Discovering Beauty in Everyday Life

Our dedicated Park researchers have identified a very disturbing trend:  After watching many joggers zigging and zagging for no obvious reason, our researchers submitted their observation to their trusty data warehouse software. The ensuing data analyzing, modeling, graphing, reverse decision-tree detecting, geographic and holographic (AMGRD GH) plotting uncovered a disturbing dynamic. Joggers are avoiding any possibility for self-reflection and that means avoiding mudpuddles. So far we are not concerned, since the avoidance activity remains passive. Should these same joggers decide the problem is not in themselves but in the mudpuddles, we will have to take action. Although mudpuddles are immortal, they have been forced into hiding and into entirely new locations during past anti-mudpuddle campaigns. We are standing fast. North Reservoir Path, Central Park in Late Spring (2013)

Think of a time you could dream, way back when, Well, believe it or not it has happened again! That little red hen and the mouse and the clock, Tug boat, blue oxen, the bean and the stalk, The castle, the draw bridge, the glass slipper too, Andromeda! Africa! Waiting for you! Wherever, however, whenever, whoever, Never say never whatever you do. If your dreams seem dead, here’s a strategy for you, Remember back to spring when we thought we lost Blue. Blue, our young Spruce is almost Four!

Innocent lion-taming maiden unaware of the evil forces of Rodin rapidly closing in. Metropolitan Museum of Art

There are those who will quibble and nibble and gripe About focus and lighting –well you know the type. They miss all the fun with their nitpicking jury: Some pansies are born to be blurry!

Desire rubs itself into your palms like rusty gravel, into your face like those wrenching wringing drying clothes hanging by the grace of god.  But then, See the image of that flower root, sucking sunlight into the earth. Hear the image of a torn root mending, hidden there under the sidewalk rain. I have a garden with a marigold, a yellow pansy in the window box, a tree living a shepherdless life.

Foggy Rupert Towers fades away into white

There once was a leaf named Horatio Who was looking around for a way to show How grand he would be in a color photo. Leaf loved his gorgeous physique and technique, Leaf was certain his hue was unique, what mystique! Leaf was strong not dependent not weak, but a sheik! All alone On his own He had grown. Take a photo of Me, said he, not the tree! What good is a tree to a Me?