Kitchen at the Camp is done. #thecolorofsummer

Before & After

Outdoor camp shower constructed with treated lumber, white marble rock, reclaimed limestone pavers, slate, and assorted found materials.

Mommy Camp, Day Two: The colors of summer.

Given the somewhat outrageous cost of day camps on the East End of Long Island, the kids this summer are instead spending a few weeks of Mommy Camp. Activities for Day 1 included: a short scholastic review in their summer workbooks, free time (primarily in the form of a game of baseball), belated Father’s Day card making, a little Kindle time (the Lego movie for the 100th time cause #everythingisawesome), digging the new shower, shovel tag (while Mommy spray-painted the patio furniture), bike riding, and tie-dying t-shirts!

Re-painting the kitchen at Camp. #mintgreenbegone #whilesoloparenting

Re-painting the kitchen at Camp. #mintgreenbegone #whilesoloparenting

Tornado Alley |

Last week, my littlest turned four and I sat with him, snotty-nosed, in my lap at the hair salon as his long curling clumps of soft blonde hair slid down my leg, falling in piles at my feet.

Thick, voluminous clouds dropping above the heavy green fields and forests. Everything here, soy, wheat, hay, sunflower fields, is wet. Flush and greedy, like the color of money. Rain pooling along the fence line, crop line, skyline. Evergreen trees growing up out of streams. Water in the treads along the side of the highway. Tides rushing over the gleaming Kentucky Dam. In the news, more shooters. More shootings. More dying and more dead. As though there’s a war on here. In the air, weathered old telephone poles, cell towers, gray clouds, sin.  A lone heron lifting up from the water drenched ditch. The speed of summer is meant to be slow, but thanks to air conditioning, and irrigation, convenience shops, we speed, soggy, swamping, soaking it up. 

A flatbed of cars, crushed for recycling, expectant, like having a handful of cards yet to be played, like right before the tractor trailer upturns in the ditch outside Paducah.

Tornado Alley |

Last week, my littlest turned four and I sat with him, snotty-nosed, in my lap at the hair salon as his long curling clumps of soft blonde hair slid down my leg, falling in piles at my feet.

Thick, voluminous clouds dropping above the heavy green fields and forests. Everything here, soy, wheat, hay, sunflower fields, is wet. Flush and greedy, like the color of money. Rain pooling along the fence line, crop line, skyline. Evergreen trees growing up out of streams. Water in the treads along the side of the highway. Tides rushing over the gleaming Kentucky Dam. In the news, more shooters. More shootings. More dying and more dead. As though there’s a war on here. In the air, weathered old telephone poles, cell towers, gray clouds, sin. A lone heron lifting up from the water drenched ditch. The speed of summer is meant to be slow, but thanks to air conditioning, and irrigation, convenience shops, we speed, soggy, swamping, soaking it up.

A flatbed of cars, crushed for recycling, expectant, like having a handful of cards yet to be played, like right before the tractor trailer upturns in the ditch outside Paducah.

A self-possessed little girl named Jacqueline Bouvier walking with her pony. Diana Vreeland wearing striped shorts with matching striped earrings. Gary Cooper impeccably dressed in a sport jacket and trousers as he enters a fashionable beach club. These are among the 30 black-and-white images of the rich and famous in “Southampton Blue Book, 1930 to 1960: Photographs by Bert Morgan,” on view at the Rogers Mansion of the Southampton Historical Museums and Research Center through Oct. 18.

(Source: wnyc)

RED MOON ECLOGUES

By Mark Tredinnick

I
Every year the moon inches away from us. In time she’ll swim too far out
to anchor us at our habitual angle to the sun, and that will be the end
of the well-tempered and recursive wildness
that conceived and suffered us,
and that will be the end of us. We have just two
billion years to thank her for our time here. Eternity has a use-by date

II
But it’ll be up long before that, and in the meantime,
I sit on the cold step of the cowshed and watch the world throw its shadow
on the moon like a horseblanket;
in the meantime the moon reddens
in the refraction of all our dawns and sunsets, in a kind of transfigured cosmic
smog. An apocalypse that lasts three hours until it’s time to go to bed.

III
And in the meantime on the floor of my shed, blue planets sing in the hands
of children as they once sang in war. Two small worlds forged to cry terribly down
like creation unravelling upon one’s foes now
make a peaceful clangour on my secular desk.
One spins from its orbit and quakes and chips its cerulean shell on the floor
of heaven. The tectonics of play. We are loved like this, and this is how it ends.

IV
I’m arguing a lot with death these days. And last night I found myself
in court poised to clinch the case against the absurdity of life.
Certainly, this was sleeping and certainly
I was dreaming and I’d been losing the thread,
but all at once I saw where my argument must run, and I was running it there
when my small boy cried and woke me and I went to him and now I’ll never know.

V
Spring now, and the river has drawn back her bow. The lark ascends
from the cd-player, and black ducks sip brown ditchwater in the yard.
Everything’s in bud or leaf, last of all
the silver poplars and the Osage Orange,
trees flaring even now in the backyard of the childhood of my friend, the poet,
the poet’s son. The world happens twice. Draw the linen string taut and shoot.

VI
One lives in paradox. Debussy plays; trucks flounder past like gods
who’ve lost control of their machines. In between one makes one’s life up.
The sound is the price you pay for the sight
that meets you every morning and half
of what you paid for the house. The shed puts the perfect sky in her pocket,
and possums rut in the roof. Eternity is in rehearsal, and this is its soundtrack.

VII
Brad mows an acre an hour. A general at ease on his machine, a banker
in overalls, he’s rationalised our small republic on one tank of gas. And this now—
cutgrass at four o’clock—is how
hope smells. Some days I can see no way out:
the body of the world in entropy. But today I sit among the ruins
of the afternoon, and I cannot see how it can’t all go on forever.

VIII
Meantime the moon has made herself new again, and there has been rain.
The Marulan hills, which had almost forgotten the taste of the word,
are spelling green again this afternoon,
and there’s water in a lake that’s been a paddock
for a decade. Three black cockatoos, and then three more, fly over as I take
the southwest road. And into all this panoply of hope, the new moon falls.


Mark Tredinnick, “Red Moon Eclogues” audio from The Road South, Audio CD, River Road Press, 2008: by permission of River Road Press and the poet. Copyright © 2008 by Mark Tredinnick.

round top, texas

round top, texas