Whither Thou Goest

 

Three days away from writing here and I have already forgotten how this dance goes.

What should I write? What if I have nothing to say? What if I’m crabby today? Do I say so?

Short walk to Anxiety-ville for creatives. Makes me think of the 21 Pilots’ song “Stressed Out.”  https://youtu.be/pXRviuL6vMY   Go figure.

Autumn came back for two days over the Thanksgiving Weekend.  Very happy about that.  Got to see all the golden, brown, and red leaves on the ground again.  Some are still in the trees.

Poor trees.  They weren’t ready for winter either.

Recovery was better today.  Only halfway down the tree-line before breathing eased.  Misery week has been pushed off by two weeks now, which could account for it.

Took a different train to work today.  Saw a sculpture downtown, three silver blocks jumbled together.  The silver and the angles make it interesting.  Too simple to really float my boat, but good public art all the same.

Where does that line lie, anyway?  Is good public art only what pleases the majority?  Are we not then at risk of having mall art instead of real art?  The visual equivalent of Musack (real songs sanitized of lyrics for generic public consumption, ie. elevator music).

My favourite sculpture is still one I photographed years ago: the Iron Horse.  Taller than I am at the withers, and constructed of all manner of iron bits.  I call him Clangstomper, after the steam powered horse of January Junction fame (animation: Jack Frost, 1979)

Incidentally, ‘whither’ and ‘withers’ are completely different words (Had to look up the spelling). And ‘withers’ is not just the high point below a horse’s neck, but also the high point on sheep, and cows etc. Who knew?

Hoof

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