Startled by the sight
of lunar liftoff
I slip-slide on ice,
reel, rebalance, and
then I remember:
a full moon rising
tomorrow, tonight
penultimate night
of winter’s waxing.
The March moon shimmers
on unfrozen lake,
saluting springtime’s
assured/unassured
arrival two weeks —
per the oracles,
a frosty fortnight
of whiplash weather —
from this Monday eve.
Since my earliest Rosslyn intrigue, wondering if the house and property might one day become a home for us, daybreak was my fixation. Perhaps it was just my lifelong affinity for early morning. As an early riser dawn has long been my favorite time of time, a world of possibility… Perhaps it was just curiosity what Rosslyn would feel like, look like, wandering room-to-room early in the morning. Although the front hallway was still in decidedly unfinished condition when we first visited, I imagined the walls painted a pale yellow, transporting the sunrise inside, warming the house with the brightening day.
This summer has been marked with singularly spectacular sunrises (and sunsets), and I’ve written much and often about these liminal states. This morning, however, catching sight of daybreak through wavy glass in the front parlor, I was struck concurrently with two thoughts.
The wave-rippled surface of Lake Champlain was refracting dawn’s beacon, distorting the beam of fiery orange sunlight into a row of burning “puddles” that wavy glass in the parlor windows was further altering into a dancing mirage. Searing reality transformed into a optical illusion. I was reminded that Rosslyn has often altered my way of seeing and experiencing.
These summer days are filtering faster and faster from anticipation to happening to memories. Just as the fleeting illusion of fiery puddles or bonfires or — pushing possibility to it’s breaking point — fiery cairns guided my eye to the rising sun, wobbling up out of Vermont’s Green Mountains like some hallucination, almost as quickly mellowing to a buttery yellow before vanishing altogether in the cloud bank above, just as quickly this summer is reaching its conclusion.
And these bittersweet realizations, as if coupling and procreating, gave birth to a daybreak haiku.
Daybreak Haiku
Daybreak inside out,
sunrise sublime, august hours
tick-tock-ing away.
— @rosslynredux
A window view early on a Sunday morning. A blazing daybreak. Wavy lake and wavy glass. Near, familiar silhouettes framing a veritable mirage. Dawn within. Dawn without.
If September poems sound overly sentimental to you or if you’re inclined to a grittier observance of the almost-upon-us Autumn Equinox, I’ve got you covered. Soon. Stay tuned.
But if you’re comfortable lingering briefly — and these poems are, if nothing else, brief — in the seasonality and liminality of the present moment, then I’d like to offer you a few September poems. After all, sometimes the singing underneath doesn’t translate to images or longform exposition. So I’ve bundled a tidy bundle of verse celebrating my one of my four favorite seasons.
Short and sweet, sometimes bittersweet, is the name of the game when trying to put your finger on something as poignant and humbling as the shift from summer to autumn (with the omnipresent reminder that autumn too will soon yield, and winter will shroud the colors and flavors and aromas away beneath a snowy blanket). But that can be an elusive errand.
There’s something ineffable about Septembering, but anyone who’s dwelled a spell in the North Country is familiar with this shift. (Source: Seasonality: Septembering)
Haiku’s economy offers a bold if foolhardy effort, so let’s start there.
•:•
Dusky zinnias,
harvest-ready to welcome
arriving houseguests.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Bountiful beans,
red-podded asparagus,
climbing the teepee.
— Geo Davis
•:•
Seasonal surreal:
autumnal art, alchemy,
tart transformation.
— Geo Davis
I’m struck by the concurrently lavish spoils and humbling caution of September. In so many respects the bounty of an entire summer’s worth of gardening and orcharding comes due in September. Sure, we’ve been enjoying the gardens since May, but the this month full of contrasts is without doubt the most abundant harvest. And yet, even as we indulge to excess, the crisp nights and the sunlight’s increasingly anemic illumination remind us to prepare for winter.
When Septembering
honor abundance
as autumn will soon
yield to the drum roll
of hale and hoarfrost,
bitter wind, and snow.
— Geo Davis
This might be the first verse to a longer look at the point-counterpoint of this intoxicating yet sobering marvel of a month. It might also have reached its end. A little hibernation should help decide.
