Lilies in the Hoosier Desert

I'm glad I take a lot of pictures because I have a bit of stuff 

to choose from when things look bleak. Like now.

It's hot here, with temperatures in the high 90s most days

and reaching over 100 for most of this week.

I go out fairly early to take care of errands, but otherwise stay inside.

The hot weather has withered most of the flowers, 

trees are looking tired, and the grass has turned to yellow,

brittle straw. Supposedly, the area should

return to more normal temps next week.

Braque in Speedway

No, I don't go looking for them. 

The images just jump in front of me and 

force me to take their pictures. I was walking along

 West 15th Street in Speedway not long ago, happily looking at

all of the older homes that have been renewed and restored,

when this image, reminding me of a painting 
by Cubist artist Georges Braque just seemed to be 

standing curbside, begging for my attention.

Braque, Pablo Picasso, and Marcel Duchamp were

were searching for new ways to portray three-dimensional

forms on a two-dimensional surface, sort of looking for

a way to show the viewer different viewpoints of the same

object in one picture. One of the other things the artists researched

was to find a way to show movement and speed in their paintings.

The paintings familiar to almost every college student

that show this are Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2

and Picasso's Demoiselles d'Avignon.

Demoiselles d'Avignon, 1907
Oil on Canvas. Museum of Modern Art, NYC

Really, what particular movement in 20th Century art could be 

more appropriate to find in Speedway? Most of the artists' work 
during this period was done, beginning in Paris, from 1908 

to about 1919 -- years during which the Indianapolis 
Motor Speedway was constructed, opened, 

and the first Indianapolis 500-Mile Races were held.

Nude Descending a Staircase,
No. 2, 1912. Oil on Canvas.
Philadelphia Museum of Art 

Jus'kiddin'

The corner of 26th Street and Lynhurst Drive is not an intersection 

as much as it is a 90-degree turn. One needs to pay attention to the signs

or end up either in the middle of the Coke Field or wrapped

around a utility pole. The yellow stripes warning

drivers to not pass at all, at any time seem rather bland

until you notice the many varying shades of yellow that attempt

to describe the arc of the turn. Add to that

the swash of a skid mark made by a car than ran the risk

of missing the turn and you have the whole story. 

"I Have A Dream"

I chose to post this transcript of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr's speech 

as a reminder that this pertains to all of us.

As long as the wealthy, the people in power, 

the "special interests"

can keep us fighting each other, 

then they are forever the 1 per cent in control --

over us, the 99 per cent.

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."

But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.

We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.

We cannot turn back.

There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by signs stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. 

It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today!

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."

This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,

From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.

And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.

Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:

Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

                Free at last! Free at last!

                Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

       Speech delivered by Rev Martin Luther King, Jr.,

    August 23, 1963

 at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington, DC

And then there's this

Textured Tuesday: Dotted Lines in the Sand

The sidewalks in Speedway have been made handicapped accessible 

at the intersections, with brick-colored, rubberized tiles.

They're mostly unremarkable, but the sand blown onto these

tiles has helped make an interesting composition.

Oh, shoot, the weather in this part of the country 

has been much warmer than usual. When I saw the sprinkler

working on this lawn, I just wanted to lie down in the

grass and let the drops soak me down. This picture was

taken nearly a month ago, before summer started.

I want to lie under its spray even more.

Beet It, Uh ... Just Beet It

Listed above are the side dishes available at a neighborhood restaurant.

1) The difference between "green beans" and "fresh green beans"

is that the first are canned while the second are freshly picked.

2) I did go into the store to tell a near-by waitress that "beats" was, 

in this instance, misspelled. She corrected it immediately.

But not before I got the picture. 

That's when I learned about the green beans.

So, parents, if your kids are coming home covered 

in purple stains, just know they've been taking part

in neighborhood beet fights. 

Strata

I went back to the highway this morning to see the newly laid pavement.

(Really, I just had to cross the road on my way to get an early

morning latte.) As usual, I was struck by the textures carved into

the old pavement by the concrete saws and grading equipment, and

the differing colors between the old layers of cement and asphalt.

Here looking like a sun flare, the tarry adhesive has been splashed

onto the retaining wall. Centuries from now, if the warring human species 

survives its own stupidity, archaeologists will be spinning in their

pith helmets trying to figure out the drink cups, water bottles,

and beer cans thrown into the site by workers and

passers-by. But what about the rocks? Will it matter that the material

used to make the roadbed has come from a different place

than where it was found? Will they confuse the sometimes

beautiful textures for art (as I do)? 

Eh, they won't give a fuck.