A Morning's Reverie
Connecting the dots of life
10/12/24 10a
Walking this morning in a new place… some park north of Fort Worth texas.
Dry leaves make a very distinct sound as dry cool breezes push them along the concrete. A slow breeze generates a scritch-scritch-scritch from every leaf. Stronger winds make single leaves float, but big pools of them will sound rustling… or a shush shush shush.
In any case, it is the sound of fall.
If you have any doubt, in the distance you’ll hear the ring of a little boys bat striking a baseball followed by a bright cheer of a small group of parents out this morning to watch their babies play ball. A formation of geese honk their overlapping honks overhead as a gaggle of moms and dads chirp and chatter between bat-rings and cheers.
A hundred years ago, that sound the baseball made would have been the ‘crack’ of a bat. No one uses wood bats anymore. But there would have been many things different in 1924.
Gone would be the yoga pants, body suits and sport-bras. as well as the cargo shorts and baggy-shorts. And though there would be hats, they would be of the full, wide-brim variety. The women would be in dresses, all lacy and delicate. Whilst the men wear black leather it shoes and white button up shirts. There would be a seersucker or two amongst them, I think. And straw hats would punctuate the crowd.
The children… children in baseball uniforms change little through the decades. At least visibly. This group doesn’t reflect the epidemic of childhood obesity that is normal in western culture today. They all look very smart in their striped uniforms. Though I think the inner person likely is typical of a 21st century child and off the field they all would likely be screen zombies like almost everyone else, especially the young.
Later this same day — Northpark Mall.
Sitting now, soaking in the din of humanity in a frenzy to embrace some retail therapy. Someone is playing their heart out on the grand piano in this large courtyard. The buzz of a very busy mall almost overwhelms the music. Most can't hear the Moonlight Sonata and of those that do, most wouldn't recognize it except to call it classical. Instead his frantic keying just adds to the ambiance. An army of teenage girls strut around in clouds of the latest perfumes as they compete for who can wear the shortest skirt or tightest shirt.
Mixed in their midst are the boys 8-80, who jockey to ogle them each and every one. It is as if a competition for stolen glances and outright stares is going on. The boys I can forgive, driven by raging hormones, curiosity, ignorance and a culture that weaponized sex long before I came along. But the old men... visually drinking these young ladies who would be their daughters and granddaughters, you men are giving all of us a bad name.
A favorite man-watching activity of mine is to observe this very activity. Whenever a beautiful woman of any age walks into a crowd in public and their demeanor and dress cries out for attention, instead of fixing my gaze on them, I immediately scan the faces of the males in the vicinity. They never fail to exhibit stolen glances and outright stares. In my experience, about 80% will always be drawn to the woman. Today is no different.
Couples walk hand in hand. It is not romantic strolls. They all strut eagerly to get through the crowds looking for gotten gain and then to get their newly acquired treasures safely to their hoards. Some push luxurious looking strollers while others have tiny ambulating humans tugging at their arms or weighing down mom's.
We have enough of the crowd and find a little bistro in an empty corner of this massive structure. It is french-themed and I have a chicken dish slathered in a delicious sauce. The decor here is very good, with dark wood and warm lighting. I have never been to France, but the croissants behind glass and deserts next to them make me think this is what I might find if I wandered in off a cobblestone street to grab a coffee and pastry. The illusion only lasts until our meal is ordered though. We sit in a faux-parisian street scene that doesn't work because it is really a foyer of a giant ode to consumerism. A for effort though.
Our day is well along now and we have made our way to the contemporary art museum in downtown Dallas. We have visited here many times and I am always impressed at the art on display. It is one part I-could-do-this and one part what-genius-I-would-never-think-to-do-this. Today we view Patrick Martinez: Histories. It's FASCINATING!
As is very vogue today, Patrick has embraced his Mexican heritage and painted several hundred pieces commenting on life for immigrants and the challenge of finding his place in this divided world. There a dozen or so in a suit of comments on ICE and how they mistreat their fellow humans. A dramatic life-size diorama which is sort of a slice of a street scene out of east LA with a cactus and graffiti, complete with cinderblock walls crumbling and falling down.
What is most striking though, is the neon. He has masterfully made neon signage the centerpiece of his exhibition. Some are just neon signs of words like 'black', 'indigenous', 'color', while others are either words or graphics cleverly built into the painting itself. Part sign, part work of art. It is very interesting and very engaging. For me, long fascinated with neon, it is undeniably amazing.
The venue is a huge old commercial building and the large pieces saturate the concrete walls and floors with their color and light. On a Sunday afternoon, the museum is empty except for us. It feels like a private show held for a wealthy patron. In reality, I'm just as confused and desperate as Patrick is, but with really good timing.
I get the sense from Patrick's show that he and his people feel alone, disenfranchised by the United States. Like he is trying to find his place here and is frustrated that the culture, the people and the government won't just let him be. What the artist misses is that this is true of all of us. Regardless of skin tone or source of origin, even socioeconomic status, life here at the end of all things is alienating all of us. Though, I will confess, I've never had to fear getting deported thanks to my pigmentation.
We finish the day at a small art house theater for a screening of Chris Sanders' (via Peter Brown) The Wild Robot. This will be the second time I watched this film and it will make me weep at its themes of motherhood, adapting ones intended life's purpose to make the lives of others more whole and camaraderie and companionship.
It occurs to me that today we have witnessed the deep ties a community can form, how those manifest in a materialistic culture and feel stressed when a society resists those same ties just because they are different in some ways. But in the end the real joy in life is in overcoming our programming and coming together, embracing the family we have and rising to overcome any challenge and solve problems.
Thanks for reading and sharing my beautiful lie.
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