April 6, 2013
Love heard the distance apart
Sharp, hollow and tart

Bluely seeking it palmed the air
Feeling there must be a connection there

Hopeful turbulence created near
Sent an echo in search of the other’s ear

Once found, the heavens twirled about
A vibrant mind vanquished doubt

Of the truth contained by the greatest sum
Love cannot be possessed by one

Love heard the distance apart
Sharp, hollow and tart

Bluely seeking it palmed the air
Feeling there must be a connection there

Hopeful turbulence created near
Sent an echo in search of the other’s ear

Once found, the heavens twirled about
A vibrant mind vanquished doubt

Of the truth contained by the greatest sum
Love cannot be possessed by one

September 21, 2012
A blind wall
Hurts my eye to see
Climbing and weeding
Wanting less, wanting more
Where’s the core of this troubled place?

A human, broken machine,
Not knowing to fast or feed.
Bleary and beaten by the past
Seeking a way to cessation

Four truths, noble and dear I make haste with these to find the path.
But mundane knowledge does not suffice.

Sit and breathe, observing still
Letting go. 
Breathing in and breathing out
This wall will fall, this wall will fall.

A blind wall
Hurts my eye to see
Climbing and weeding
Wanting less, wanting more
Where’s the core of this troubled place?

A human, broken machine,
Not knowing to fast or feed.
Bleary and beaten by the past
Seeking a way to cessation

Four truths, noble and dear I make haste with these to find the path.
But mundane knowledge does not suffice.

Sit and breathe, observing still
Letting go.
Breathing in and breathing out
This wall will fall, this wall will fall.

May 30, 2012
When I saw this photo of my wife (credit James Nord) I immediately thought of the story and paintings (especially Rembrandt’s) of Bathsheba. It’s a biblical story of David and Bathsheba, King solomon’s wife. David sees her bathing on the roof and is immediately drawn to her and well, the rest is history. This picture inspired me to write a poem about this story in honor of my wife on our two year wedding anniversary.
"He saw her in waterA perfect beingLithe and natural—an untamed springThe water grasped her skin with lustIt would not have him see her thusThe fog hung close, to shield the viewerFrom a certain Cupid’s skewerBut water made sparkleAnd fog enhancedThe dire nature of his circumstanceDesire, a pyre, he tried to smoteThis kindled daughter of the oathShe broke his with shape and smokeA heart untangled made a threadThat pulled him closer to her bedCloseness found his heart-strings taughtHimself laid bare for what was soughtHer downcast eyes brought up to faceShe plucked these strings with gentle graceAnd music made all doubts retireBathsheba’s love became his empire.”To Erin,My Roo, My Bathsheba, My Empire

When I saw this photo of my wife (credit James Nord) I immediately thought of the story and paintings (especially Rembrandt’s) of Bathsheba. It’s a biblical story of David and Bathsheba, King solomon’s wife. David sees her bathing on the roof and is immediately drawn to her and well, the rest is history. This picture inspired me to write a poem about this story in honor of my wife on our two year wedding anniversary.

"He saw her in water
A perfect being
Lithe and natural—an untamed spring

The water grasped her skin with lust
It would not have him see her thus
The fog hung close, to shield the viewer
From a certain Cupid’s skewer

But water made sparkle
And fog enhanced
The dire nature of his circumstance

Desire, a pyre, he tried to smote
This kindled daughter of the oath
She broke his with shape and smoke

A heart untangled made a thread
That pulled him closer to her bed
Closeness found his heart-strings taught
Himself laid bare for what was sought

Her downcast eyes brought up to face
She plucked these strings with gentle grace
And music made all doubts retire
Bathsheba’s love became his empire.”

To Erin,
My Roo, My Bathsheba, My Empire

May 17, 2012

dylannord:

When I was a kid I could fill an entire summer in my backyard. I’d spend afternoons throwing a football or frisbee, building forts, playing pretend, or any other series of distractions my brothers and I could imagine. With a little open space and time, anything seemed possible.