I’ve made no secret of the fact that this 2022 summer and autumn have been pivotal for Susan and for me. We’re surfing some seismic transformations in our lives, finally confronting inevitabilities and incongruities that have been evolving for a long time, and fortifying one another for significant choices and changes ahead. In all probability the liminal space we’re navigating underlies the vibrance and drama I’m noticing in everyday events. But I’m unable to disregard the rhymes, rituals, harmonies, and auspicious signs (cairns, buoys, vade mecums,…) as I immerse myself in the texture and artifacts of a decade and a half with Rosslyn, as Susan and I revise and remap and re-plot our next chapters.
So many friends and acquaintances have contributed to this new adventure we’re embarking on, often without even realizing it or intending to effect our trajectory. Influences have an uncanny habit of popping up at just the right time! And so I close this post with an invitation to you. We welcome you to join and participate in our quest. As fellow sojourners we’ll better bridge the valleys and better celebrate the lofty summits ahead. Grateful to be traveling together!
Where in the world is Rosslyn? If you’re not too terribly averse to a verse, here’s an introduction writ small (wrapped up in a tidy micropoem.)
Up in the Adirondacks at the foot of the foothills, where Champlain's sweet waters refresh, render respite, and sooth worldweary souls, a sanctuary sings welcoming melodies. (Source: Where's Rosslyn?)
Poetry not your preference? Pity! 😉 Let’s try this.
Rosslyn is perched on the Adirondack shore of Lake Champlain in Essex, New York. Unlike the Adirondack High Peaks region, the Adirondack Coast (which comprises much of Champlain’s western shoreline) exhibits picturesque colonial architectural unlike the more recent Adirondack rustic camps located further inland. Historic Essex boasts one of the most intact, best preserved collections of early 19th century United States architectural heritage. Serving as a gateway community since the late 1700s, Essex remains an important crossroads today. The Essex-Charlotte ferry connects New York State with Vermont, while nearby NYS Route 87 and Amtrack trains connect Montreal, Albany and New York City. (Source: Where’s Rosslyn? )
Beginning to zero in on where in the world Rosslyn is? If neither the poetics of place nor encyclopedic brevity are helping much, let’s try a map or two. Maybe I can narrow your focus a little further with this line drawing that I created with Katie Shepard for our community blog, Essex on Lake Champlain back in 2015. (If you click on the map it’ll open a window where you can download the unfuzzy PDF complete with a key explaining each of the numbers in the map.)
Enough with the old school black and white (and sepia with faint rose highlighting). It’s time for technicolor!
When it comes to brightening things up, there’s no better bet than close friend, artist, and best selling author, Amy Guglielmo (@amyguglielmo). Back on November 18, 2013 I shared a post showcasing Ms. Guglielmo’s dazzling aerial view of our Essex neighborhood.
So, where in the world is Rosslyn? Train your eyes on the three docks/piers extending out into Lake Champlain. The middle one is the ferry dock. (See the ferry heading to Vermont?) The smallest of the three man made peninsula’s is Rosslyn’s dock house (aka “boathouse”). Armed with that little insight, perhaps you can find the same property on the two maps above? (Hint: the boathouse wasn’t yet constructed in 1876 when the map at the top of this post was made.)
Now back to Amy’s painting and Rosslyn’s boathouse, “the maritime folly that enchanted us back in 2005-6 enough to swap NYC for the Adirondacks.”
Heck, it still enchants us despite constant maintenance and seasonal flood worries. And the boathouse hammock is a mini vacation!
Head inland from the boathouse and you’ll discover Rosslyn itself, tucked next to two massive trees, a ginkgo and what I believe is a silver maple (Acer saccharinum). In fact, I’m sitting in the top right room on the second floor right now. Perhaps if you swoop in a little lower you’ll catch me jotting this blog post.
A little further left of the house are the carriage barn (lower) and ice house (upper) which offer up all sorts of mysteries. But those for another day. Unless you remember three curious artifacts I shared with you a while ago… (Source: Essex Aerial View)
Hopefully this helped orient you. Yes, a Google map might be more precise and quicker, but sometimes Rosslyn Redux and the art of homing aren’t particularly precise or quick. Besides, a thin veil of privacy keeps the snoopers away. Or at least adds a little challenge to their quest. But if you’re looking for a little more clarity on where in the world Rosslyn is located, I suggest you check out this hopefully helpful hub: “Where’s Rosslyn?“
So let’s get it out on the table right from the start. This evening‘s post is a departure. Something new. And different. I mean *really* different… Let’s start with the title of this post, “A Place Where Stories are Told”, for example. Sounds like Essex, right? And plenty of other places, perhaps. I’ll jump the gun and tell you that it’s the title of a poem (that I’ll be including in a moment) about our fair village. So far, so good. By this point you’re accustomed to verse popping up in these posts. And you’re certainly not unfamiliar with hyperlocal belly button gazing. But there’s a twist. A wrinkle. A peculiarity. This poem, this post, this title are a collaboration — a conversation even — with an artificial intelligence chatbot. “A Place Where Stories are Told” is largely the product of ChatGPT, or more precisely, discourse with ChatGPT.
