Discovering Beauty in Everyday Life

Once upon a time, in the near reaches of Central Park, there lived a very large Elf-Fairy. Confusing as elf-fairies are in general, ours has learned to answer simply to the call of El Fair the Fair One, or Elffo the Fair for short. Elffo seldom appears in person (during the day), since elf-fairies are so sensitive. For many years they were held in captivity until they escaped their original planet. Usually, they find a low-lying bush in which to dwell. Now Elffo is among the most lucky. The amazing Central Park Smoke Tree has made a place for Elffo under its inner most branches. For a few weeks each summer, Elffo can use Smoke as a Screen, and gaze out at the New York fauna at will. Only the trained eye can find Elffo the Fair! Can you find Elffo? If so leave a comment or an email and I’ll post your description of Elffo!

I crave those times I refused to notice, when I lived behind the separator, catching reflections in the transparent screen: red snowsuits glancing by in January, spring-green boots. August—limp, dry, sticky with sap. Camping in the lodgepole pines, quiet needle carpets crunching, hiking, breathing, always such a long way to go. Why am I always, always last? I am weighted down with last year’s dinners. I see a paint drip frozen dry on the yellow wall. Why notice it now, when the time to fix is over? Staring out the dusty window, Rain throwing spatters down my face. From Light to Dark on Madison Avenue

Meet Esquilito! Esquilito is a young theatrical arts student from the The Squilliard School for Modeling and Movies in Brazil.  It is obvious from the beautiful positioning, arching and transparency of Esquilito’s tail that he has been trained by our own Central Park Squiva.  Indeed, The Squilliard School is the latest Academy to be created by Squiva, who is the Artistic Director and Founder.  Esquilito has been entrusted with a message for us: My Dear Beloved Fans, admirers and members of the National Union of The Squirrels, I am disappointed to tell you that starting the Brazilian school has been ghastly difficult!  The existing training is so poorly conceived that it is all I can do to keep up my spirits.   But, I know Brazil needs my special talents, training, and artistry!  Please welcome my little Esquilito, who will be my liaison while I am away in these sticky surroundings.  Monkeys!  Yes... I don’t know where to start... Anyway, Esquilito is a very exceptional st

I crave that weary, empty cave Those unremitting ribbons of geology Those booming echoes drip by drip Sneaking down the cranial walls Etching with acid despair. I crawl into the water, weighted by the world Slipping into the muddy bottom Staring down the midnight eels. Vitality drawn thin as a crack. Do not inhale, don’t do it! Do not drown in watery inches! Wait for one more morning sun Shafting through the silting creek beds, Dappled with leaves and colored stones. Green with Garden Hose

Sticking to the moment Stretching out the candied middle years Sliding through the wires Prime of life, top of the game Sneaking into the nick of time. Bird on the East River Rail, 2013

Right and left, pedestrians passed by this amazing scene, never suspecting the incredible nature of the occurrence. On the surface this is a typical street scene:  a woman in black standing in a corner under an indecipherable sign, speaking on a red phone. The incredible truth is that our relentlessly observant photographer has captured a photo of the last working  United States Secret Service Women of the original five.  Note the hat (quickly interchangeable); the hand holding an object (typically the new 357 PhaserStun); the  two-way video uplinking dark glasses; the miniature molecular computer watch.  Shhhhhh United States Secret Service Woman in an Undisclosed Location

How easily I forgot you! How totally I repaired the sad tracks scratched into my heart, nails screeching on the inside ribs. No more tunneling with dream-lit ironclad excuses. No seeping, easing, losing track of all those sinking feelings- the over betting one more time, the losing streak, the final wishful shuffle. How easily I recall that blissful epicenter, the endless summersaulting days, the starlit nights alive with silence. How did they sink so finally into the sand? Riftstone Arch on the bridle path underneath the 72nd pedestrian entrance into the west side of Central Park