Writing Graffiti

Graffiti is the modern day cave drawing forever changing form and color as slates are wiped clean with a new coat of paint.  Walls of the past form the canvas of the new. The spray can transforms into the artist's brush.

Graffiti is the poor person's post-modern art and expression. The graffiti artist clandestinely enters where nobody else dares. They venture towards high places: not in status, but scale scaffolding and delve deep into the guts of abandoned buildings to express their creativity. The work of a graffiti artist is frowned upon by a society grounded in convention unless it's commissioned. Commissioned work loses the rough edge which is the appeal of graffiti. However, that does not remove the quality and creativity of commissioned work. Commissioned work has transformed stark gang-tagged neighborhoods to colorful  urban art galleries. Graffiti is supposed to be subversive and underground which gives it that edge. Unlike music, paintings, or words in a novel, play or book, the work is often temporary. Graffiti is a subculture that bucks the system by purposefully deviating from the norm.

My admiration of graffiti started four years ago in the Marin Headlands after a visit to Hill 88; an abandoned military site emblazoned with color and bright images juxtaposed by green hills, the ocean, and wind wailing through the concrete abandoned barracks of yesteryear. I recently returned to admire the work that I had  photographed four years ago and to see what else the graffiti artists had added to the abandoned walls that formed the open air canvas.  Alas! All of the work I'd photographed four years ago was gone. A blank wall stared back at me. It's blankness screeched conformity:  dull, colorless, and uneventful. No beginning or end.

I felt glad that I had captured the colorful spectacles years before and the work continues to exists on a photo sharing site and various other social networking sites like Google+ . I realized that I had unwittingly preserved the work of a few for many. I wish the artists knew.

I like to think of myself as a curator for the disenfranchised artists who are often seen as vandals for their often illegal, but creative work. To follow in their footsteps tracking their work by venturing inside forbidden places is both thrilling and engaging. Within the bowls of abandoned bunkers, cracks of sunlight  illuminate the art work like track lighting in a museum of modern art. In the starkness of abandonment, there is detail. In the darkness of it all, there is light. In the shallowness of the words, there is depth and color. In the desolation of it all, there is company. Graffiti is the life after death of abandoned walls.

On one wall, a graffiti artist declares, "Everything was beautiful ...And nothing hurt." I wondered what the author of those words meant? Was it a psychedelic drug experience filled with color and beauty like no other view or masterpiece? Were the author of those words making a sarcastic commentary on armed combat?

Another author warns, "Swipe your life away..." Those words resonated with me. Lives are swiped away constantly by the hand of meaningless toil, stuff, and sometimes tragedy; just like the paintbrush that swipes away the work of a graffiti artist. Lives are swiped away by not stopping and seeing the writing on the wall. The graffiti of life needs to be read. Stop and look at the color, the detail, the depth of the words, and a thought for the people behind the words. Like the words and work of a graffiti artist, a life won't be there forever. Block the hand of meaningless mundane toil that swipes your life away. Pause... See the detail that no one else dares to see, go to places others do not dare to tread, and embrace those moments. 

Everything will be beautiful and nothing will hurt.

Swipe Your Life Away - Hill 88 Marin Headlands 2013

What did the author mean?

Hasanlu Lovers

two lovers lay without a face
tragically long silenced
discovered in this ancient place
no voice to tell their tale
as archaeologists dig
the voice of past
declare their story
their tale revealed at last
their grave captures
a timeless love
touching forever
in a loving embrace
this shared love
shines on with grace
how sweet they look
in their resting place
their voice of love speaks
through an eternal embrace
for love knows
no time, age or place

Ode to the Beast - Along the Dipsea Trail

the beast awaits

quietly, hesitantly, 
they approach her back
and start their way
along her tracks

they are nervous

will she spit and crack
will she glow
will she soothe

they wonder

will her warm licks
be of glee
will she lure them
with views of the sea

perhaps she'll show a rabbit,
a deer, or two
perhaps she'll cool them
with morning dew

i'm nervous

she lures me
like an old love affair
i arrive and wonder
why am i here

but when i arrive
at cardiac hill
i remember why
i love her still

and always will

Running Times

there was a time we ran so fast
my we had such a blast
those moments are so long ago
we were far from being slow

together we ran hills and trails
along side streams and ov'r dales
navigated climbs we never failed
what fun we had with wind on tails

together we ran our personal best
we left behind the best of the rest
surprised we were with our time
we were third across the finish line

my that was many years ago
and now alas you've got to go
and now its time for our last trip
i believe i felt a tear just drip

even though you ran no more
many miles we'd walked galore
old and warn you no longer run
but I shall never forget our fun

i owe you much it's fair to say
i thank and carry you on our way
your next trip's about to begin
as you enter the recycle bin

you mix well with the other shoes
you most certainly will never lose
will you help form football grounds
or a new track to run around

i know that your purpose is plenty
especially that 10km in 47:20
whenever i see a running race 
you are with me in first place

Creative Writing Workshop - A Strange Signature

I often spent a fine hour exploring all the nooks and crannies of my favorite antique shop while chatting with the owner. I had no idea of the age of the couch way in the back, but my dealer friend guessed around early 1900. The couch soon became my latest treasure despite being covered in worn leather and in need of a good clean. I just couldn't resist the character of this vintage piece of furniture or a good bargain. Its disheveled appearance just added to its charm.