If that confession threw you for a loop, I’m sorry. Let’s rewind a little bit. I took that photograph above while pulling away from the Essex ferry dock a few hours ago en route to Burlington for dinner with friends. Rosslyn’s boathouse. A place where stories are told. No artificial intelligence. Just the old fashioned, between-the-ears intelligence and location, location, location (a curiously catalytic energy this location provides for storytelling, reminiscing, and pipe dreaming). If it weren’t snowing and below freezing, the three of us probably would be sitting out there telling stories. Instead, we’ll be hunkering at a farm-to-table restaurant in downtown Burlington.
Mark, the friend arriving from Montpelier, primed the proverbial pump for this evening’s storytelling with a quick quip from the aforementioned AI chatbot. He directed ChatGPT to “say something nice about Westport, New York” where Jim, the other friend joining us for dinner, lives. Here’s how it responded.
Westport, New York is a scenic and charming town located near the Adirondack Mountains. Known for its beautiful natural surroundings and friendly community, it offers a range of outdoor recreational activities and opportunities to enjoy the beauty of the countryside. With its rich history, stunning landscapes, and friendly people, Westport is a wonderful place to visit or call home.
ChatGPT
Interesting. That reads a little like the sort of gormless drivel we’re accustomed to reading in destination marketing and chambers of commerce blurbs. Canned and generic, but accurate. And, I should note, it *is* somewhat surreal that a chatbot can generate accurate drivel.
Next, Mark asked ChatGPT to compose a poem about Essex, New York. And this brings us to the title of my post, “A Place Where Stories are Told”.
Essex, a town so serene and bright,
Nestled in the hills with all its might,
Surrounded by beauty, both near and far,
A place where memories will always be a star.
From the rolling hills and vibrant trees,
To the sparkling waters and gentle breeze,
Essex is a place where one can find,
Peace, happiness and a sense of mind.
With its quaint streets and friendly folks,
Essex is a place where stories are told,
Of days gone by and memories made,
In this beautiful town that will never fade.
So here's to Essex, a town of pride,
With its natural wonders and scenic ride,
A place where dreams and memories come true,
Forever cherished by me and you.
— ChatGPT
The chat bot excelled with rhythm and rhyme, but it underperformed elsewhere. It’s worth noting that the penultimate stanza is slightly promising, hence my decision to harvest the title from the least contrived and most accurate, meaningful, and compelling sentence.
Perhaps like me, you’re a little wary of AI dabbling in the cultural and aesthetic arenas. An idea is percolating underneath my tangled mop, but I’m going to sleep on it. Morning might mature my perspective a few shades. And, so, without further ado, I’ll wrap up for the evening, inviting you to contemplate AI chat bots as fellow sojourners. Artificial intelligence offering us an ode to Essex. Thank you, ChatGPT. Thank you, Mark!
Yesterday I made a passing reference to coder jargon when I said that “the bug is beginning to feel like a feature”. (See “Yesteryear or Yesterday?“) I’m not a coder. Never was. Never will be. But I like the way coders think (and sometimes the way they talk.) You may be familiar with the acronym INABIAF or the phrase, “It’s not a bug, it’s a feature“. Its use long ago jumped the software programming border, and today you’ll hear it bandied about in all sorts of curious contexts. Yesterday’s post, for example…
An adage too often deployed, too often stretched and distorted, tends to become overly generic. Tends to lose its oomph. I’m guilty, of course. But unrepentant. Chalk it up to poetic license. Or digital graffiti. Or wanton disregard for the sanctity of jargon?!
Today I’m doubling down. It’s not a bug, it’s a feature.
What, you ask, is not a bug? Certainly some of the spunky snapshots I’ve included in this post are bugs. And insects, though I forget what delineates the two.
So many transfixing bugs at Rosslyn, and so little call for their vibrant mugs. Today I change that.
