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ever dumbening
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Each of our lives is as an Andy Goldsworthy creation--crafted out of our time and our surroundings, crushed by the same. We race against the certainty of the incoming tide, the inevitability of wind. We are brilliance lurking just below the surface and giving form to the same.
A forty-six year old man works twigs and leaves, ice and rocks, but I see a boy--two really, projected and reflected. I think of Mink Brook, behind my aunt and uncle's house in Hanover, of dams built. I think of the sand and rocks, reds and browns and blacks, of Joshua Tree, of two brothers in their thirties piling some rocks, climbing others. I think of those two brothers as boys, in red and yellow plastic boots, racing twigs down the storm-filled gutters of Amherst Street.
Each collapse brings greater understanding of the building materials, of self. Our "dialogue with the stone--that makes the wall."
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