My not so new treasure looked grand in the living room and it complemented the hardwood floors.  It was the most comfortable thing I had ever had the pleasure of laying on.  As I laid back into its welcoming leather arms, I wondered what lives the couch had seen and what conversations it had heard... Perhaps it had witnessed fanciful parties of the roaring 20s, or overheard war stories of the Great War as people danced The Charleston...? My hand wondered around the sides of the couch and I dug deep into its dark depths. I felt and dug out an old thruppenny bit with George V and the year 1913 on the back confirming the approximate age of the couch. I recovered a beautiful sapphire ring which I am sure someone must have spent hours looking for and who died wondering what on earth had happened to it. Lastly, my fingers stumbled upon a piece of paper. I spent a good moment grappling with it trying to get a firm grip and eventually pulled it out. The letter was post marked, Oct 3, 1917 from Craiglockhart, Scotland. I took the letter from the opened envelope and noticed a strange signature at the end of the letter. I started to read the letter, but could barely make out the handwritten script. However, the words, "Dulce et Decorum est" jumped out at me. Of course, these words form the title to one of my favorite Great War poems by Wilfred Owen, the author of the strange signature.

Before my mind wondered a million miles, I got a zip lock bag and placed the ring and letter inside... Further research led me to find that this was one of the earliest manuscripts of the poem. This manuscript was older than the oldest known surviving manuscript addressed to his mother. The manuscript I held in my hand was an unknown, but priceless treasure; a treasure that later found itself in the Imperial War Museum in London. I was even more proud of my ownership of the Owen family couch and now knew that I had no intention of ever getting it cleaned...

A Tribute to Madame Bovary

you aspired to all not there
and found love you couldn't declare
lovers jilted you time and again
with no one there to dull your pain

you shielded Charles from all you knew
your true self revealed to only a few
your dreams hid under a veil of smiles
your mind meandered many fanciful miles

starved of sophistication you so admired
you sought what your heart truly desired
boredom encompassed your life external
fashions of Paris shimmered in your journal

but sadly Paris you never did see
alas your story is now history
forbidden love stole your life away
and now you'll not see another day

arsenic was the answer to your life pains
convinced you were you'd never love again
yield you couldn't to mundane contentment
your end was Charles' long death sentence

alas poor Charles he found your letters
leaving him estranged and torn in tatters
his awkwardness you grew to abhor
he hurt 'til his heart could ache no more

now Madame Bovary you'll never know
you were loved and tears for you flowed
but poor Charles just couldn't see
how both your lives were a tragedy

Madame Bovary and the bust of her creator, Gustave Flaubert

Although it seemed impossible...

You wake up. Your gear is set out and organized from the night before. Butterflies flutter inside, and you tell yourself, "You've worked hard for this!"

Although it seemed impossible, you've arrived at the end of your six months of training and achieved your qualifying time. You lace up your shoes; microchip firmly in place, check; bib number, check; safety pins for bib number, check;water, check. Nervously, you check again as your partner impatiently grumbles something about obsessive compulsive disorder... You take it in your stride. It's just all part of the routine of another race day morning.

The 5am morning air is cool and brisk, but still. You feel a slight chill in your sparse clothing of microfiber shirt and shorts, but warm up quickly with a gentle jog towards the start. Music plays in the distance and bright lights break the night. Everyone looks the same, save for a few intimidating tall very lank people standing nearby... The butterflies return. But then someone smiles and nods knowingly. You smile back. The butterflies settle again and you no longer feel alone.

Your wave is called and you approach the start line with finger on the start of your *Garmin. You calm yourself and conscientiously resist the adrenaline rush and being dragged into a prematurely too fast a pace. All your practice,experience of previous races and how to listen to your body come into play. You've worked hard for this fine Boston spring day. Those early morning commitments where you rose before the winter sun have culminated into  achieving your position at the start of the Boston Marathon. It was not easy running an hour before the day began. But here you are, 10 minutes before the end.

Although it seemed impossible six months ago, you've made it -- almost that is-- until the day that an act of violence so violent that it stole your legs away, your moment of glory and your passion literally blown away forever.

Although it seemed impossible, it was a nightmare, come true. Although it seemed impossible, two young men were convinced by their faith that stealing dreams was their duty to put their world right. To say how wrong they were seems too trite...