But what do these fetching flyers have to do with wonky tech talk? I’m working on that. First let’s detour a moment for more versed expertise on the aforementioned phrase.
WE’LL NEVER KNOW who said it first, nor whether the coiner spoke sheepishly or proudly, angrily or slyly. As is often the case with offhand remarks that turn into maxims, the origin of It’s not a bug, it’s a feature is murky. What we do know is that the expression has been popular among programmers for a long time… (Source:WIRED)
This article by Nicholas Carr (@roughtype) handily takes up the INABIAF backstory including a bridge deeper into software speak.
A standard joke is that a bug can be turned into a feature simply by documenting it (then theoretically no one can complain about it because it’s in the manual), or even by simply declaring it to be good. “That’s not a bug, that’s a feature!” is a common catchphrase. (Source:The Jargon File)
More insightful, I think, is the embrace (or at least tolerance of) ambiguity.
It’s not a bug, it’s a feature is an acknowledgment, half comic, half tragic, of the ambiguity that has always haunted computer programming. (Source:WIRED)
Of course this flies in the face of the stereotypical assertion and aspiration of most coders who express a quasi cultish obsession with purity and absolutes and confidence in the incorruptible virtue of science.
In the popular imagination, apps and other programs are “algorithms,” sequences of clear-cut instructions that march forward with the precision of a drill sergeant. But while software may be logical, it’s rarely pristine. A program is a social artifact. It emerges through negotiation and compromise, a product of subjective judgments and shifting assumptions… (Source:WIRED)
This. From ambiguity to social artifact. Indeed. Pristine aspirations achieve by people-powered processes and resulting in people-powered products. The blurring of reality and circumstance, the possible filtered through the inevitable. Subjectivity and uncertainty and inexactness.
Yesterday’s bug reference was a lightheartedly dismissive counter to concerns (anticipated but not advanced) about the ambiguity of unreliable, shapeshifting time in my Rosslyn deep dig. While pouring over a decade and a half of detritus that has accrued during our custodianship of this beguiling property I’ve witnessed time’s tendency to blur and become elastic. Memories and even events themselves can become unmoored from their chronological anchors.
And I was subtly resurfacing an even larger consideration of time and timelessness across the span of Rosslyn’s two centuries. In the case of the capriciously altered boathouse images — a blurred, patinated, age and wear accelerated photograph of relatively contemporaneous provenance — one’s first impression might be to judge the artifact as a time capsule. A voyeuristic glimpse into an earlier time on Rosslyn’s waterfront. Scrolling down through the three images might dissolve the ambiguity despite the absence of dates.
While grappling with our Rosslyn adventure, I’m struck not only by the ambiguity of time but also of memories and perspectives and opinions. On the one hand, there’s disagreement among the cognoscenti about Rosslyn’s architectural lineage. Colonial, Greek Revival, Federal, Georgian, or an amalgam of two of more architectural periods or styles? On the other hand, Susan and my memories about notable chapters in our own Rosslyn record frequently diverge. Countless conflicting recollections surface in our conversations. When certain things happened. Why they happened. If they happened at all!
I’ve meditated on wavy glass window panes provoking perspective shifts and even paradigm adjustments. I see these flowing lenses as inviting insight as well as intoxication, delivering discernment as often as distortion. And what to make of the potent clarity of art and poetry that can sometimes better translate what facts and artifacts, expertise and authority overlook? Watercolors, for example, can reveal truth more lucidly than photographs. Hand renderings can articulate architecture’s poignance and prowess better than AutoCAD.
Carr’s conclusion invites us to wonder wider about the possible merits of buggy artifacts.
The programmer’s “common catchphrase” has itself become a bug, so trite that it cheapens everything it touches. But scrub away the tarnish of overuse and you’ll discover a truth that’s been there the whole time. What is evolution but a process by which glitches in genetic code come to be revealed as prized biological functions? Each of us is an accumulation of bugs that turned out to be features, a walking embodiment of INABIAF. (Source:WIRED)
And that, friend, is a piece of the puzzle that’s been captivating me for months. My information gathering and analysis and synthesis are rigorous but glitchy. For a long time I aspired to purity, to algorithmic precision. But often yesteryear and yesterday have bled into one another. Often juxtaposed memories mingle and morph, contradictions converge, and dissonance dithers then dissolves. Fragments reveal what we may have missed in the moment. Curiosity and creativity have emerged from the years of quiescence. I’m less and less called to chronicle the past, to husband our history, Rosslyn’s history into some sort of encyclopedic epic. I find myself more and more compelled to reassemble the fragments with an eye to where I am headed rather than where I’ve been. I’m reveling in the playful possibility of reimagining and repurposing these ingredients into a sculptural collage; no, a three-dimensional poem; no, a montage-mobile almost imperceptibly gyrating in the rhythmic breathing of a slowly awakening breeze; no, a lakeside sanctuary braided out of found fragments, aromatic melodies, spring starts, and autumn harvest; no,… A buffet of indecision!
