Morning Guide

After a year of extremes, which saw us endure 

a hot summer in 2013 that became an interminable 

winter, 2014 had an extremely short spring. 

That turned into a summer that is flying past; July will 

be one of the coolest on record and, as we ease 

into August, the area has seen near daily thunderstorms

as the West Coast endures drought conditions

for the third year in a row. There's something wrong

here; while weather cycles are to be expected,

at least a portion of the problem is due to man's

selfishness, his narrow expectations that the basic needs

will be satisfied at the turn of a faucet.

And in Detroit ... by the end of the summer, 

the municipal utility is expected to shut off water

supplies to roughly 150,000 residents,

over 20% of the city's diminishing 700,000 population.

Telling people to "just pay their water bill,"

the utility is threatening 38% of a population that is 

living below the poverty line, underemployed, unemployed,

and trapped in what is becoming "an urban desert."

Increasingly, as those who pay for and control

the Congress sip their triple-filtered bottled water,

scenarios such as these will become common.

With cutbacks and laws weighted towards the

wealthy and their interests, they will one day

wonder why the masses are at the gates.

In spite of the fact that they enjoy privileges

bestowed upon them by their massive pocketbooks,

one day, the people who toil in the shadows

of the corporate boardrooms won't be there

to kiss their masters' asses. Instead, they will be 

in the streets looking for water.

Of course, one can't think along these lines without

considering the old saw attributed to

Marie Antoinette, "Let them eat cake."

There's another to be considered --

When the Nazis came for the communists, I remained silent; 

I was not a communist.

When they locked up the socialists, I remained silent; 

I was not a socialist.

When they came for the trade unionists, I did not speak out; 

I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for the Jews, I remained silent;

 I wasn’t a Jew.

When they came for me, 

there was no one left to speak out.

~Pastor Martin Niemöller

Just About All the Colors

While the morning sun came up rather pale and listless, 

the same could not be said for these flowers.

They showed a blazing myriad of color, 

the bright flame colors like torches planted in the box, 

while the purple and green below 

complemented the fire.

Ebb and Flow

The little girl was visiting Eskenazi Health on Saturday

 with her family. They sat on one of the benches, 

resting in the shade, while she and her brother played 

in/on the gurgling water feature on the north end 

of the hospital's plaza. 

In recent days, the designer of this pool has

apparently been working with the hospital's grounds

staff to get the fountain outlets to perform

as she had designed. Now, rather than just a gurgling

low-profile pool, the water level ebbs and flows

as the outlets perform sequentially,

the better to illustrate the quote incised

at the edge of the pool.

Water Feature

After the storm went through Saturday morning,

the day shown bright, clear, and very warm.

I stopped by the water features at Eskenazi Health 

to find that the grasses and water plants

are settling in nicely around the falls.

Visitors have already begun to throw coins

into the fountain, no doubt making wishes for

the recovery and good health of 

friends and families.

Bummer: Swimmers ...

 ... Beached.

It doesn't look it, but the water in this section 

of the Riviera Club pool is three feet deep.

When I got off the bus at the club's entrance, I felt

light raindrops on my face. I looked west,

towards the Speedway area and the clouds were

dark, filled with rain. I remembered "Indy 500"

telecasts from years ago, when the announcers would

have occasion to say, "It's raining in Terre Haute,"

about 70 miles away, and know we had about 

an hour before the front reached us.

Saturday morning, as I walked up the drive,

the clouds were in Speedway, only about 

five minutes from the pool. The shower 

turned into a nice thunderstorm, 

trapping about a dozen people,

who're not ordinarily averse to being wet,

under the veranda, away from flashes of lightning

and thunder. For about an hour folks chatted, then went 

their separate ways, some to find an indoor pool, 

others to wait until Monday afternoon.

Summer Days with IAM

With the Natatorium closed for the next two weeks

 due to meets held there, I swim at the Riviera Club. 

The sounds of running water and children's 

chatter in the background make the sessions more 

relaxing - for me, anyway. There are wooden lounge

chairs pool-side, occupied by middle-aged 

matrons, gossiping among themselves

as they basked in the late afternoon sun,

while a couple IAM members put in some

additional laps. Their fins and kickboard contrast 

with the pool toys left on a nearby bench.

I Jus' Cain't Help It

I was idling this morning, sitting on a nice bench 

in the shadow of the Federal Court Building. 

I happened to look more closely at the facade 

of the building when I saw these curves,

setting their negative and positive spaces against

each other in a most comfortable way.

Then all the curls and ringlets set off

the straight lines, softening the severity of

the limestone facade.

Rainy Day/Sipping Chai

I sit, sipping chai,

gazing out the window

at the gray, drizzly morning.

I think of you last evening 

as you strode across the room.

I caught a glimpse of your bare back

above the waistband of your jeans,

And longed to touch your smooth skin,

To feel its taut silk beneath my fingertips

where it curves along your spine.

So close. So far away, you may as well 

be walking on the moon.

But the warm smell of you,

Even in my imagination, 

brings comfort to the cold rain

of my days.

