for vinyl and the type of music I fancied, and it turned out I was correct. This talented musician of some local repute was kind enough to take it all off my hands, which eased the pain somewhat. And now, the next day, I feel better already. It was time. Part of our current life program is to seek new adventures, to discover new places, new interests, new friends, and yes, new music. The money we once used to amass material possessions will now be committed to travel and experiences. We will embrace the digital world (to some extent, that is--don't even get me started on books), so as to minimize the space-hogging objects in our life. And I think we will be happier people for it.

I could easily sit here and write a small (or large) book about the LPs and the profound role they have played in my life. I could rhapsodize over the many occasions when I sat and handled the album covers, poring over the printed lyrics, liner notes and images while their influence soaked into my DNA. I could pine over the many days of yesteryear when I played my guitar along with the records--going back, in fact, to when I bought my first guitar and sat beside the turntable attempting to replicate the licks of Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck, lifting the turntable's arm and setting the needle back down in the groove hundreds of times until I mastered (or thought I had) a particular lick. Or I could fondly recall the many Proustian moments evoked when listening to a given track on any of the many records, a snatch of vocal or rhythm or lead guitar solo that would bring back a specific place and time and set of circumstances with a vividness that could bring tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat. Or I could simply think of that wondrous feeling of anticipating a record release by a cherished band or artist, and the feeling of rushing to the store to buy it, then rushing home to tenderly unwrap it and cradle its cover in my arms while enjoying my first listen in the bedroom sanctuary of my youth.

Music is obtained and experienced differently today. Which, I suppose, is as it should be. And so, to avoid indulging my nostalgia and waxing wistful like an old fart, I will move on and welcome the differences of today's world into my life--new experiences, new places, new friends, and yes, new ways of obtaining and listening to music.

My next post will reveal something of what welcoming the new consists of.

Life flows on, in and around us—and occasionally we must relieve it of obsolete encumbrances, that it may flow all the more freely and joyfully.

D.E.S.

3.3.12 Looking Over the Overlooked

Here I am as I begin my morning walk on this chilly Saturday morning. I am on the northern (northwestern, technically) tip of the island, and I have set my camera down on the hill to take the picture. It came out better than expected. I like the dessicated weeds poking up in front of the lens, they sort of resemble the posture of a praying mantis. I am standing on the edge of a bluff, where one step forward would send me plummeting about 30-35 feet to the shore below. I take care to securely anchor my boots in the snow.

Here I am now at the exact opposite end of the island, where I am noticing for the first time how close this tip of the island is to the jetty, or jettylike embankment, which can be seen by looking straight out and underneath the arch of the bridge (this, by the way, is the bridge from which I took the photos for my last post, that of 3.1.12). The shot below shows the jetty in a zoom shot.


Funny, to suddenly spot something new in scenery I've gazed upon so many times. But then, isn't that a common phenomenon? We walk past the same scenery every morning for a year and then one day notice something that had been there all along, to which the control center in our brain had until then denied us access. I could easily swim from my position to the jetty, if so inclined (I doubt I ever will be).

For this shot, I lay prone on the snow, tilting the camera upwards just enough to capture the entire bridge and the Pillsbury sign in the distance, but not too tilted to capture the snow in the foreground. I'm happy with how this one came out, and love the patterns of light and ripples on the surface, while the jutting branches reach up out of the depths like long stiff arms.

As I picked my way northward along the eastern shore, this perky twiglet asserted itself, catching my eye with its frozen teardrop glinting in the sun, and its perfect shadow on the surface that makes it look as though someone has planted a divining rod (absurdly, as though there were any need to search for water here). It seems that Nature will always oblige with at least one striking image, when I venture out, camera in hand.

And here is the final striking image of my morning constitutional, a fallen tree that seems to have assumed the appearance of some saber-toothed beast, through whose frightful jaws I am able to capture a bitten-off glimpse of the Merriam Street Bridge beyond. I continued along the shoreline, at one point breaking through the brittle snow crust and plunging my booted foot into the river. No worries, I simply retrieved it and went on my way.

Life flows on, in and around us—sometimes requiring a period of adjustment before we can see and appreciate what it carries before our eyes.

