Janus: Two-Facing

I found him king-of-the-castling on August 17, 2014 atop a newly arrived mound of rubble.  This view is toward open water.

A ten foot clips-on-bike-shoes slippery scramble to leave a note on that shard of orange brick on his pedestal.

Oh, you are too cute to
ignore even if it means
clambering over this
pile of deconstructed
city to get to you!

On his other side, the side looking toward the city, I left this note

Looks are deceiving,
yes? At first glance from
the other side you’re
simply cute up here.
But from this side
your rusty hair does not
obstruct your view either —
forward and back
like Janus as you stand
here in the present. I
admire this about you.
It can’t be easy seeing
that much, being rooted
here. Or does it provide
you with some hold on
absolution?

And only one week later.

From August 17 to October 12, 2014, Janus experienced numerous alterations, semi-deconstructions, reconstructions and witnessed a sinister incursion. On each occasion my response was written on some suitable surface at hand.

And now, backtracking a little to the day of the incursion.

On this late August day the ride along The Spit entry road was unusually quiet. No birdsong, no cormorant squawk, no wind rush sound in my ears — so quiet in fact, that I could hear the insects singing. Not a single rabbit scampered to safety just ahead of my front wheel, when so often at dawn there could be twenty or more successful dodges between us.

The point, where I did most of the creative instinct tracking and writing was hushed. Suddenly, THUMP, that distinctive hollow sound of heavy objects striking ground underpinned as The Spit is by rubble and its air pockets. I stopped, breath held, silenced as if obedient to some instinct.

I crouched. A little hidden and wrote.

Stunning, sobering
the dark force of him.
I heard it first, one clunk as something hit the ground.
It felt somehow notice-worthy when normally such noises out here only register.
Slowly, ever so slowly moving across you
searching eyes
until he spotted his next victim
so sadly thorough and complete his work. I saw him moments later sitting
roadside
bare footed, alone — perhaps the victim of a chaos governed broken heart.

Looking up every couple of words to keep my eye on him I suddenly felt a deep shift . You know the split -second moment - that impossible to put into words eye-lock instant. I moved very slowly keeping him at a constant distance thinking, ‘He is without wheels, I have my bike. Stay. I can outpace him .’ And so, we inched keeping that gap steady between us, our eyes not meeting again, mine averted for fear of triggering something unpredictable in him, something more powerful. Despite my bravado, foreboding allowed no further writing that day.

He appeared and disappeared only once into the path leading up to the lighthouse. On all of my subsequent visits that path has never again looked quite so beautiful, mysterious and sinister as it did on that day.

I remain altered by that encounter. It was more information about The Spit than I wanted at such intensity. The guys from 2012 target practicing were enough.  To this day, I cannot unknow their impact or his presence, his methodical determination, taking his time e v e r   s o  s l o w l y,   ever so deliberately until every single creative act was razed. 

But then again, The Spit is impartial and deeply dimensional, wild and unpredictable. It holds the tension of opposites with such grace. It has never been my intention to change it (as IF I could) or to avoid this truth. The Spit’s contrasts and mysteries are what draw me. Best to remember this.

●

I had another rule for myself:  not to rebuild anything that has been altered or destroyed. But I was attached to this one. It occurs to me as I write today, that I must have needed to soften the blow of that assault from the week before.  I did a little restoration work, just a little.

And left this note.

…with the hope
that this is as good
a reconstructions as
Humpty’s might have been.
You are just too good to let go.
Hold on! Hold on!

Until October 12th, when only this remained.

The granite slab on which I had written to Janus at our first meeting was laid, writing side visible, on his concrete block pedestal. I added this to the existing text.

The thought of you still
lingers here — so it seems
that someone has remembered,
has held your thought in this saved note.

By October 25th, all traces of Janus, his pedestal and his rubble mound had been bulldozer-obliterated. The Spit had grown a little and it was time to begin again.

And for us, you and me, until next time.

The Stealth Art Collective

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Ostraca, Ekphrasis and the Magnificent Pile - Part II

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

Hello gorgeous!
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.
       Your resurrection?
       Your reincarnation?
       Or simply your determination
Well, you know what I’m talking about
                                      don’t you

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. 

Then what?  

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