A Kiss Under the Bridge of Sighs ...

A legend says that if Venetian lovers in a gondola 

were to kiss while passing under the Bridge of Sighs 

at sunset as the bells of St Mark's Campanile toll, 

they will be granted eternal love and bliss.

I don't know how that story applies to the bridge 

over the Central Canal at Michigan Street, 

but I'm more inclined to believe commuters driving

over the bridge would sigh in resignation

as they approached their cubicle jobs in downtown

Indy. That would be closer to the original story,

that said prisoners would sigh as they crossed the

bridge on their way to prison, knowing that the view

of Venice from the bridge would be their last.

A watercolor painting of the Bridge of Sighs
 by John Singer Sargent, 1904.
The Brooklyn Museum of Art, New York 

The gondolas live under the bridge during the day,

then are available for rides along the Central Canal

during the evenings. I've seen them being poled

the along the Canal and tied outside 

nearby restaurants.

Mermaid and Mermen

Early Saturday morning, I went to join other members 

of IAM for a swim practice at the Riviera Club 

on the near north side of Indy. I've been doing this 

for just over a year now. When I first went to Rivi, I could

not swim a full length of the pool (fifty yards)

without stopping about half way to catch my breath 

gather my nerve. On this day, I did most  of

the workout and was slightly chagrined

that the coach on deck did not ask me for more.

We began at eight in the morning and,

ninety minutes later, as I dried off in the spring-like

morning air, I looked over to see the little mermaid

floating in one of the kiddie pools. 

While a cartoonist's version of a female figure,

she nevertheless reflected the same version

of the body I still dream of attaining;

even in late middle age, I find myself affected

by years of social conditioning that

I need to look a certain way in order to

be attractive to men. What the hell?

This time a year ago, I could not swim 

seventy-five feet. I've since lost weight amounting 

to five dress sizes, I can swim over a mile 

without stopping, and I'm looking for more distance;

I want to swim three miles in the near future,

over six miles as the next goal, with longer-distance

open water swims as a main goal. 

 But, really, I still just want to be pretty. 

A Muted Rush

This is the introverted part of the day,

when the city's rush is muted by the rain, 

it's sound hushed by the spray

from tires on the pavement,

whispering their agreement.

Umbrellas, bright as flowers,

bob along the street,

Sprung from a garden of people

 cringing inside their coats. 

Heads down, strides choppy as they 

proceed to the day's work,

they rarely look around as they

"connect" with a disembodied other,

closer to voices than to people.

Cy Twombly in Downtown Indy

The textures and muted shades of concrete and brick

on a downtown building reminded me 

of Cy Twombly drawings. For whatever reason,

I can gaze at the artist's drawings for long periods of time,

lost in the lines and scratches evoking long-lost

civilizations and mythologies.

The rebar emerging from the concrete walls 

of this old building, and the graffiti below seemed 

to echo some of Twombly's interests. 

I stood there a good while, gazing at the wall, 

its textures, and subtle changes in tone. 

In a time when every imperfection is screeded

over by a coating of scratchy taupe stucco,

this wall was a visual delight.

Cy Twombly. Untitled. 1964/84. Oil stick, wax crayon, and
graphite on canvas. 80-1/2 x 98-1/4 ins.  Whitney Museum of Art

Lil White Flower

Nuthin' much to say.

Here's a flower anyway.

Bird on a Wire

I love things like this, a few spare lines 

against the background. 

In this case, a blue and white morning sky

provides the backdrop for electric wires and

their insulators. The little dove manages

to balance the whole thing.

Then, of course, it's inevitable ... 

Criterion/Criterium Criteria? Dunno.

OK,  it's called the Indy Criterium.

That didn't seem right to me. I looked it up, 

got no results for that misspelled *criterium,*

but got criterion instead with a definition

that seemed apt: a standard by which something 

can be judged or decided. Whatever.

Attempting to meet a standard seemed to be

exactly what these cyclists were trying

to do when I saw them Saturday morning.

This group was participating in the 

Men Masters 40+/50+ Race, a 45-minute 

competition on a .95-mile course over 

the streets of  downtown Indy.

Over sixty men participated in this heat.

Led by a blue Mini Cooper, riders flew around

the hourglass-shaped course so quickly

that the Mini was really having to work to maintain

it own position as pace car, honking and 

beeping as it entered the intersections

to warn pedestrians of the approaching peloton.

The riders shown above quickly sprinted 

to a substantial lead over the rest of the field. 

I don't know whether they were able 

to maintain that dominance to the end because 

I left well before the race finished. But I wasn't able 

to leave before one of the leaders crashed, heavily, 

to the street. Winded and definitely injured, he was trying 

to help medical personnel tend to his wounds 

(a broken collarbone, at least?) as I left the area, the other 

cyclists speeding by as the race continued.

Contrails and the Sun

I happened to glance up at the building 

across the street from my bus stop

to see that the rhythm of its glass-clad

carapace had been interrupted.

