Perfection

Another Civic, another era. I don't think this one is going to see 60,000 (let alone 36).

30th Ave., Astoria

Civic Pride

I dropped my car for service at the Honda shop and took a walk through the no-man's-land between Woodside and Astoria, about where the two branches of the BQE pass overhead on their way to the GCP and Triboro Bridge. I'd seen the car before, a bit forlorn behind the fence of a small repair shop. This time, I decided to take a closer look. I noted the up-to-date registration and inspection stickers on the windshield, and how clean it looked--missing only the "H" on the rear hatch.

I found two guys working in the garage. "I just wanted to ask about the little Civic." "It's not for sale," he offered, before I had even asked. I suppose I'm not the first admirer to stop in.

I asked what year, and, after a quick consultation in Spanish with his colleague, "1978." Yeah, that sounds right. "Do you still use it?" "Yes, sometimes we drive it around." "How many miles?" "Not much, about 60."

60,000 miles, 36 years. What is that in people years, I wonder.

Childish Haste

Back in New York after a week or so on different streets and roads, I am reintegrating myself into the haste that is the city's normal operating condition--or mine when I am in it. Let's conclude our mini-series, Hurry Up and Wait, with one of Kafka's Zürau Aphorisms (#39a). These were written during the eight months in 1917-18 he spent at his sister Ottla's house in the west Bohemian countryside, after the onset of tuberculosis symptoms. (For more on the aphorisms, see Michael Cisco's blog.)

The road is endless, there are no shortcuts
and no detours, and yet everyone brings to it
his own childish haste. "You must walk this
ell of ground, too, you won't be spared it."

(tr. Michael Hoffmann)

Rte. 23 between Socaire and San Pedro di Atacama, Chile

The Ecological Approach

Kabaty Forest, Warsaw  (Source: CobraVerde, Wikicommons)

Ryszard Kapuscinski was a Polish writer known more for journalism than poetry. From Notes, his first collection of poetry, Ecology" (Ekologia) offers an alternative response to being stuck or broken down from Brecht's "Changing the Wheel" (in yesterday's post).

And when we are stuck in the ruts of a Polish road
that means
we are stuck for good in the sands of history
and even the horses of our dreams whipped on
will not be able to achieve a single step
do not curse the earth
do not condemn the world or fate
look
a bird flies
the forest rustles
a dung beetle a cockchafer a ladybug wander the path

life goes on
we exist

(tr. BTB)

The Waiting Game

Waiting for the bus--on Nicollet Mall, 1973 (Donald Emmerich)

We return to our summer series, Poetry in (Slow) Motion with a poem that concerns that unavoidable condition for the subway or bus passenger, waiting. Waiting for a train or bus to arrive, or waiting for the one you're on to get moving again. Bertolt Brecht's "Changing the Wheel" (tr. Michael Hamburger) seems a good antidote or at least poses a good question for the would be commuter:

I sit by the roadside.
The driver changes the wheel.
I do not like the place I come from.
I do not like the place I am going to.
Why with impatience do I
Watch him changing the wheel?

The photo above is from the Environmental Protection Agency's DOCUMERICA series, which set out to "photographically document subjects of environmental concern" (compiled 1972-1977).

Tornado Alley?

Driving back from Maine, fog gave way to light rain, then downpour crossing into New Hampshire. WBZ radio reported a tornado warning for southeast Essex County, MA. Rarity of rarity this far east. Sure enough, a tornado did indeed cut through Revere, damaging hundreds of homes (Globe story here). Driving southwest on Rte. 495, on the other side of the county, the tail end of the storm was visible ahead, giving way to a beautiful summer day.

Mountain Beach Road

Another Richard Tuttle print pairing. When Pressure Exceeds Weight (2012), from the retrospective at the Bowdoin College Museum of Art, and Seawall Beach on the Phippsburg peninsula in midcoast Maine. Unless you have a permit, you can only get to the beach by walking over Morse Mountain. It's not much of a mountain, and the walk takes only 40 minutes or so, but it keeps the beach from ever having more than a few people on it at a time. (The greenheaded horseflies also discourage the human population.)

Here's the beach:

And here's the road that brings you there: