Matthew Word Bain

the dimming rays of the sun’s departure
limn the high point of the house
with the glow of embers
beneath a lingering
pale blue sky
before grey dusk
and the vault of stars
restrict light’s brilliance
to the tiny apertures
of ancient suns
sparkling
in a vacuum
the twinkling eyes
of Nyx, born of Chaos
her night, generative
made of possibility
as only darkness
can give rise
to light

a strange palette of greens and blues
an amalgamation of outcomes
stemming from different decisions
made at different times by different people
in different places for different reasons
and yet, a strange coherence has emerged
as these uncoordinated outcomes
have occupied one place
united in elemental experience
sun, wind, rain, earth
and Place, the quintessence
long ago this was the birth of culture
the confluence of people in a place, over time
we have moved beyond all that now, though, of course
no longer subject to such elemental constraints
we could even move to another planet
in case we get tired of this one

why two methods, I wonder
were they on their way to blocking
the window covered in plywood
before the situation changed?
that plywood isn’t ancient
but neither is it fresh…
the place looks nothing like
an active construction site
but rather an abandoned
project in a vacant building

passage to another world, another time
a world in which the building
in whose footprint
I stand
still itself stands

from one absent building
to another, empty and vacant
or, perhaps, the other way around
from one unoccupied space
to a building no longer extant
such a dangerous passage
the portal must be
not merely boarded up
but secured with masonry

you and I, though
need not halt our journey
on account of the merely material
we know how to walk through walls
we are able to travel through time
we have the intelligence of our bodies
to reveal to us the past in the here and now
and to glimpse and even inhabit possible futures

now, then, from across the street
what a different way of seeing
this same stretch of wall
with the protruding painted bricks
and the ambiguous commercial status
framed by one well lit municipal planting
and the cheerful precautionary cylinders
decorating the cables which stabilize
the telephone pole at center stage

an awkward view at best
one in which the intentions
of too many disparate parties
commingle uncomfortably
unable to present any
sort of coherent aesthetic

Christopher Alexander, et al
in their A Pattern Language
were proponents of
spending time
in a place
getting to know
the way the elements
moved through a location
before beginning to consider
what should be built there
let alone how it should
look or function

aesthetics, I imagine
must have played a role
in their thinking, although
my sense is that role was
secondary to function
but I do not know

sometimes
it can be difficult
to tease the two apart
beauty is far more potent
than we are taught to believe

imagine here a broader sidewalk
an absence of utility hardware
and perhaps more than
just a few trees
planted amidst bricks
how different the feeling
of walking down a grassy path
with room to spare for people passing
without having to yield the right of way
to the convenience of the power company…
and room for taller trees and the shade
they provide as they shield eyes
from the glare of the sun

there are other ways
of doing things
than those
we have learned
other ways of seeing
and other ways of being

everything is in relationship
and each minute change
generates movement
ripples traveling
farther than
we may be able
to glean at first blush

some places have more than one thing to say
some places seem to have been waiting
for someone to talk to
for a long time

there I like to linger
listening
until all has been said
that wants or need to be said
and I begin to feel
that the place in question
is experiencing the sort of relief
that comes with telling your story
to a willing ear, not unlike exhaling in full
after holding your breath
for far too long

in case you haven’t noticed
we’ve been taking a walk together
I’ve been posting photographs
for the past few weeks
in the same order
I found them
walking
and driving
and walking again
dancing first with this partner
and then with this other
making friends
with Place
while I forage
inviting each location
to show me the light in which
they would like to be
conveyed

corrugated siding
and ongoing efforts
to corral the wild spirit
of the wood that still lives
even after an intensive process
of cutting, slicing, pressing, gluing
to be made stable enough for civilized
culture to manipulate it into abstract forms
and cover the holes in the facades of their culture
the complicated structures that are always deteriorating
and never a viable replacement for the complex living systems
suppressed by cutting, burning, plowing, and excavation
in order to make way for these simply complicated
efforts to shore up the addiction to consumption
that is the fuel source for the same principle
of growth that turns off cell death
in malignant tumors

take a moment
and notice, if you will
just how effective these efforts
at corralling this wild spirit have been

shadows converging
as they point to the horizon
lengthening as the sun goes down

a smörgåsbord of textures
catching and holding
or reflecting back
the light and shadow
as it travels its daily route
imperceptibly shifting each day
until it comes around again
twice each year
to the crossing points
between increasing light and dark

inset at an angle
in the shade of the late afternoon
locked up and boarded
with remnants
of the building next door
still clinging quietly to the wall
one solitary slab of orphaned masonry
clinging to the one connection
with what is familiar
after all it has known has
been violently stripped away