Thursday, October 1, 2015


An Odyssey.
An Arrival.
A Conclusion.

A Beginning.

we did this
Directions from Easthampton, MA to Los Angeles, CA
Walking directions: 3,107 miles; 1,016 hours.

We took a truck.

Friday, September 18, 2015

An Odyssey

An Odyssey

We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone, and one which we intend to win, and the others, too.  -- JFK

Use caution - may involve errors or sections not suited for walking.

These directions are for planning purposes only.

You must obey all signs or notices regarding your route.

The adventure begins.

Thursday, August 6, 2015

fugit inreparabile tempus

just like that, the weather changes

To travel faster than the speed of light is to travel forward in time. Hypothetically and theoretically, tachyons are able to do this, as they have an imaginary mass (the square root of minus one:  √−1 ), but tachyons in all likelihood aren't a thing. The rest of us travel forward in time at exactly the speed of whatever time is.

Einstein's special theory of relativity states that a finite speed of light protects us from time travel: without it, we could wander around in time essentially the same way we can wander around in space. This protects the past from the future; it's up to us to protect our future from the past.

stat sua cuique dies

(all errors are my own)
both photos credit KGG

Monday, June 22, 2015

from the archive 5

Postcards from Easthampton past.

This morning I stopped by my favorite stationary store to replace my last Town Hall postcard, which I sent last summer (everyone needs a Christmas in July postcard). The woman who runs the store had sold the last one! But very kindly gave me the somewhat damaged 'display' card that she was able to find. Apparently my disappointment was writ clear on my face.

The building "for sale" (old Williston gymnasium) is now a bank parking lot; the old Town Hall is now an arts center. The new City Hall is in a fairly ugly building that aspires to midcentury modern, and was the administrative offices for a now-closed factory. Progress!

They still put up lights, but no more of that lovely lettering.

Friday, June 12, 2015

riding the rails (redux)

what to listen to: the memory palace episode 38
We seem to be experiencing a sibling-transport parallel.
Two brothers, automobiles and trains.
The next in the series must be planes and ships, for the sisters.
The entire book is constructed from postcards: the slipcase, the cover, the pages.

The Registry sends postcards as license renewal reminders.
Yes, my first thought upon receiving this notice was "re-purpose!"
My second thought was: "Do I or do I not keep my current photo?" (undecided)

cover postcard: reproduction from Historic Northampton

explanatory text, since that's my thing

cards hinged into sections

sewn on a concertina, since postcards lack flexibility
image: engineer at his retirement party

Shelburne Falls is a tiny village populated by artists, old-school Yankees, and escapees from New York City. There’s a range of galleries, cafes, and bookshops, and a reserved parking spot in front of the coffee shop for the police. The upstairs of the Town Hall shows old movies every month, and there is a candlepin bowling alley with two lanes and a small bar. The downtown is two blocks long.

I was there most recently in May 2015, and found myself, for the first time, in town at the same time the Trolley Museum was open (Saturdays, 11 am to 3 pm). So I went in, and discovered this array of vintage postcards. From the numbers stamped on the backs, they were apparently the “master stock” of cards that could be ordered for sale. From the range of locations of the images, my guess is that they were photographs taken by one of the engineers as he traveled throughout the region. The staff were somewhat shocked when I purchased so much of the stock, but these are some of the best railroad photographs I’ve seen.

riding the rails (full story)

Many things never to be seen again have passed by these windows, shaking in the shadows cast by box cars, passenger cars, the links on the train speeding past the back of the building. This is the room beloved by small boys and avoided by responsible grown-ups, a room which is one step away from running away and joining the circus or hopping the next train out of town and exploring the unknown secret paths and worlds linked by the railway.

Unmapped from village to village, it speeds indifferently past swamp and forest, subdivision and slum, city and field. Die-hard enthusiasts chart times and locations in their little black notebooks, waiting expectantly for the 10.39 southbound from Chicago or the 2.23 west to Phoenix.

