Harvard on a Saturday evening

Greenery

Rejuvenating rain falls in sheets of silver across the parched prairie. Accompanied by the orchestral rants of thunder, the prodding lightning, and the walking wind. Creatures scurry for quick cover amongst the overgrowth, while the greenery opens its welcoming arms. The ever darkening sky is not intimidating; rather, faded with experience, resting in its own mind. 

Northampton, Massachusetts

This is one of my absolute favorite photos that I have taken. I knew it would look good when I first snapped it, but once I saw it on my computer, I realized that it closely resembled an excellent photo taken of Nick Drake around 1970. Pictured is my best friend, Matt.

Our cats, Kobe and Casper, "cuddling." 

Androgyny at Ease; or Shopping for Dryer Sheets

While shopping at a local department store today (the one that is closely related to a bull's eye), I noticed that a young person was staring at my t-shirt for minutes. Not thinking anything of it, I continued to place my paper towels, paper plates, dryer sheets, and soda pop (as manufactured by a company based in Atlanta and whose name is historically linked to an opiate) on the filthy black conveyor belt. The cashier, a friendly 40-something Latina, made some small talk about the weather (it has rained in my area for the last week), typical human stuff. Every few seconds I glanced toward my observer, and the kid continued to stare directly at my shirt. The reason for my usage of nondescript terms like kid and young person is because I could not, and cannot, ascertain the sex of this person. He/she was rather tall and quite lanky, with long dark hair and earrings. Nothing seemed particularly feminine except for the pink tie-dyed shirt, purple bracelets, and lavender shoes (not really shoes, rather those extremely annoying plastic shoes named for a relative of the alligator). Androgyny aside, his/her eyes never appeared to blink. I looked down at my shirt, a rather nice blue t-shirt featuring an early '80's British band (named for an animal that is known for changing appearances), but I didn't see any mustard stains or revealing holes. I looked up and made eye contact with the cashier. She smiled. She had noticed the shirt pervert as well. Returning a smile, I inserted my credit card into the payment machine, signed my signature (which is highly artful and quite impressive), grabbed my bags and walked away. About 10 yards away, I looked over my shoulder and the person still stared in my direction. Bags in hand, I ditched my cart in the cart overflow, and walked briskly to my car (briskly for me in my current state of shape is not very impressive), depositing my bags into the back of my car. As I drove off, I passed by the starer, who had just left the store. He/she smiled and waved. I returned the gestures. 

Top 5 Bob Dylan Albums

With such a variety of albums available, many people are intimidated by the vast discography of Bob Dylan. Often I have people ask me to make them a mixed CD of my favorite songs or songs they should know from him. I become very excited when an eager listener asks me for suggestions as to what album to buy. While Bob has a number of eternal singles, he is truly an album artist. So many of his best songs are buried deep on side 2 of the respective album. 

Here are my top 5 Bob Dylan albums:

1. The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan (1963)

This is the first album where Bob showcased his burgeoning writing skill. He had penned a pair of songs for his eponymous debut, but those songs pale in comparison to these tunes. There are political mindbenders like "Masters of War," "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," and "Blowin' in the Wind." There are also beautifully written songs like "Girl From the North Country" and "Don't Think Twice It's Alright." Both the former and latter rank among my favorite Dylan songs ever. 

2. John Wesley Harding (1967)

JWH is the ultimate in narrative writing. Bob takes common historical figures and stories and absurdly twists them into tales of love, revenge, and religious fervor. Coming off of his 3 (mostly) electric albums, Bob surprised everyone (including CBS) with this 12 song album of acoustic storytelling. "As I Went Out One Morning" is my favorite Dylan track of all-time. Other standout songs include the title track, "Dear Landlord," and "I'll Be Your Baby Tonight." This album also contains the original version of "All Along the Watchtower."

3. Highway 61 Revisited (1965)

The groundbreaking electric rocker that features the epic "Like a Rolling Stone" also includes the eerily apocalyptic "Desolation Row" and the dust-kicking classics, "Tombstone Blues" and the title track. This is the first album to feature the avant-garde, absurdist lyrical approach that Dylan embraced during this period. Epic jams, crazy lyrics, and killer guitar abound out on Highway 61.

4. Time Out of Mind (1997)

Counted out by many fans and critics, Bob returned with a vengeance on this 1997 classic album. Returning to his strong narrative roots, he delivered his best album in over 20 years (1989's Oh Mercy was a gem as well, but not as good as Time...). With many songs touching on mortality ("Million Miles," "Tryin' to Get to Heaven," "Not Dark Yet"), Dylan seemed to predict his own demise. Upon finishing this album he had a serious health scare and remained hospitalized for some time. He recovered, and this album went on to win the Grammy for best album.

5. Blood on the Tracks (1974)

This 1974 gem was born out of a very emotional devolution of Dylan's first marriage. The songs are deeply emotional and emit a sense of frustration, longing, and despair. With water as the prominent symbol of the album, the listener really feels the pain of loss. The album's standout track, "Tangled Up in Blue" is a rollicking lesson in perfect juxtaposition - profound lyrics shrouded in an fun, uptempo jam.