Two long contrails from jets made a scraggly 

white trail, breaking up the blue grid, 

and the sun's bright glare threatened to burn 

a hole in the offices above.

Dear Harley

I love Harley. I wish he was my dog.

For years, I have watched him as he trotted across

his human parents' lawn to greet me,

the spring in his stride and muscles rippling

under his gray ghost coat.

He's older now, and sometimes would rather 

bask in the sun than check out a squirrel invader

or come over to me to be adored and get

his chest scratched. But his profile

is beautiful, and he remains confident

that he is loved and admired by all,

including his neighbor.

Jean Dubuffet in Speedway

I was walking through a Speedway neighborhood 

a couple years ago when I noticed 

a driveway that had been repaired with slurry seal 

in a manner resembling the artwork 

of French Artist Jean Dubuffet (1901-1985).

Since then, it's as though the long-dead painter

has taken up summer residency here

to paint the streets and driveways with easy,

drippy strokes to form interesting

compositions on the grayed asphalt.

 Jean Dubuffet. l'Hourloupe. 1966. Ink on Paper

Independence Day: A Walk In An Armed Camp

I saw this display as I was on my way home 

from work and went back on Independence Day 

for a picture. Given the area where I live, 

I'm not at all certain the man who put up this flag 

and I would agree on anything except 

that this country is in distress.

Yesterday, the city of Indianapolis lost another policeman, 

a twenty-two year veteran, when he was shot 

with a semi-automatic weapon by a known felon;

bullets from the gun were so powerful they 

ripped through the officer's vest. This is the third man 

killed in the line of duty and the eighth shot 

in the past eighteen months. ER docs, who tend to

the victims of these crimes, see this as a major

public health crisis.

On the one hand, you have an entire culture of 

villains with access to firearms who use them at the 

slightest provocation. Friday night, seven people were shot

when one man became upset when another man

bumped into him. On other occasions, police will go

to the site of a reported shooting to find no 

victims, but they will find a great number of shell

casings. It's as though it's evidence of

premature ejaculation, with the casings the

spendings from a violent ecstasy spread

all over the sordid alleyways.

And then there are the other idiots, the ones

who insist on their right to bear arms, as designated

by the Second Amendment. Well, that's another

fantasy, with those folks thinking their right to carry

a weapon will automatically render them safe

from harm. Hell, if they were to be attacked by a robber,

they'd be dead on the ground before they could draw

their own penile extension. In those cases, the attacker

would already have their weapon drawn,

meaning the "victim" would virtually have to walk

around with his gun in his hand and -- there you

have it, another idiot showing his dick.

In between, there are the normal, every day folk

who just try to go about their business

while walking between these two armed camps.

It is an appalling reality, with the flowers

and beauty of the season stained with blood

and intractable stupidity all around.

    

Psychedelic Cow Patties

It's a cow patty cupcake-palooza!

Technicolor invites to sugar comas to last 

through the July 4th weekend.

Eat one, get an insulin spike and nod off

'til the fireworks start.

Eat the whole carton and you'll never

know the explosions and "rockets' red glare"

ever occurred.

Below, a baker has sketched an outline 

for the on-going penis sweepstakes

over on the wonderful Cake Wrecks website.

This one is ready for a personal message: 

"Dear Mr. Grey, I've found a fifty-first shade 

I want to try with you." 

The cawlerin' on this cake seems 

a tad pissy, though.

It's a Rainbow

The apparel shop that closed a month or so back

has reopened as Rainbow Fashions.

This seems appropriate, given the brightly

hued garments on the mannequins

and hanging on the racks in the background.

Pink and White

I don't know what these little pink flowers are called, 

but I love the delicacy of both their color

and structure. Here, they dance lightly against 

a backdrop of snowy hydrangeas,

a flower whose presence will remain well 

into winter, a dried, papery shell of its spring beauty.

Theme Day: Celebrating Summer

For the Town of Speedway, summer began 

last May with the inaugural Indy Grand Prix and

the Indy 500 on Memorial Day.

As for "celebrating summer"?

Shoot, if you can't find something in this

town to interest you, then it's you that has a problem.

We're already in the throes of numerous athletic

events - cycling, swimming, running;

food festivals from the innocuous church ladies

and their strawberries and cream, to what seems

to be any excuse to down buckets of beer

and myriad deep-fried foods on a stick.

There's church league softball and 

minor league baseball, as well as the city's

new professional soccer team, the Indy Eleven.

Musical performances ranging from genteel classics

performed by the Indianapolis Symphony Orchestra

to raunchy pyrotechnics of last gasp middle-aged

hard rock bands will dance their way

through town, with the Indy Jazz Fest spreading

into an increasing number of venues later

in the season. Yep, there's plenty to do. 

Some mornings though, I just like to get up early 

to enjoy summer's golden light.

From the added glow to the little window display 

in a Speedway shop, and to the fiery reds 

of this homeowner's house and car, summer's

colors are celebrations all by themselves.

This blog is a member of the City Daily Photo 

portal, a loose gathering of folk from all over the world

who each day post images of the cities where they

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