Today's rumor holds that the trains will be stopping, no longer serving the mysterious depots linked by these very tracks beyond the building. Soon it will be deconstructed into a bike trail, with only the memory of the concept of train, the mysterious smokiness of a midnight escape into a parallel world. Soon there will be no more fantasies about forbidden worlds; there will only remain the well-lit perambulations of the mothers with prams.

What will this world resemble, the day time world bleached of the mystery of the midnight rattling train? Where do the people in that other universe of mottled greys sleep, eat, shop; where are their friends, families; what are their entertainments? Is it too late now to learn how to ride the boxcars, hitch a ride with an indeterminate destination and an ever-changing route? To find the rhythms of the unseen never-nine-to-five?

This is the life that has been pitched as sordid, dark, dirty. The hobos always slightly hungry and completely drunk, at least in those times when they aren't slightly drunk and completely hungry. Hot water showers, feather pillows, regular laundry service are the sacrifices from the daytime world to ... to ... to ... a land from where only the most subjective stories escape.

A world of tramps, beggars, prostitutes, drugs, alcohol, disease, theft. A world of communal brotherly love free from middle class consumption expectations; a world of secret meaning and unspoken codes, Boy Scouts who never returned from a camping trip, but loaded the pup tents and propane stoves into the badge encrusted backpacks and took their skills with flint to a new land of opportunity. A world of half-crazy social rejects who should be in institutions, but wandered off the sanatorium grounds or were discharged when insurance ran out or escaped from family arrangements to disappear into a netherworld, a place that may or may not make more daily logical sense than the outward tokens of the civilized world.

Into this sea of shadows and half-recognized personalities and fragments of lives left behind or lives unlived, the sorrow of broken dreams, the anguish of broken families, the misery of broken hearts. The decay of dirty laundry, dirty skin, dirty rails, dirty boxcars, dirty camps. The freedom from news stories, stock reports, traffic jams, florescent lighting, cubicles, mundane repetitions, alarm clocks, insurance claims. The freedom from studying maps and analyzing outlooks and making deadlines and of creating a sense of urgent importance.

This is why small boys sit in this room and wave to conductors, eagerly wait, quietly, for the roar and shake of the train passing by, Union Pacific or Santa Fe or Northern or even Amtrak echoing down a secret hallway. The boys recognize their futures proscribed in the schoolroom, a future of straight lines and rows of uncomfortable chairs and too small desks set at the wrong angle; a future of twenty minute lunches in sanitized cafeterias that smell of grease and Clorox; a future of badly fitting business casual and early male pattern baldness; and these boys know that is not for them.

For them are the day long escapes into neighborhood-wide hide and seek, the forts behind abandoned houses or in the trees behind cemeteries, the gangs of roving youths with handshakes and coded language to separate friend from foe. The boys are enthralled not with the love of being irresponsible -- they are not Peter Pans shirking duty -- rather, they are in love with the grey areas, the figures moving in the shadows cast by the trees, the half-seen, half-heard, half-fabled world that they can almost grasp: but when the hold is too tight, the shadows slip between the cracks of the fingers, and are lost to the demands of sharpened number two pencils and math homework and mowing the lawn and younger brothers who refuse to go back where they came from, because the shattering noises of the tag-along scares away the shadows.

Always carry a pocket knife. Always waterproof matches. Know how to knot, how to signal with a mirror, how to bind a broken bone or build a tourniquet. Know how to absolve responsibility and how to avoid entrapment. Know how to escape a fight and how to break a nose. Know how to shoot to kill, how to shoot to maim, how to skin a squirrel.

