There was that single day in February when I was able, dressed in five layers, riding slowly to mitigate the chilling effects of the wind, to bike out onto The Spit. I caught my first glimpse of this magnificent pile, not yet what it would become.
I managed a phone-cam shot but couldn’t keep my hands ungloved long enough to write.
Next, a two months tough-to-wait-out hiatus; it took that long for the weather to be biking friendlier. (No matter what reports are in the city, The Spit is much cooler. Plus, with fewer rubble mounds than there once were, there is little to block the wind at the rubble cliff edges.)
On April 23rd, headwinds and gusts. I couldn’t wait another day. I was uneasy that I might find the tower reduced to the rubble it had emerged from before I could get back to it. Getting low and small on my bike, I took off to defy the wind.
Worth it, worth it, worth it! Look what I found!
Constructed in the ancient Roman way, dry, nothing to hold the materials together except the art of engineering. At least 12 to 15 ft (3.5-4.5 m) tall. Breathtaking. Magical.
At the tower’s base, down the rubble cliff going left:
At the tower's base, down the rubble cliff going right:
To the rubble beach:
Views from the landing where the pathway separates to the left and right:
And here is what I left behind:
April 23, 2017
Your predecessors last year – and wasn’t it
the year before too? Were awe-inspiring
but you, you are something else altogether
with your heavens’ reach and
your indecipherable hieroglyphics at your feet
your divided staircase to the sea.
I want to linger here with you.
Or simply your determination
Well, you know what I’m talking about
Where is Keats when you need him!?
As I headed back toward my bike feeling mighty fine, I caught this in the distance:
Bet there is a little tower envy coming from that place across the bay.
The magnificent pile is a classic expression of optimism and determination. Over the last couple of years at least seven such towers have appeared at various times. Each eventually returned to a rubble state.
When I imagine the labour and risk involved in constructing these towers, I am awed and in wonder at the Spit-power that inspires such effort and tenacity. The towers’ engineering style, their architecture and attention to detail have had enough in common to suggest the same builder.
The determination to begin again, and again, and again, takes me to a story my mother once told: The war had barely ended. Ruins were more common than buildings left unscathed. The devastation was staggering. People were disheartened, mourning.
An opera house had been significantly damaged. Rubble everywhere.
Determined, hope-filled, broom-wielding optimists appeared one by one and began to sweep and carry rubble from the stage and the auditorium. So many others joined that soon the stage was clear, the orchestra assembled and desperately needed music filled the musicians, the instruments, the air and its audience. Again.
Could there be something to the concept of creative spirit?
Until next time.
The Stealth Art Collective