was what they called you in high school if you tripped on a shoelace in the hall and all your books went flying.
Or if you walked into an open locker door, you would be known as Einstein, who imagined riding a streetcar into infinity.
Later, genius became someone who could take a sliver of chalk and square pi a hundred places out beyond the decimal point,
or a man painting on his back on a scaffold, or drawing a waterwheel in a margin, or spinning out a little night music.
But earlier this week on a wooded path, I thought the swans afloat on the reservoir were the true geniuses, the ones who had figured out how to fly, how to be both beautiful and brutal, and how to mate for life.
Twenty-four geniuses in all, for I numbered them as Yeats had done, deployed upon the calm, crystalline surface—
forty-eight if we count their white reflections, or an even fifty if you want to throw in me and the dog running up ahead,
who were at least smart enough to be out that morning—she sniffing the ground, me with my head up in the bright morning air.
Z, I try to make note of which camera I use for my reference. Film, too. I'm getting better at keeping notes, and it makes it easier to get more good shots on a roll of film. Miss you too!
Ducky, no I haven't read it, but I'll look into it. I love the poem... I've got 3 books going right now, but can't seem to finish anything. Telling...
But yes, I had been struck (at the time ;) by Jorge Luis Borges quote, "Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire."
Your photograph has become a part of me. It fell into my river, and was consumed... ;)
Nope. Just learning all I can about living and surviving in the "surveillance" state. If you can mount a "camera" on something, the next logical step is to mount a gun to it.
Comments
AS USUAL.
Miss you, jen. !! xxx
Just struck me that you might feel simpatico with the lady of the small garden.
It's a strange little book but it's in print and I think you'd like it.
Genius
by Billy Collins
was what they called you in high school
if you tripped on a shoelace in the hall
and all your books went flying.
Or if you walked into an open locker door,
you would be known as Einstein,
who imagined riding a streetcar into infinity.
Later, genius became someone
who could take a sliver of chalk and square pi
a hundred places out beyond the decimal point,
or a man painting on his back on a scaffold,
or drawing a waterwheel in a margin,
or spinning out a little night music.
But earlier this week on a wooded path,
I thought the swans afloat on the reservoir
were the true geniuses,
the ones who had figured out how to fly,
how to be both beautiful and brutal,
and how to mate for life.
Twenty-four geniuses in all,
for I numbered them as Yeats had done,
deployed upon the calm, crystalline surface—
forty-eight if we count their white reflections,
or an even fifty if you want to throw in me
and the dog running up ahead,
who were at least smart enough to be out
that morning—she sniffing the ground,
me with my head up in the bright morning air.
Z, I try to make note of which camera I use for my reference. Film, too. I'm getting better at keeping notes, and it makes it easier to get more good shots on a roll of film. Miss you too!
Ducky, no I haven't read it, but I'll look into it. I love the poem...
I've got 3 books going right now, but can't seem to finish anything. Telling...
But yes, I had been struck (at the time ;) by Jorge Luis Borges quote, "Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire."
Your photograph has become a part of me. It fell into my river, and was consumed... ;)
I'm so behind on all the digital camera technology....
Looks fun, though. I didn't know you were into digital cameras. Let me how it works out for you!