These boys no longer have career days at school that allow for the occupations of Johnny Appleseed and Davy Crockett; the grand colonial explorations and exploitations of the empire have ended; space is not the final frontier, it is a box of gravity-free tedium, and bad food and bladder issues. The only modern route for an explorer is to disappear into the cracks of the uncharted lands of civilization, to fall between the rails. To follow in the footsteps of thieves, bandits, petty criminals, murderers, the criminally insane, the physically unusual, and disappear into the smoke and mirrors beyond dry cleaned shirts and fortnightly spreadsheets.

The boys wear their blue-striped hats and their overalls, and in the dirt behind the shed they practice hobo signs. These might not be the hobo signs in use by that transient mass, but they practice scratching, hiding, recognizing, discovering, honing attention for the days when attention is crucial. Not for the seven times table or the correct spelling of scissors -- but for the express or the local, the northern or southern, the friendly conductor or the aggressive enforcer. They would have built ships, carved canoes, discovered canyons and dinosaurs and the secret unseen lives of the others, but all they hope for now is to disappear.

Now, though, the rail line is scheduled to disappear, a diminishing demand for freight, a lack of maintenance of the infrastructure, new engines too expensive and old cars too worn. Safety standards too strenuous, trade routes too altered, and everything automated for delivery tomorrow. Delivery yesterday.

So this train line will lie quiet at the end of the month, an exploratory team is already in negotiations to erase the link with the secret unseen world of the tracks and replace it with the sanitized acceptabilities of jogging bankers and cycling schoolteachers. The boys will no longer come to this room, paralyzed by the count of engines, box cars, coal cars, flat cars, caboose, struck dumb by the peek into a society they almost belong to. Once they could access the hidden potential of a full life straining at the bit to be grasped, to be experienced, but now the secret code is slipping away.

Without the trains, without the small boys, this room will lie empty and forsaken, until the building is renovated and this becomes the conference room, with patterned chairs in shades of mauve, and a stifling view of the daytime multiuse trail, a reminder during meetings that even leisure is productive. Where will the boys go? Where will the doors crack open into the secret society of unexplored options, the beckoning call of the might have been, the might become?

written Oct. 2, 08
dedicated to MJG

Monday, June 8, 2015

from the archive 4

Photos from a theme park that had been a resort that is now maybe a research center? Anyway, it was a big part of my childhood, and I was thrilled to discover some older postcards last time I was there.

(Last time I was there was well over 12 years ago, and maybe perhaps involved some creative interpretations of the purpose of perimeter fencing)

Of all the postcards that I bought, only one remains. It won't be sent.

Here's a great article about the park.

Bertha, the cycling parrot.

Mermaids! They drank Coke!

Cheap family joke. My father's a Ralph. He likes to swim. He likes to eat. Oh, how we laughed.


In related news, I decided that watching "Rushmore" was preferable to attending my 20th reunion. Texas scenery, Texas drama, with a celluloid buffer.

Friday, May 29, 2015

peoms & peonies

From an escape up north (whence a wee one was still in utero), a poem from a friend, now available online. Apologies that said poet has strong ideas about formatting, so said poem is a pdf file.

configurations: pinhey’s point, | rob mclennan

Photos from the same journey.

The peonies are in bloom. Bliss all around.

Monday, May 25, 2015

from the archive 3

These are the recently unearthed working files from the calendar project, an artist's book that never made it past the research stage.

When a person begins to research the nature of time and different ways of time-keeping, there really is no end.

Especially once pulsars enter the picture.

Anyway, I think the notes pretty much speak for themselves, and, deep down, I keep alive a hope that I will one day return this project to the "active" pile -- with more doing and less thinking about doing. In the meantime, whenever an essay or podcast (99PI / ep. 159) about time comes across my desk, I drop everything and pay attention.

Do you know what this enigmatic note means? Do I know what this enigmatic note means? Only that a "syllable of time" is a wonderful phrase we should all be using. And I think maybe it was from this podcast.

Wait -- what? Each month should be a different language? Sometimes me worries myself.

So I have a crush on Teddy Roosevelt. So maybe I can't spell "Rooseveldt." So maybe I'm more than a little embarrassed about that egregious error. But no embarrassment about the crush.

