It’s the season for carnivals and shows.  This is the annual Long Island Art League sale in Hecksher park _ all kinds of high end crafts with a few painters and photographers thrown in.  A perfect day, as so many are this time of year, when all you can do is give thanks for being alive and aware.

For a few hours, the cares of the older world dissolve into the laughter of children and the happy enchantments of their elders.  The trees are never lovelier.  If we walk just a little beyond the crowd, the new swan family is taking  a swim together, while the father actively chases off the annoying geese.

In spite of the warnings of global warming and sea rise, the tide can still go out a lot and leave the water level extremely low.  With pilings stretching far overhead, it is hard to believe anything is changing.  That may be why it is becoming too late so fast.

In the meantime, here on the deck of the Titanic, the sky is blue as can be, the air clean, the leaves crisp and new, the birds sing and squawk all around, and children play on the beach down the way.  In short, another day in paradise.  As much of our existence, I think, should try to be.


Horseshoe crabs are swimming about mysteriously, digging shallow depressions in the sand to lay eggs on some primitive rhythm with the tides.  Sometimes, they misjudge the water or other misfortune intervenes and one is left like this, high, dry, and available for the gulls.  A tragedy, perhaps, from the crab perspective, but that is nature, not always quite so benign as some would have us believe.

Humidity is picking up a bit, already I hear complaints about how sticky it has become, how hot the sun.  Air conditioners are whining about the neighborhood.  I guess it’s just me, but these modern folk seem awfully wimpy.  Why, when I was a boy ….  But I guess there’s no need to go there.  I think, as always, everything is just perfect and dandy.

Northport harbor is about two miles away, along the old Indian trail that turned into 25A curving up and down along the bay indentations of the coastline.  It can be a very crowded place, but just outside the village proper is this nice, almost forgotten, beach and picnic area, with a fine outdoor pavilion with tables and chairs for writing.  When I get tired of that, there is a long beach, a deserted dune area, and this lovely scene from a bench under the cedar tree.
Seeking out the obscure within the familiar is a kind of game for me.  To find the loneliest spot in Manhattan, or tranquility here in the midst of population and bustle that rivals that of India or Bangladesh.  We all must make do with what we have, I am fortunate in having more options than most.



Summer truly arriving except, perhaps, for swimmers in the frigid water.  Surprisingly, this afternoon follows a morning of relatively
heavy rain.  Perhaps that is why the world feels fresh and washed clean.  Anyway, it’s hard for the sight of roses outdoors in profusion to be depressing.

My fickle human heart will, no doubt, soon tire of all this green and heat and humidity as well, as it begins to long for the cool winds of early autumn and changes to the monotonous foliage.  Expecting and enjoying change is one of the privileges of living in a temperate climate.  My problem seems to be that I expect to compress the cycles of a year to a few months, instead of the infinite days it actually requires.

Back to boring pictures, ho hum.  At some point, I suppose, we would like to have the gift of good writers to capture a scene in words, or the eye of a good artist to convey the experience in other media.  Yet all of those wonderful efforts, for all their fine qualities, are only dim echoes of actually being there.  A simple photo like this is just a memento to bring back memories, nothing more.

Each of us is so much more than what our eyes see, each moment an infinite and eternal mystery.  We can play around seeking to describe our consciousness, but that is always futile.  Our main fault, in a scientific and technological world, is to ever believe we can truly reduce it to some conventional physical representation.

You can almost imagine colonial New England here.  The town has been continuously inhabited for almost four hundred years now, and even when there were sailing ships in this harbor the coast here next to the landing docks had buildings on it.  The slope of the ground here, and the normally prevailing winds, kept the lowland mosquitoes at bay.

Those who do not bother with history do not hurt their chances to make money, but I think they live impoverished lives.  Connections to the past are far more substantial than those to imagined futures.  I never walk this road without thinking of pioneers, and wooden wagons, and sailing ships, all overlaid on the beauty I see.  A spectacular enhancement, more profound than any IMAX treatment.


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