Posts Tagged ‘sunrise’

Jetlag

Wednesday, December 18th, 2013

It makes you see strange things
like a man taking out the garbage.

Revisiting 128

Tuesday, December 21st, 2010

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky in morning, sailors take warning.

Wise words from a Navy dad.

Boulder Hill, 7am. One block from Grandma's old house.

“Did you see the sunrise this morning?” I asked my dad yesterday. “It looked like the horizon was on fire.”

“Yes, we’re going to have some precipitation tonight.”
Indeed we did. Four inches.

My timing for visiting the old neighborhood was perfect,
except that I had forgotten my gloves.

Morning at Winrock Pond

Every time I’m alone in a car in this part of the world – it happens about once a year – I drive past my childhood home.

In Immortality, Kundera says, “memory does not make films, it makes photographs.” I think it makes something more like erratic stop-motion. This yearly drive-by puts me inside those old stills, to feel them with all five or more senses. Series of images flash in my mind, layers of them, which resemble the scene in front of me, which happened right in front of me, yet feel so very far. Years of change are evident in the developing wrinkle in my forehead and the pine tree I remember as a shrub.

The old house sleeps on frozen pond

I stood with freezing fingertips at the edge of the pond, watching the sun rise on my old bedroom window, not really sure what I was doing there. Curiosity. My answer for everything lately. I’ll put myself there and see what happens. I want to look at everything, and some things I want to look at today, tomorrow, next week and next year.

I felt the biting cold air and listened. I do not remember ever hearing the hum of a distant highway. My childhood was surrounded by farms, not four lanes and mini malls.

Sun rises and shines on my childhood's bedroom window

Hommage à Kertesz

Friday, October 29th, 2010

This morning I was up before the sun. It doesn’t happen often.
I work very well long after the sun goes down so I rarely see it rise.

From my kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew and the bread to toast, I watched the light on these buildings change. I could see the sun, reflected in one small window over there on the other side of the canal. I grabbed a camera and just when I was about to take the photo, André Kertesz came flying by.

He’s been on my mind since seeing the retrospective at Jeu de Paume.
Is it possible to miss someone you have never met?

Sunrise across the canal

The 5:13 to Marseille

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010

Marseille and I met on Sunday around 6:30am, when I rolled in with the mistral while the city still slept.

I climbed into a train full of dreaming Luxemburgers on their way to Nice, found an empty couchette with an open door, went in and locked it. As always, I feel a surge of giddiness when entering an empty place and locking the door behind me. Alone in the dark, I put my feet up and smile at the moonlit morning shining through the window, proud to have survived the pain of waking at an hour I usually identify with endings, not beginnings.

Arriving in Marseille, the only people I see are street cleaners and those still living Saturday night.

Walking around the old port, I watch the light change. The Fort Saint-Nicolas de Marseille is behind me on a hill, the sun already touching it. I go as high into the old citadel as I can, following the sun’s rise.

At the end of the 12th century, a chapel was built here. Some quick math on my 21st century cell phone tells me there have been about 127, 750 sunrises since the first stone was placed on this hill. As I pull a pain au chocolat out of my camera bag, I wonder how many boats have passed, how many people have stood here and what they ate for breakfast.

Le Vieux Port, Marseille, from the Fort Saint Nicolas at 8:10am