On moorings
I’ve been thinking of late about Shelley’s poem (sonnet really) Ozymandias.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said -- "two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lips, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
I’ve always liked the imagery. The narrator doesn’t see the scene he describes. Rather it was related to him but his description is enough for the reader to feel the sand shift beneath his feet.
All things pass away. No matter how powerful and omnipresent they are at their zenith their time will come. I think of that sometimes when I look at the world around us. What will be gone in 100 years or even 50? How much will we see pass away that was as sure as the dawn?
I never, in my life, expected to see the end of the Soviet Union. The Cold War seemed to be a permanent thing. How could it end other than shooting? Not only did it end, it ended very quickly and quietly. I remember seeing the Berlin Wall come down live on TV. It was a Thursday night and I just got in from a friend’s birthday party. I was, to put it bluntly, completely hammered. I had the spins so I decided to watch TV until they passed (or I passed out). I remember watching the spectacle in disbelief. I awoke the next morning certain I had hallucinated the entire thing until I saw the footage again.
I thought the Twin Towers would stand forever. I envisioned mankind dying out and being gone for a hundred years with those two massive pillars standing out in the middle of the forest that reclaimed Manhattan. That one, more than the others, is like a splinter I can’t dig out. It probably has to do with proximity. Maybe familiarity. I cannot count the number of times I went through that mall/plaza/subway station. My best friend was living in Battery Park City at the time and I was making frequent trips there for work. I took that damn A train downtown to WTC/Battery Park City stop. Last one before Brooklyn.
We live in a world of endless drudgery at work and fleeting time at home. The kids grow up so fast and your parents grow old very fast. I'm caring for my kids now but in just few years they'll be moving out and I'll be caring for my parents. My Dad is getting older. He's strong as an ox and frankly has more energy than I do some days. He spent the last year renovating his boyhood home, preparing it for sale. The house was built in the 20's. It had been covered with shag carpets and endless layers of paint. He stripped all the carpets and found beautiful walnut floors. Restored to their original glory they glow a deep brown with a inlaid border trim of ash. Craftsmanship you'll never see the likes of again. Behind the paint on the trim and banisters was more walnut. Just beautiful. I'd show you the pictures buy my parents don't have a digital camera. The one they have might as well be the kind that you have to throw a blanket over yourself and hold a magnesium flash in your hand.
Why restore it? I didn't understand until my Dad showed me the property line. The lot is actually twice as deep as the others on the block. If they didn't restore it, someone would have bought it cheaper and knocked it down to put up a multifamily or, worse, a small apartment building. My Dad said he couldn't let that happen. His neighborhood, his block, was one of the last holdouts of The Old Neighborhood in Staten Island. The rest of West New Brighton and Port Richmond have fallen. If you've been there in the last 10 years or so you know what I mean.
By restoring it he means to hold back the tide. If not forever, at least as long as he can. I think he'll rest easier knowing that he did what he could to keep thing The Way They Ought To Be. It will pass away. All of it.
It's that feeling of being unmoored. It ebbs and flows. You'll be fine for a long time and then something happens to make you feel just a little adrift. It can be disquieting.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said -- "two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lips, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
I’ve always liked the imagery. The narrator doesn’t see the scene he describes. Rather it was related to him but his description is enough for the reader to feel the sand shift beneath his feet.
All things pass away. No matter how powerful and omnipresent they are at their zenith their time will come. I think of that sometimes when I look at the world around us. What will be gone in 100 years or even 50? How much will we see pass away that was as sure as the dawn?
I never, in my life, expected to see the end of the Soviet Union. The Cold War seemed to be a permanent thing. How could it end other than shooting? Not only did it end, it ended very quickly and quietly. I remember seeing the Berlin Wall come down live on TV. It was a Thursday night and I just got in from a friend’s birthday party. I was, to put it bluntly, completely hammered. I had the spins so I decided to watch TV until they passed (or I passed out). I remember watching the spectacle in disbelief. I awoke the next morning certain I had hallucinated the entire thing until I saw the footage again.
I thought the Twin Towers would stand forever. I envisioned mankind dying out and being gone for a hundred years with those two massive pillars standing out in the middle of the forest that reclaimed Manhattan. That one, more than the others, is like a splinter I can’t dig out. It probably has to do with proximity. Maybe familiarity. I cannot count the number of times I went through that mall/plaza/subway station. My best friend was living in Battery Park City at the time and I was making frequent trips there for work. I took that damn A train downtown to WTC/Battery Park City stop. Last one before Brooklyn.
We live in a world of endless drudgery at work and fleeting time at home. The kids grow up so fast and your parents grow old very fast. I'm caring for my kids now but in just few years they'll be moving out and I'll be caring for my parents. My Dad is getting older. He's strong as an ox and frankly has more energy than I do some days. He spent the last year renovating his boyhood home, preparing it for sale. The house was built in the 20's. It had been covered with shag carpets and endless layers of paint. He stripped all the carpets and found beautiful walnut floors. Restored to their original glory they glow a deep brown with a inlaid border trim of ash. Craftsmanship you'll never see the likes of again. Behind the paint on the trim and banisters was more walnut. Just beautiful. I'd show you the pictures buy my parents don't have a digital camera. The one they have might as well be the kind that you have to throw a blanket over yourself and hold a magnesium flash in your hand.
Why restore it? I didn't understand until my Dad showed me the property line. The lot is actually twice as deep as the others on the block. If they didn't restore it, someone would have bought it cheaper and knocked it down to put up a multifamily or, worse, a small apartment building. My Dad said he couldn't let that happen. His neighborhood, his block, was one of the last holdouts of The Old Neighborhood in Staten Island. The rest of West New Brighton and Port Richmond have fallen. If you've been there in the last 10 years or so you know what I mean.
By restoring it he means to hold back the tide. If not forever, at least as long as he can. I think he'll rest easier knowing that he did what he could to keep thing The Way They Ought To Be. It will pass away. All of it.
It's that feeling of being unmoored. It ebbs and flows. You'll be fine for a long time and then something happens to make you feel just a little adrift. It can be disquieting.
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