Yes, this project was underway during the end of the world Maya mayhem. Spoiler: world's still here.

Monday, May 18, 2015

from the archive 2

Collected images found languishing in my desk drawer.

John Thomson. Stone Animals, Ming Tombs. c. 1871-72. National Library of Scotland.
 I've owned this postcard well over a decade, and mailed all my other copies out over the years. It joins a small and select group of cards that will probably never be mailed.

The caption is the image below.
This photograph I found in an antique store in the midwest, and used for a change of address card when relocating to New England. I've always wondered where it was taken, why Louise had a tiny white picket fence, and where they went. Sorry about the coffee stain. That's most likely my fault.

Monday, May 11, 2015

from the archive 1

It's May. The lilacs are blooming. So is my Christmas cactus. Things are a bit confused.


There is a certain irony that what follows is (a) ten years old; (b) from what passes for my archive (read: deep in a filing cabinet); and (c) was edited in the present moment as I sit next to my devoted cat (named after my grandfather), (d) on my grandmother's chair.

The piece was from a 1922 essay by André Breton:

Lâchez tout.
Lâchez Dada.
Lâchez votre femme, lâchez votre maîtresse.
Lâchez vos espérances et vos craintes.
Semez vos enfants au coin d’un bois.
Lâchez la proie pour l’ombre.
Lâchez au besoin une vie asiée, ce qu’on vous donne pour une situation d’avenir.
Partez sur les routes.

My rudimentary translation was paired with a 1921 poem by Anna Akmatova, and they were typed (on the 1923 Underwood) and bound in a very pink binding. The translation and the process are above, and the book appears below.

I suppose the moral is that I will probably never, ever master detachment. I will also never, ever master the French language.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

alternative typography

Seen about town, an ampersand doing double duty.

Also: "Fruitful"? Will they be opening a stand at the farmer's market, in addition to the church thrift store?

Monday, May 4, 2015

of flowering trees (and logistics)

The Man on the Dump
by Wallace Stevens

Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.
The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche 
Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho ... The dump is full 
Of images. Days pass like papers from a press. 
The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun, 
And so the moon, both come, and the janitor’s poems 
Of every day, the wrapper on the can of pears, 
The cat in the paper-bag, the corset, the box
From Esthonia: the tiger chest, for tea.
The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says 
That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs 
More than, less than or it puffs like this or that. 
The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green 
Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea
On a cocoanut—how many men have copied dew 
For buttons, how many women have covered themselves
With dew, dew dresses, stones and chains of dew, heads 
Of the floweriest flowers dewed with the dewiest dew. 
One grows to hate these things except on the dump.

Now, in the time of spring (azaleas, trilliums, 
Myrtle, viburnums, daffodils, blue phlox), 
Between that disgust and this, between the things 
That are on the dump (azaleas and so on) 
And those that will be (azaleas and so on), 
One feels the purifying change. One rejects 
The trash.

               That’s the moment when the moon creeps up 
To the bubbling of bassoons. That’s the time
One looks at the elephant-colorings of tires. 
Everything is shed; and the moon comes up as the moon 
(All its images are in the dump) and you see
As a man (not like an image of a man),
You see the moon rise in the empty sky.

One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail.
One beats and beats for that which one believes. 
That’s what one wants to get near. Could it after all
Be merely oneself, as superior as the ear
To a crow’s voice? Did the nightingale torture the ear, 
Pack the heart and scratch the mind? And does the ear 
Solace itself in peevish birds? Is it peace,
Is it a philosopher’s honeymoon, one finds
On the dump? Is it to sit among mattresses of the dead, 
Bottles, pots, shoes and grass and murmur aptest eve: 
Is it to hear the blatter of grackles and say
Invisible priest; is it to eject, to pull
The day to pieces and cry stanza my stone?
Where was it one first heard of the truth? The the.