What's New
Saturday, March 26, 2005
THE MOON
You’ve noticed, I’m sure, the loss of respect for the moon. Gone are the days when poets rhapsodized over it, and song writers built their careers around the moon.
“Shine on, shine on harvest moon.” Those were the days. “I see the moon. The moon sees me.”
Now it’s taken for granted. “How far the moon?”
So what happened? The moon has lost its mystery, that’s what happened. The big mistake was putting people up there. No one disputes that it was a great feat of engineering. Sending them up there and bringing them back safely was a modern triumph, but how much did it advance civilization?
We left some golf balls up there and a machine for measuring solar wind, but no one can say with a straight face that they’re better off now than they were before. Many of us weren’t even aware that the sun had wind. We knew about Aunt Nellie’s problem, but the sun?
Happy to say, there hasn’t been much more talk about solar wind. Let’s just hope the machine is broken by now.
It’s too late to say it, of course, but we sould have known that the conquest of the moon would destroy the romance. Look what happened to the polar regions. For centuries the extreme ends of the world remained a mystery shrouded in ice, snow and forbidding weather.
The poets had a field day. Ultima Thule was a place where the imagination could run rampant and indeed it did, complete with ice maidens, Santa Claus and his elves, and a lot of other wonderful nonsense. But then men hiked to the poles, flew over them, and even in one case sailed under them. There went the romance.
Even the Eskimos lost much of their allure. As usual, the missionaries and the appliance salesmen, following on the heels of discovery, civilized these strange people.
Now Eskimo while away their long winters watching the soaps on television much like everyone else. How can you wax romantic about that?
Is it too late to restore the moon’s romantic luster? Probably, but some of us should try, and that’s my excuse for the new image posted below.
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You’ve noticed, I’m sure, the loss of respect for the moon. Gone are the days when poets rhapsodized over it, and song writers built their careers around the moon.
“Shine on, shine on harvest moon.” Those were the days. “I see the moon. The moon sees me.”
Now it’s taken for granted. “How far the moon?”
So what happened? The moon has lost its mystery, that’s what happened. The big mistake was putting people up there. No one disputes that it was a great feat of engineering. Sending them up there and bringing them back safely was a modern triumph, but how much did it advance civilization?
We left some golf balls up there and a machine for measuring solar wind, but no one can say with a straight face that they’re better off now than they were before. Many of us weren’t even aware that the sun had wind. We knew about Aunt Nellie’s problem, but the sun?
Happy to say, there hasn’t been much more talk about solar wind. Let’s just hope the machine is broken by now.
It’s too late to say it, of course, but we sould have known that the conquest of the moon would destroy the romance. Look what happened to the polar regions. For centuries the extreme ends of the world remained a mystery shrouded in ice, snow and forbidding weather.
The poets had a field day. Ultima Thule was a place where the imagination could run rampant and indeed it did, complete with ice maidens, Santa Claus and his elves, and a lot of other wonderful nonsense. But then men hiked to the poles, flew over them, and even in one case sailed under them. There went the romance.
Even the Eskimos lost much of their allure. As usual, the missionaries and the appliance salesmen, following on the heels of discovery, civilized these strange people.
Now Eskimo while away their long winters watching the soaps on television much like everyone else. How can you wax romantic about that?
Is it too late to restore the moon’s romantic luster? Probably, but some of us should try, and that’s my excuse for the new image posted below.
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Thursday, March 24, 2005
THE OWL'S MOON, a recent 12 by 9-inch mezzotint, was printed in an edition of 25 with a mix of vine black and Prussian blue on German etching paper. It is available for $150.00 unframed.
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Wednesday, March 23, 2005
CRY UNCLE V - The Cousin
The late Anna Bruckman, nee Gassaway, who grew up on Belvedere Island, described my Uncle Don as “great fun” as a child.
Other than my mother’s rather negative recollections, most of his childhood stories came from Don himself, and we suspected that some of them might be a little self-serving. My mother, after all, repeatedly challenged his memory.
