These impressions follow the format of the haiku, which contains 17 syllables in 3 lines (5/7/5). These 2 pairs of sites presented stark contrasts to me—contrasts of meaning, aesthetics, emotions. These spaces are like Biblical texts that speak to different people in different ways. So, these are impressions and not judgments.
A Living Memorial to the Holocaust, Goldsworthy’s “Garden of Stones”
Gray sky Gray glass Gray
saplings perched in granite Parched
Parched with no beauty
All that Jazz, with riffs
fleet and deep, sleek and sweet. This
is Louis, Dolly.
The National Sept. 11 Memorial (under construction)
heroes and victims
United Nations Peoples
vengeance, no no peace
The African Burial Ground National Monument
. lovingly buried
. indomitable spirit(s)
. wailing and walking
And, now that I have mangled an Asian art form, let me do likewise to a Western form.
There once was a class from PSR
Who were immersed in New York with no car
For two weeks they flaneured
They hobbled and blogged and observed
Now back at home
Still counting and twitching
Devin quickly repaired to a bar
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HA!
Thank you, Frances for the haikus and the great little poem at the end of this post.
As a reflection on your blog, Frances, I would like to interject that your haiku appears revealing of our ability as flaneurs to capture the essense of actual exploration of historical spectacle as we tasted and inhaled New York City streets. Your continuation with a poetic rendition of how we performed “out and about” in the CIty was humorous and replete with accurate descriptions of our dip or “immersion” as PSR likes to think of it, and foray into the mysteries of memorials and memorialization sites in an Urbsan Setting.
I continue with reflections of your reference to the Louis Armstrong home we had toured during our trek through New York. I was fascinated by his forward thinking taping of many conversations he held in his home. It was as if I were there witnessing these (his) conversations with publicist, friends and musical artists he knew from a bygone era. I was truly impacted by the Marcel Proust “Le temps perdu” moments which came flooding in when I heard Louis’ music, re-igniting vivid memories as a way of sculpting long-forgotten childhood memories. How do I describe the importance this artist held for me as a small child, witnessing the frivolity of my parents and their relatives and friends as they listened and moved to the cadence of his soulful musical escapades. I was reawakened to happy childhood moments long forgotten in the morass of unusually over-constructed lives of responsibility replete with national concerns about economics and violence.
It was an adult realization of what had seemed to my “child” as overly disciplinarian parents who suddenly became real persons in the memorial reality of their moments of escape into happiness in the music of my childhood and MR. LOUIS ARMSTRONG. These memories are called back through a shared moment of Mr. Armstrong’s life.
I was also deeply moved by the chosen abode of this famous artist. He chose to live as he chose to play his music, in a way that regular hardworking people coudl share.and enjoy. When we walked through this simple, somewhat overly decorated refuge from long, enduring “road trips”,
I marvelled at all of the questions he had answered iwth his life and living. My Dad passed 16 months ago, but I wish I could have shared this precious moment iwth him.
Frances well done, as I have just completed a poetry class and we covered Haikus……”real swell you did, real swell”
Dave Sandberg – so you Frances! As always “deeply immersed” and so refelctive – almost incarnational of the experience.