D.E.S.

3.1.12 The Island Speaks (Yet Again)

Today my lovely companion and I took a stroll, it being a reasonably temperate day for the season, and ended up crossing the Central Ave. bridge to downtown Minneapolis. Halfway across, we spotted the piece of flotsam on the island's southeastern tip which someone had emblazoned with the word DREAM — this you may recall from an earlier post (2.1.12).

As I say, halfway across when what to our wondering eyes should appear but the same piece of flotsam, but utterly transformed!

Here is the first shot I took, to give a sense of the distance from which we viewed the surprising apparition. The broadcast message was clearly legible from this distance, and if you click on the image to enlarge, that should become clear. I proceeded to make use of the camera's ZOOM feature to obtain a closer look, and here you see the results, as I moved in closer and closer.

I must say that the perpetrator of this shoreline spectacle is one after my own heart with the messages with which he/she exhorts pedestrian Minneapolites as they cross the bridge. First DREAM, and now CREATE—two of my favorite pastimes! I for one will be sure to act upon the exhortation, but I wonder who else will. Surely I'm not alone in noticing and contemplating this phenomenon.

Since the last message seemed to have endured for the space of a month, I can't help wondering if the new message will likewise be replaced in a month's time, and if so, what will the next message be? I somehow feel that these messages are being broadcast alone for my benefit and enjoyment. And to that I reply: Carry On, O Generous Spirit of the Island, and Thank You!

As we continued across the bridge for a nice long walk throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening, I made a silent commitment (now not so silent) to strive to relentlessly pursue my dreams, and to make greater efforts than ever to create what I can, when I can—whatever productions my heart, mind and hands might conjure and to the best of my abilities imbue with a semblance of beauty that might outlive me and augment the lives of others in however small a way.

Life flows on, in and around us—sometimes sending out signals to remind us of all we are and have and can achieve.

D.E.S.

2.26.12 O'er the Island of the Free

Today there was quite a fierce wind whipping around the island, but it didn't stop me from pausing to admire Old Glory as she danced to its tune. There's a singular beauty in the way a flag moves with the breeze, or the breeze moves with the flag--at any rate, they move together, one visible, the other not, in an exotic tarantella whose furling and swirling beauty can arrest one's eye, even when that eye is tearing up and squinting against the cold.

Here, for your consideration, is the collage I put together of a number of shots I took while standing rapt before the flagpole that presides over De La Salle High School's athletic field--just a football's toss from where I live.

I see few other souls venturing abroad on this crisp morning, as I stand and contemplate the flapping folds of our nation's emblem. I guess this would have been an apter post for six days ago, Presidents' Day. But I'm really not making a patriotic statement or attempting to foist a sense of nationalistic fervor on anyone--just admiring what to my eye is simply another element on my island home which can carry and convey beauty when caught at the right time, in the right light.

While thus standing and admiring, I tried capturing the dancing standard in a video--a feature of my camera I have rarely used. As you view the result, you may now conclude that I am indeed issuing a patriotic statement--quite literally, in fact. But the fact is that it just seemed the appropriate sentiment--an audible caption, if you will--to accompany the visual image.

How do I feel about flag waving in general? The assertion of nationalistic sentiments, when done so to serve a political agenda, and when using a star-spangled banner as a catalyst to inflame emotions and spur action, too often has led to too many giving their brief and only lives for no justifiable reason--and justifiable reasons for doing this are few, in my opinion. As an artist and humanitarian, I value life and beauty above all else, and war

represents death and ugliness. And when a flag, or an idea/ideal, is used to promulgate and perpetuate unjust wars (and few are just), that otherwise attractive article becomes a weapon and its beauty is sacrificed along with the young lives it has stirred to action and whose caskets it is draped upon, as though to try to conceal the bitter fruits of the seeds it has sown.

And that is all I wish to say about that. I prefer to dwell upon the beauty to be found in the world we inhabit and in the lives we lead. And today, here on Nicollet Island, on a cold and blustery day, the American flag is a thing of beauty and nothing more.

Life flows on, in and around us—and the answers it provides, well, as Bob once said, they're blowin' in the wind.

D.E.S.