The Race

He could see the finish line only a half-mile away,

a ribbon of red relief within reach.

Surrounded by competitors vying for the victory,

the first to cross, the first to preach.

To orate feelings of pride and rejuvenation;

to own the soapbox deservedly so.

So many steps remained ahead of him,

but not as many as he perceived to go.

At one point in his life, the runner had strived.

Hackneyed opponents stood not a chance,

nor did they approach him in effort or desire.

Race after race, up and down hills and valleys,

he had found success and success bred more.

Until the Sunday race when his legs gave out;

he fell to the dewey grass in a hurry,

agony crept quickly over his ailing body.

All around him former flailing finishers passed him,

seeing a potential victory for the first time.

From that moment, writhing on the cold ground,

watching his opponents pass him by,

he could not regain his footing, not on that day,

nor for the years following.

Regardless of the training, the conditioning, and the effort,

he continued to run scared, scared of the next slip.

Until today, when flashes of his former self excited him.

His legs felt light, his lungs refilled easily.

The stride was measured and composed,

his desire was unmatched again.

Down the final stretch he bounded, passing two, then one,

the lead all his with but a few steps left.

He looked at the beautiful sky, then down,

seeing the finish line so closely to his gait.

He smiled comfortably for the first time in years,

feeling as though the race was won.

But on the final stride, he heard a snap,

and down he went in a crying heap.

No one passed him, he waited to see;

everyone was gone, leaving him be.

They said they found him coldly lying next to his bed,

his mind and heart never able to wed.

Remnants

Blistering rain sidesteps the ambivalent

and falls on the passionate.

Birds of prey seek shelter from the icy winds 

slicing through their silver drafts.

The sky's palette darkens to a heavy burdened gray.

The remnants of azure quickly subside.

Across the dimly lighted town of trust a child

tosses bliss into the air.

His effort breeds exaltation. 

Tosses become hurls. 

Hurls become launches.

And the blistering rain approaches.

Pens

The pen won't put in the work. Its effort is minimal. Fresh up from the minors, the pencil won't get the lead out. Man do I hate puns. The pen loves puns. It won't leave them be. Maybe the keyboard is more my type. 

Dragonflies

The dragonflies with purple hair, mischievous demeanors, and eyes of charcoal danced merrily around the sunny flame of the screaming fire behind the ghostly train station. The air stood stiffly against the hobo's flaccid cheeks. He tried to warm himself next to the flaming pile of cardboard, wood, and old furniture, but it was useless. While the dragonflies danced, the hobo was damned. 

Henry Snowman

"There is a heavy snow brewing over the Great Lakes. It should reach the Cleveland metropolitan area around Thursday afternoon. Please prepare yourself for a nasty one out there."

After hearing those dooming words from the NBC13 weather gal, Henry slowly rose from his worn-out chocolate brown recliner and sauntered to the living room window, abruptly snapping off the television knob as he passed. 

Peering up at the murky, unforgiving sky he muttered, "Freakin' snow. I gotta get out of this place."

He said that same thing every winter for 3 years. While he could handle a light dusting, he hated when snow removal required a shovel instead of a broom; rarely did a broom suffice in Cleveland.

Part of the reason that he had moved into the tiny two-bedroom ranch on the westernmost part of the city was the yard. He loved flowers, the planting and the tending to. He also loved to mow the grass, taking pride in the glory of his green grass and symmetrically mowed yard lines. Often he could be heard bragging to neighbors of his glorious greenery. 

"Looks like a football field, don't it?" He would proudly declare to whoever would humor him with a quick conversation.

But he thoroughly despised snow. Not only did the tiny white terrorists destroy his highly adored yard, but it also wreaked havoc on his legs and back. 

It wasn't just the physical toll of shoveling, though. His wife Edna has always loved the snow. Whenever snow had begun to fall, she had always acted like an eager child awaiting a ride on a carousel. She couldn't wait to frolic about in it. She had always been the first in the area to decorate for the holidays and the last to return to normal decor. 

Even at 75, she had loved to be in the snow, digging away with her own tiny silver shovel that Henry had bought for her on a fishing trip to the border waters. It was larger than a baby shovel, but about half of the size and weight of a standard issue. Edna had laughed and laughed when she had opened it. 

Henry often looked at the shovel, sitting idly on the work bench in the attached two-car garage, waiting to be plunged into the fresh snow. But he never picked it up. It wouldn't have been fair to the tiny thing.

Henry felt a lot like that shovel. 

Helen

Helen, a 19-year-old Haitian immigrant, stands on the corner of West and 17th, anxiously awaiting the scheduled arrival of the city bus. She chews a stick of gum vigorously, blowing a small but perfectly round bubble once every minute. Her sweater is draped over her bony shoulders, carefully situated in such a way as to hide the flaws in the shimmering blue wool. On her ashen gray skirt are the remnants of two butterflies in flight. As she waits silently, tears form in her dark, sullen eyes, a maudlin mixture of sadness and bitter wind.