departure
 
that night train crouching snug in the quay
like a shell in the breach hot to be launched,
light spilling from its open doors across the platform,
swelling itself, building up,
travelers luggage hopes plans
a flourish of drums please
everything locked and loaded
the imagined whistle shrieking
the twitch of engines biting into the load
and we’re off we’re off
click clacking night cracking
an arrow whistling
into the eye of tomorrow.

New York State of Mind

I returned early this morning on the red eye from New York. It was an intense (what other kind is there in Manhattan) but fun visit. The occasion was the wedding of a dear friend of many years. It’s been two years since Miki and I were in the Big Apple, and the city was even more hectic than during our last visit. The U.N. General Assembly opens its session today, bringing dignitaries from around the globe for the first week ceremonies. This meant that all the major avenues from Mid-Town (where we stayed) to the river were lined with concrete and steel barricades, the streets teeming with police and security personnel of all types. Caravans of black limos escorted by police vehicles with lights flashing added to the usual congestion.

Friday was a day of rain and more rain. I felt badly for the young couple we were sitting next to on the flight into New York. They were both avid baseball fans, looking forward to the evening game between the Yankees and the Red Sox. She was already prepared with a Yankee cap and various pennants. The game was rained out. I was hoping their schedule permitted them to go to next day’s double header.

There is something exciting and vibrant about a city where you can walk out on the street almost anytime of day or night and find it filled with people speaking a multiplicity of languages, striding with determined purpose (locals) or strolling with wondering gazes (tourists). To me, the kaleidoscope of humanity visible everywhere is alone worth the price of the journey. And if the stores, buildings, and activity don’t provide sufficient entertainment, there are all the street performers scattered throughout Mid-Town and the Village to fill in the gaps. It’s great to walk down the street, catching snippets of conservation – someone once wrote a play woven together out of just these brief glimpses and thoughts. Sometimes, it can be confusing, seeing a man walking down the street and talking animatedly to himself. Is he schizophrenic, or does he have one of those cyborg phone gadgets plugged into his ear?

The wedding, along with the rehearsal dinner and the Sunday brunch gave us time to become acquainted with several charming people from all over the globe, as well as to see old faces we’ve missed for some time.  It was wonderful to see my friend, widowed for many years, be so happy and excited about the future. Every man needs a wife, for sometimes things go wrong for which you can’t always blame the government. (Just kidding, sweetie, if you’re reading this.)

No visit to New York can be complete for us without a visit to Central Park. We can sit for hours on a park bench observing the escapees from the concrete and steel confines of the city, jogging, walking, doing tai chi, laying on the grass, and walking the myriad of breeds of dogs these city dwellers feel fit to trap in their tiny apartments. There is often a comical element to the congruity between appearance of owner and pet, as well as an interesting assumption of attitude from master to dog. You also have to wonder about all these nannies pushing expensive perambulators and strollers filled with babies and small children, many of the later having the appearance of a desperate need for exercise – overfed, and already with a slightly bored appearance on their faces. Where are the parents of these children on a weekend afternoon? And why did they conceive children if not for the pleasure and satisfaction of watching them grow up? I’m distracted from this morose line of thought by another group of adults playing and singing with a small knot of laughing kids in what appears to be an outdoor birthday celebration. I’m grateful for the foresight of the Park’s creator in bringing this oasis to Manhattan.

Almost every weekend brings a parade down 5^th Avenue. This week’s turned out to be the American-German Steuben Society. Police units on horseback and motorcycle interspersed with local Fire Departments, high school drum and bugle corps, along with varied assortments of native German costumes and themes created an over three hour flow of spectacle for those lined up along the parade route.

Coming back to work this morning on the West Coast was a bit of a culture shock, as well as a jolt to my system that was protesting the six hours of sleep allotted by our flight delay out of JFK. For those of you who noted my absence, I’m back, and promise to post some New York photos in next day or two.

20,000?

I glanced at the statistic page of my blog, and saw that sometime early this week I rolled past the 20,000 mark on the number of hits on this site. I realize that many of those stops were from a small group of visitors, and not a few from my own logging on at different times of the day. What is amazing to me is not the absolute number, but the fact that in a little over a year since I began this effort, through a process of self selection, we have developed a small community of disparate individuals from varied backgrounds with something to say to each other.

Several of you have offered your thoughts on why you blog. After all, it is an effort requiring time, patience, and a certain degree of compulsiveness. No one is immune to having their ego stroked, and I confess to enjoying the mostly positive comments people have been nice enough to leave on my site. But the thing that has kept me coming back is the discovery of interesting, likeable people possessing the ability to string together words in a way to catch my interest, give me pause for thought, or just an occasional smile. Like snowflakes, the human pattern is never cast twice. We are uncommonly and marvelously intricate in thought and action. Your stories and lives have helped to enrich my own.

Finally, there is the benefit from being forced to organize my own ideas in a coherent fashion, clarifying some issues for my own self  that otherwise would have remained muddled fragments. To all of you who have been one of my visitors, and especially to those who took time to leave a message and open your self, my continued thanks. Hopefully, we can continue our exchange for a long time. Be well.

Redwoods

Many people don’t realize it, but they can find California redwoods not only in Big Sur, Muir Woods, and points north, but right here, in the LA basin. Perhaps it’s just as well that this knowledge is opaque to most of the public, as it keeps visitors to small numbers, and allows these leviathans of the forest with their surprisingly fragile root systems to survive.

On this particular day, Miki and I are joined by three of the women from my hospital department, as well as the wife of a friend. Even though my three co-workers were LA natives, none of our companions knew of the existence of our little Shangri-La. Despite the triple digit temperatures in the Valleys, our trail lay mostly in the shadows of our arboreal haven. Combined with the mountain elevation, we hiked along the path lined with the last vestiges of summer blue belles, holly, and a few clumps of colorful poison oak we carefully avoided. Most of the trail parallels what is now a small mountain stream, but, as attested to by the large boulders over which the water flowed, could turn into swift rapids with the coming of the fall rains and the spring melt.

What makes a river so restful is that it doesn't have any doubts - it is sure to get where it is going, and doesn't want to go anywhere else. Our brook gurgled, bubbled, keeping its eternal rhythms tuned to those of our surrounding nature. Old oaks littered parts of the winding path with acorns, providing a feast for the squirrels with their healthy, bushy tails. Blue jays in profusion, woodpeckers, and other winged forest denizens serenaded us with their songs. Periodically, the sight of those giant redwoods lifted our gaze to the skies, where fluffy white clouds were lining up on the ridge crest above us. The light filtering through the leaves of these ancient forest pillars gave a sense of the sacred no less than any Gothic cathedral.

We stopped for a water break amongst some large boulders, washed smooth by years of cataracts flowing over them. A few gnats swirled around us, reminding us that we were intruders in this place of solitude. We slowly wound our way up switchbacks to an open vista of the city below us, remarking on how far removed we felt in the forest from the structures of civilization now displayed before us. We gratefully ducked back into the leafy shade, passing through a section of the trail covered with dried bay leafs from the fragrant bushes growing along side. Reaching the clearing that was our lunch destination, we consumed with newly invigorated appetites the provisions in our daypacks.

The way home is always faster, being downhill. Long after the sore muscles have stopped aching, the memories of the tall redwoods will remain, dwarfing with their size and age the insignificance of many human endeavors.