The Color of Feelings

My rendition of the snake oil salesmen I imagine having roamed this neighborhood 125 years ago, much as the Mexican ice-cream men do nowadays.



We could have leaned out these same windows back then, and purchased remedies for consumption, or the other maladies of the day.



Gathering the small treats provided from the soil covering that era -- with all of its hopes, dreams and errors, realized or unrealized -- is a primary joy for me.



The ancient pottery, so recently rescued from its ash-filled grave, cracks and wrinkles much like the face of an old man, every line a trace from laughter, tears, hopeful moments, as well as the times of deep despair.



Do you remember the woman who jumped off a bridge in Seattle some years ago, after being egged on by a mob of morning commuters angry that she was holding up their mass migration to work? Her helpless, sad form conformed to the laws of physics as it raced down the equivalent of 16 floors before slamming into the watery surface below as helplessly as if it had hit solid concrete.



Incredibly, she lived.

I think about her, and the many other hopeless souls now and again, when I contemplate this personally-crafted poem by Lawrence Ferlinghetti for our "Desire" issue of 7x7. Can you read it? (Click on all of my photos to see them in a larger size.) Isn't his writing beautiful?

The point is that even if one day we are the essence of another's desire, we can just as quickly be transformed into the dust under his or her shoes -- and/or then back again, as if raised from the dead, which I assume is the actual point of the Christian myth of The Resurrection.

Besides, here in the City of Seven Hills, how nice to have a favorite son poet whose name rhymes with spaghetti. Especially, as he is our living link to Kerouac, Ginsberg, and all of the Beats. Almost alone, he persists.



Little girls play with dolls, preparing to be mothers.



People of many ages worship their icons, believing that they are watched over by angels. Such is grace.



Little boys play with guns, bats and balls, and dream of one day being heroes.



The apples on a tree ripen and fall. Are they are only real when somebody gathers and eats them, or do they enjoy an independent existence?



Long after the roar of the crowd fades away, no matter what we may or may not have accomplished, the feelings remain. We do not talk about how we looked, how we smelled, how we touched, how we tasted long after the moment has passed, because we no longer know.

But we always can recall how we felt. In the end, that is all that remains.

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