Anna, however, presented an impartial observer, and when she said that the Gassaways lived near the Burlesons, Jean and I prodded her memory. What made Don Burleson great fun?
“Well, there was the visiting cousin,” Anna said with a twinkle. “Has he ever told that story?”
One summer, she recalled, the children of one of the other neighboring families were very excited about the pending visit of a girl cousin. Anna could not recall where the cousin was coming from, but her arrival seemed hopelessly delayed, and as the summer days passed, the delay continued and the excitement grew.
“‘When will she get here? What’s she like?’ All of us kept asking.”
“I can’t remember whose idea it was, perhaps Don thought of it himself. It would have been like him.”
“Maybe the girls persuaded him to do it. In any case, one day the cousin’s arrival was announced and we all rushed to meet her. Most of us were fooled for a time, but it soon became clear that we were ‘meeting’ Don Burleson dressed up as a girl.
“We thought it a wonderful joke and we talked about it for days.”
Of course, when Jean and I next visited Mendocino, we reminded him of Anna Gassaway and asked him about his charade as the visiting cousin. He looked at us blankly.
“You wore a dress, remember?” I prodded.
Don shook his head firmly and changed the subject. Anna Gassaway was not mentioned again.
Jean and I were puzzled but later we reflected that it might still be an embarrassment, particularly for a boy with Victorian parents. Don’s father, Harry Burleson, would have been chagrined and very angry. His reaction may well have haunted Don the rest of his life.
Harry had a quick temper. That is generally agreed. Once, Don recalled, in a fit os childish frustration, he swore at his mother. His father’s reaction was immediate and violent. He socked Don on the chin and knocked him unconscious. Jean and I thought that was pretty severe punishment.
“Oh, no,” said Don. “I deserved it.”
Despite what he said to taunt my mother, Don clearly respected both his parents.
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The late Anna Bruckman, nee Gassaway, who grew up on Belvedere Island, described my Uncle Don as “great fun” as a child.
Other than my mother’s rather negative recollections, most of his childhood stories came from Don himself, and we suspected that some of them might be a little self-serving. My mother, after all, repeatedly challenged his memory.
Anna, however, presented an impartial observer, and when she said that the Gassaways lived near the Burlesons, Jean and I prodded her memory. What made Don Burleson great fun?
“Well, there was the visiting cousin,” Anna said with a twinkle. “Has he ever told that story?”
One summer, she recalled, the children of one of the other neighboring families were very excited about the pending visit of a girl cousin. Anna could not recall where the cousin was coming from, but her arrival seemed hopelessly delayed, and as the summer days passed, the delay continued and the excitement grew.
“‘When will she get here? What’s she like?’ All of us kept asking.”
“I can’t remember whose idea it was, perhaps Don thought of it himself. It would have been like him.”
“Maybe the girls persuaded him to do it. In any case, one day the cousin’s arrival was announced and we all rushed to meet her. Most of us were fooled for a time, but it soon became clear that we were ‘meeting’ Don Burleson dressed up as a girl.
“We thought it a wonderful joke and we talked about it for days.”
Of course, when Jean and I next visited Mendocino, we reminded him of Anna Gassaway and asked him about his charade as the visiting cousin. He looked at us blankly.
“You wore a dress, remember?” I prodded.
Don shook his head firmly and changed the subject. Anna Gassaway was not mentioned again.
Jean and I were puzzled but later we reflected that it might still be an embarrassment, particularly for a boy with Victorian parents. Don’s father, Harry Burleson, would have been chagrined and very angry. His reaction may well have haunted Don the rest of his life.
Harry had a quick temper. That is generally agreed. Once, Don recalled, in a fit os childish frustration, he swore at his mother. His father’s reaction was immediate and violent. He socked Don on the chin and knocked him unconscious. Jean and I thought that was pretty severe punishment.
“Oh, no,” said Don. “I deserved it.”
Despite what he said to taunt my mother, Don clearly respected both his parents.
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