my son loves motorbikes

My son loves motorbikes. He calls them dodos, like motos (I suppose). He's one and a half and likes planes, trains, automobiles and boats too, of course. But he holds a special place for motorbikes. He waves hi and bye to them on the street. All kinds. He doesn't want to sit on one. Just get good and close and pay his respects, saluting any given dodo for bringing him joy; "dodo!, dodo!, hi dodo!, hi..!" I realize every parent has numerous memorable experiences about their toddler communicating their first passions. I don't remember my early years and can only recall wanting things later on. My son doesn't want a motorcycle though. He simply appreciates them. A natural attraction, I guess, that wasn't brought on by myself or his mother. I love that.

spring

In honor of Poetry Month and 'Poem In Your Pocket Day,' I tore this one from The New Yorker for my pocket, by Douglas Goetsch...
POEM
You’ve probably right away noticed
the title of this poem is “Poem”
and that’s because this is exactly
what I plan on writing—in fact
I’ve already begun, sort of.
I still need to find a subject
for such a serious theme—
nothing too trivial or self-conscious.
We’ve all read poems called “Poem”
about would-be lovers or piebald foals,
levitating saints or the flowering
of transplanted trees, and I
figure a poem called “Poem”
ought to be about something
likewise worthy and dignified. But all that
sort of stuff seems to be taken.
After finding a topic (we haven’t
but it’s more important to keep
the damn thing moving) next up
is the proper tone, which can’t be
too solemn—that’s been covered
by folks like Thomas Hardy
who let’s face it I’m not gonna top—
but also not too clever, some middle
ground, tattooed chemo-nurse
or stepmom-at-a-rifle-range type
of deal. We don’t for example
want this poetry professor who’s
been at the lectern the past hour
attempting to detonate himself
with hip locutions in
between gray mastodons of verbiage,
proving he’s down with Motown despite
being so freakishly erudite.
In the midst of his many-sectioned opus
on the history of the human condition,
somewhere between Pol Pot
and the advent of the bikini,
I begin wishing he would instead
read us a poem about his embarrassing
throwing arm, on display at second base
in the poetry vs. prose softball game
at the M.F.A. picnic. The fact
that he’s six-four made it all
the more heartbreaking and I
wondered, as the ball died
in the dirt well short of first,
as creative-nonfiction writers circled the bases,
how he survived his childhood.
Was there a father or uncle on the scene
to stave off the catastrophe,
hurling fastballs and “Attaboy”s
in the back yard while Mother
peeked through kitchen blinds?
Were schoolyard bullies happy
to assist with his emasculation,
or did he have kind friends, a cohort
of thoughtful children with international parents
who cared about politics and dance
and used star fruit in their cooking?
Or was it poetry that led to him
being able to move in the world,
marry, reproduce, and eventually take
the field, pound a mitt, and be
naked among the people he loves?


Peonies, executed with Brushes app for iPhone

ˈwintər

On this shortest day and longest night of the year,
In this season of gathering and recognizing rebirth,
Of rituals and celebration,
Into the gradual lengthening of nights and shortening of days,
Like the snowflake unhindered, without ill will or enmity upon us,
May all beings be happy and equanimous.

e. e. cummings on thanks giving

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

9/11

Walking down E 4th Street, through second-hand smoke outside the Hell's Angels quarters, I remembered the lingering and unbearable odor of burnt flesh and architecture in the aftermath of 9/11. As I came up on Philip Glass' home, I wondered if he was home composing a tribute or score in memory of the devastation and unrelenting flux of life we endured that day. I imagined Chuck Close's painting of Glass, with a straightforward expression illustrated in thousands of individual forms coming together and conveying a bigger whole. I pictured him with his eyes half-mast and diamond mind deep in practice, perhaps playing the Metta Sutta for piano;
"This is what should be done
By those who are skilled in goodness,
And who know the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech.
Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied.
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and calm, and wise and skillful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.
Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove.
Wishing: in gladness and in safety,
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong,
omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short
or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born—
May all beings be at ease!…"
—from the Buddha's words on Lovingkindness (Metta Sutta)

ratirontaks

I did this drawing of Jennifer and Magnus on a walk down Old School House Road in the Adirondacks.
In the backyard of the old school house, I listened to the rushing creek across the road, and a squeaking tree wavering in the wind.
Inside the old school house, I read 'The Adirondacks' (1985 Rizzoli)—a documented account of the photographer Nathan Farb's journey through the state park.
In my mind I pictured what the Adirondacks were like hundreds of years ago.
I learned that the name "Adirondacks" is an Anglicized version of the Mohawk ratirontaks, meaning "they eat trees", a derogatory name which the Mohawks historically applied to neighboring Algonquian-speaking tribes; when food was scarce, the Algonquians would eat the buds and bark of trees.

