the coast of Maine

Exiled

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,

This is the thing I find to be:

That I am weary of words and people,

Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness

Of the strong wind and shattered spray;

Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound

Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always and before about my dooryard,

Marking the reach of the winter sea,

Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,

Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,

Shook the sand from my shoes at night,

That now am caught beneath great buildings,

Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning

Under the windy wooden piers,

See once again the bobbing barrels,

And the black sticks that fence the weirs.

If I could see the weedy mussels

Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls

Hear once again the hungry crying

Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining

Under the turning of the tide,

Fear once again the rising freshet,

Dread the bell in the fog outside,

I should be happy, -- that was happy

All day long on the coast of Maine!

I have a need to hold and handle

Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy

Never at all since I came here.

I am too long away from water.

I have a need of water near.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

photos taken August 9, 2010 off the coast of Maine

the ballerina project

Manoa Falls, Dane Shitagi

The images below are from Dane Shitagi's collection,

The Ballerina Project.

The collection displays the motion and beauty of

dance with New York City as its backdrop.

the road less traveled by

this would be one of my all time favorites; definitely...

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

by Robert Frost

into the sea

I think the most wonderful thing about the sea is the unknown; not knowing what is beyond. Just below the sky, the dark mass of water vanishes into a thin line on the horizon. One cannot see past the rippling waves. A small drop of water can be transparent, but when put with an ocean-full of droplets, it is nothing more than darkness. Below our life above, there is an entire world below; below the deep sea.

"I find myself at the extremity of a long beach. How gladly does the spirit leap forth, and suddenly enlarge its sense of being to the full extent of the broad, blue, sunny deep! A greeting and a homage to the Sea! I descend over its margin, and dip my hand into the wave that meets me, and bathe my brow. That far-resounding roar is the Ocean's voice of welcome. His salt breath brings a blessing along with it." ~Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Foot-prints on the Sea-shore"

shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

thou art more lovely and more temperate...

...so long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

so long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

-William Shakespeare

greece

all staircases lead to the sea

blue eyes, blue shirt, blue hat

two old men

beyond the sea

a little color never hurts

the bouzouki player