Late evening gardening has its major downfall in early mornings. I’ve spent most of the day in a stupor.
Coincidentally continuing the theme of land and earth, I finally got around to watching Rivers and Tides, a documentary about environmental artist Andy Goldsworthy. Those who’ve read my blog for any great duration know of my affinity for his work.
The problem with the film, which was visually and aurally wonderful, was that the constant sounds of water and Goldsworthy’s quiet delivery had me succumbing to my fatigue several times, closing my eyes and having intense micro-dreams about land, about my time in New Mexico, about the river on which I live; the Susquehanna having become the sort of ur-river on which I base most of my hydrologic thoughts.
That river is the basis for a piece I wrote for im-possible. An excerpt follows below, read the entire piece here.
To the side of the dying, summer river, across the narrow band of Riverfront Park, over the three lane road that congeals at rush hours and becomes so empty at three a.m. that one can lie in its center lane for minutes with no far off sounds of cars to disturb, I heard a commotion to draw me toward the window. My house, set between the broken bridge at Walnut Street downstream, its far section sunk into the river, and the dredged shallows nearly unnavigable to even small craft upstream, overlooked the street and the park and the banks onto the river. The noisy people had gathered to stare at the city’s mascot, a thirty year old diesel paddle boat. Seeing it wasn’t the draw, it made and makes three trips daily, spring to fall. Seeing it stationary, seemingly mounted, as everything else moved around it, that was why enough people had gathered so as to be audible across the street and two stories up. I stood at my second floor window watching the foundered paddle boat pull uselessly at the water, grasping at it without purchase. There was nothing to be done, the Pride was stuck.