alchemy & inquiry on wave hill

On Mother's Day, Jennifer, Magnus and I saw a painting we liked a lot called "Aspidium, Aspenium, Pteris," (2011), at the Wave Hill Glyndor Gallery by the artist Philip Taaffe. The painting is part of a three-man show called 'Alchemy & Inquiry' Philip Taaffe, Fred Tomaselli, Terry Winters, (through June 19th). Jennifer has an affinity for nature and plants, which are sometimes my muse. The painting depicts an array of ferns in various sizes and colors ranging from shades of green to rust. The ferns sway elegantly layered atop one another, cohabiting in a simple familial nature. I looked up the meaning of the title and found aspidium to be a male fern, aspenium, a mother fern, and pteris to mean "with children."
Jennifer took me to Wave Hill on my birthday a few summers ago where we walked through scenic grounds, and where I did this drawing of a Dawn Redwood tree (a Metasequoia glyptostroboides).

i heart japan

In 1970, the year I was born, the Japanese artist On Kawara began sending out a series of telegrams to friends around the world stating the message, "I am still alive." The telegrams were a play on a medium that was most often associated with bad news. A sort of playful text message before it's time, it conveyed some of the casualness found in social networking today.
I meant to message friends in Japan since the earthquake and tsunami devastated the northern part of their country, but I have been so consumed with work and a newborn son that I haven't had the chance. I might have Tweeted something like: "Dear Friends in Japan; Are You OK? Thinking of you, TL.
I Am Still Alive: Politics and Everyday Life in Contemporary Drawing, is on exhibit at MoMA through September 19, 2011.
To donate to Japan Society's Earthquake Relief Fund, go to: www.japansociety.org/earthquake

touching the earth

Amid the crying, lack of sleep and all else that comes with a colicky baby, becoming a father has been a grounding experience. I can't explain my appreciation for precious moments — watching the mother and child relationship, the sky changing from daylight to dusk to dark, and realizing the interconnectedness of all things more often then the illusions of individual gain.
This morning I read a meditation by Thich Naht Hanh called Visualizing The World-Honored Buddha from his book TOUCHING THE EARTH. With little knowledge of the historical references, I appreciated the way it speaks from an ultimate perspective, journey and practice.
"Lord Buddha, I practice to be in touch with you as I touch the earth. I visualize you as a young man in Kapilavastu. I see you as an ascetic meditating in the wild mountains. I see you as a monk practicing samadhi solidly at the foot of the bodhi tree. I visualize you as the noble teacher instructing disciples on the Vulture Peak and in the Jeta Grove. I see you as a wandering monk whose mindful steps left their mark in the small kingdoms that lay in the valley of the Ganges River. Lord Buddha, you were healthy and strong in body and mind, living a long life without the help of modern medicines. I see you, my teacher, at eighty years old lying in the lion pose between the two sala trees before passing into nirvana. I touch the earth before King Suddhodana and Queen Maya, the two people who gave birth to Shakyamuni, offering this wonderful teacher to the world."

the natural birth partner

My partner is 40 weeks pregnant. The baby inside of her is as big as a pumpkin. She is due any day now. I feel like I forgot everything I learned in birthing class and I'm still not through reading, The Birth Partner, A Complete Guide to Childbirth for Dads, Doulas and All Other Labor Companions.
Anxiety is what to expect when you're expecting. The trick, I think, is not to think too much over such an act of nature, because birthing is an animal instinct. I learned this from Dr. Michel Odent in the documentary film, "The Business of Being Born," where he refers to birth as, "an animal affair." It was the most meaningful piece of information I learned on my path as a birth partner. "The birthing process is a harmony of love, and flow of love hormones between mother and baby not to be disturbed or intervened with unless absolutely necessary..." I can respect that.
I used the drawing for Jennifer's baby shower invitation.