Gemini X 3 / 5 +9

Charting the passage of time, activities, and identity:

what I do.

There's a lot more humor and a lot less ego involved in the parade of profile pics; at least, that's the way I see it.  (Judge me, if you want, but I don't intend to lose sleep over the matter.)  I have written before of Rembrandt's many selfies and of the third-person would-be objective perspective of mirror-images offered in John Fowles' novel Daniel Martin, an old favorite.  

Tracking my age and how the lines on my face and how the gray or white hairs on my head accumulate can be a sport with different events.  Guessing where the next ache or sore muscle will appear is another such event.  I am not getting younger, right?  

But I am also still paddling and diving and reading around and pursuing other such richly-enlivening activities.  (Man alive, I miss the studio and clay.).   I like to keep track of all those activities I am fortunate enough to pursue -- and keep track of the different people I seem to be and have been: Diver Matt, Kayak Matt, Teacher Matt, Clay Matt, and so forth.  After a long day desk-bound, there's a uplifting joy in checking what I was doing, who I was, in times past.  Sometimes, checking the last trip to Mendocino, for example, can spur me to check the weather and start making plans for the next outing,, however long or far away.  And, if that planning proves merely mental, proves merely daydreaming, that's good too.  I return to the matter at hand at the desk a bit more energized, a bit more ready to dig in.  

What with the pandemic, remote teaching, and reaching 59, I have been feeling reflective.

As a Gemini, I am used to seeing the world and myself through a two-fold lens.  

Here are a few more recent examples.

THE PADDLER:

(A) stern and serious, working at it --

B) Having fun on the water -- salt salvation --

THE VINTAGE LOOK  /  BLACK & WHITE GAMES:

(A) Ducking down an alleyway  -- "Call me Ishmael."          (Thanks, Herman Melville.)

(B) A "Pirate" Looks Toward 60?          (Thanks, Jimmy Buffett)

 

FULL-FRONTAL (portrait-wise):

(A) Post-dive, unmasked: 

red from too much sun and the cold cold water; 

slightly saltdrunk --

(B)  Post-paddle, pandemic ready --

This last shot: that mask gets lots of smiles, lots of laughs, from children and adults alike.  

It's a sea lion mask, technically, but many kids think it's a dog--and why not? 

Sea lions bark too, don't they?

So, I oblige.

Any man who barks in public can't take himself too seriously.

Singing Your Song

Soldate clay, still drying.

Spirits Flying

For JW and Rio.

Beach Dogs

Maquettes: Trial Pieces In Clay

Sculpture mix.

Park-Time

Friends at play.

Sweet dog.

Three Dogs Running

This is a favorite image, originally from the Book of Kells, as best I know.

This piece is from the hand of Peter O'Loughlin, silversmith, that I picked up years ago from his booth on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, CA.

I've read that the three-dogs-running symbolizes courage. I understand that; in the image, I see liveliness, perseverance, and no flinching. I wonder at letting-loose-the-dogs. I look at the pendant--at the photos now--and I smile, with the hint of a dog-tooth showing.

After I took the photos, I started reading around, pulling various books from the shelves, seeking just the right passage or passages to accompany the hounds.: W. B. Yeats' "On Baile's Strand," William Shakespeare's Macbeth, Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf, Marie Heaney's Over Nine Waves: A Book of Irish Legends, among others. (There's a John Montague poem that would fit best, but my volume of his collected poetry is on my desk at work just now.)

Cuchulain, of course, is a man-hound worth recalling, but here's a passage from Marie Heaney's "St. Patrick" that feels oddly fitting: no dogs, but also no flinching.

While Patrick was preaching in Munster, Aengus, the king of Cashel, became curious about the visitor and summoned him to his fort. Patrick preached the gospel and the king, believing in it, asked to be baptized. As Patrick blessed Aengus, the spike of his crozier went through the king's foot, but Aengus did not flinch. When the ceremony was over and Patrick saw the wound he had inflicted he was stricken with remorse.

"I didn't cry out or protest," Aengus explained, "for I thought the piercing was part of the ritual that I had to endure."

Heaney, Marie. Over Nine Waves: A Book of Irish Legends. Faber & Faber. London & Boston: 1995.

Touchstone: Neruda, For Rudi

Here's another favorite poem from Pablo Neruda: "I have four dogs to declare" / "Declaro cuatro perros." His poem puts me into his sorrow, his attention, his wonder, his love, and this poem puts me into memories of my father, actually, and puts me into my own list of beloved creatures, mostly cats, beginning with Rudi, including Motley, China, Sam, Charlie, and others. Perhaps this poem will engage you and your sorrows--memories, creatures, losses--in a way that proves worthwhile, as I am engaged.

I will quote the poem in William O'Daly's English translation as well as Neruda's original Spanish.

I have four dogs to declare:

one is already buried in the garden,

two others keep me on my toes,

tiny wild

destroyers,

with thick paws and hard canines

like needles of stones.

And one scruffy dog,

aloof,

fair-haired in her gracious manner.

No one hears her smooth golden steps

or her distant presence.

She barks only late at night

at certain phantoms,

so that just a few chosen hidden persons

hear her on the roads

or in other dark places.

Declaro cuatro perros:

uno ya esta enterrado en el jardin,

otros dos me sorprenden,

minusculos salvajes

destructores,

de patas gruesas y colmillos duros

como agujas de roca.

Y una perra grenuda,

distante,

rubia en su cortesia.

No se sienten sus pasos de oro suave,

ni su distante presencia.

Solo ladra muy tarde por la noche

para ciertos fantasmas,

para que solo ciertos ausentes escogidos

la oigan en los caminos

o en otros sitios oscuros.

Neruda, Pablo. The Sea and Bells. Trans. William O'Daly. Port Townsend, WA: Copper Canyon Press, 1988.