Looking back on these backyard adventures: the popup lemonade shop, the kingdom ruled for one day and then ruined by a neighbor’s coup, the plastic army men melted and laid on top of firecrackers, they seem perfect. These childhood scenes didn’t depend on a schedule, or a long-term goal. This remembered time didn’t seem to be divvied up into smaller investments to be stacked one on top of another. Time, as adults say, seemed wasted.

On those first few warm days of the season, when you are finally in shorts and the sun and wind is on your skin, I remember what it is like to be a kid. On these days, the days that Charles Dickens describes, “when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade” it’s exciting to get on the bike, to pack a bit more food, and take a longer route.

Even mild winters are cold, and often spent counting minutes on trainers and stationary bikes, building miles packed in gyms or crammed into small apartments. And just when you think you can’t take anymore, spring comes and it is time again to ride outside, and remember.

It was one of these first beautiful New York Spring days that I found myself without riding partners, a plan, or any commitments. I got dressed quickly in the late morning, excitedly choosing short sleeves, and quickly checked my mental list: tube, pump, food, helmet, bottles, camera, before running out the door and down the elevator.

As a kid, I remember being the last of my brothers left in the house and rushing outside to join them. I would always forget what my mom thought was some critical piece of clothing or equipment, and I’d have to act like I didn’t hear her yelling after me in order to catch up with everyone else. As an adult now I have a sense of forgetting something important every time I leave my house - I patt my pockets triple checking my inventory against a mental list.

On the George Washington bridge, I stopped to look back over the length of Manhattan. It’s a beautiful city, and one I don’t consider enough, but I am always grateful to get out. Looking back at the skyline, I have this total sense of separation, of leaving my responsibilities, worry, and hustle back in the city. It’s all about the escape - Andy Dufresne, “get busy living, or get busy dying.”

On River Road, over the bridge and just outside the city, having escaped my adult life, I got off my bike to pick a few flowers and thread them in between my brake cables and handlebars, and I remembered pulling weeds out of the ground, sitting indian-style during some 4th grade outdoor lecture. A few miles down the road, I sat at the picnic tables along the Hudson River for a snack and remembered how peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were best with the edges cut off. Again, 30 miles in, I stopped into a village deli for a root beer, and I remembered how I would only drink root beer out of glass bottles. On my way back, I took the gravel and dirt trails of the state park and remembered the feel of soft ferns that used to overlap one another behind my pool.

I love riding alone and remembering what I think is a clear sense of my childhood bliss, but this remembered me is a sense of who I want to be more than who I was. Really, nostalgia helps us understand the world as we would like it, more than the world as it was. Oliver Sacks wrote, “Nostalgia is about a fantasy that never takes place, one that maintains itself by not being fulfilled. And yet such fantasies are not just idle daydreams or fancies; they press toward some sort of fulfillment, but an indirect one—the fulfillment of art.”

On 9W, heading back towards the city, I climbed up the hills quickly and remembered asking my parents to time me as I ran around the block or to the edge of the yard and back. It was a perfect spring day. I wasn’t riding for the miles, or the heart rate. There was nobody to challenge or impress. I was a kid again, or something better, just wasting time.

Wow.

(Source: dylannord)

January 30, 2012
Things I plan on packing for Lake Placid—my own beef stock.

Things I plan on packing for Lake Placid—my own beef stock.

December 3, 2011
There are very few instances in which this would be an acceptable breakfast. I like to think working nights is one of them.

There are very few instances in which this would be an acceptable breakfast. I like to think working nights is one of them.

November 20, 2011
Off to a Subaru meet. Clean is happy.

Off to a Subaru meet. Clean is happy.

November 6, 2011

Weekend of retail/home therapy. Antique lamps, Sarah Kabot and man-cave updates.

October 30, 2011
Number #1 in Cleveland!

Number #1 in Cleveland!

October 23, 2011

An overnight ENT call—A picture diary.