Back to bugs. I offer you three flying features: a luna moth (Actias luna), a rosy maple moth (Dryocampa rubicunda), and a bumblebee. Perhaps, for now, these will suffice.
A Jeroboam of gratitude to Kasey McKenna and Karly McKenna for their exceptional accomplishment repainting the entrance hallway. It looks superb! The lighting in the picture above doesn’t do justice to the work in progress, nor now that repainting the entrance hallway is complete. Lighting was poor. And the intention was just a quick progress report. Ditto for this next photo.
But I’ll be snapping some additional photos soon, hopefully with dramatic morning light illuminating the front hallways downstairs and upstairs. Until then, here’s a quick video walkthrough.
View this post on Instagram
Late last August I reflected on the morning light in the front hallway, shared a moody morning photo as well as this warming shot that I took July 8, 2019.
The mood and energy of this photograph perfectly conveys the opening moments of the daydream that I relived countless times in [late 2004 through early 2006 during] the extended prologue to our acquisition of this home. Although the interior of Rosslyn’s front hallway was in decidedly rougher shape during our early visits to the house…, I imagined it looking — and even more importantly — feeling just like this. (Source: Morning Light, Front Hallway)
I accompanied the photos in the post with a haiku, falling back on my Pollyanna confidence that poetry somehow captures what words and lenses overlook.
Morning Light Haiku
Mellow morning lites.
Merry mantequilla lights.
Durable daydream.
— Geo Davis
Needless to say, I remain a believer in the poetics of place. The following excerpt follows from the same morning rumination.
When Susan and I decided on paint colors, I pushed for yellow. She wasn’t particularly keen. I no longer recollect what color she desired, but my yen for yellow was quite simply a yielding to this daydream. My imagination had confected a morning vibe that needed to be experienced in reality. Not a particularly compelling argument when horse trading with Susan over design decisions, but I ultimately prevailed. Trim we agreed on early throughout the house. Beach hardwood flooring, the period chandelier and wall mounted lighting, the rug, the art,… all of these were joint decisions. But the yellow walls remain a point of disagreement even now. In fact, we’re considering a change, and given her willingness to accommodate me for the better part of a decade and a half with faint yellow walls in both halls, I’m inclined to yield at last. (Source: Morning Light, Front Hallway)
And this brings us to the present. Or just before the present when I agreed that it was Susan’s turn to pick a new color since we’re overdue for repainting the entrance hallway.
She sent me this list of preferred colors, carefully chosen to complement the color of the stair treads (Benjamin Moore‘s Clarksville Gray) that lead upstairs (as well as the hallway floor upstairs.)
She had agreed to meet me partway by allowing that the new color not be a complete departure from the pale yellow paint that had lived in my mind for a couple of years and on the walls of both the first and second floor hallways for the better part of a decade and a half. This list represents her compromise. So off to the paint store I went for samples.
The next step was to paint some swatches onto the walls alongside the trim and the downstairs beech flooring.
Although I’ve manage to crop out the flooring inadvertently, the swatches still capture the wide range in tones and hues. Here are the swatches on the mid-flooring landing, adjacent to the Clarksville Gray floor.
Again, not the best photos, but you get the point.
It’s worth noting that there was general consensus around Monterey White which is second from the left on the upper row of swatches in the image above. It is the second from the right on the lower row in the preceding photo. You can see that it has some of the warmth of the yellow (albeit without much of the yellow and a generally grayer cast). Here it is in Benjamin Moore’s color chip, adjacent to the Clarksville Gray which we all agreed was an agreeable combination.
In the video above, the finished paint job is in fact somewhat reminiscent of the old color. Granted, Pam shot the video on a gray day which and low light. The result emphasizes the gray hue. But several of us, upon watching the walkthrough, commented on how similar it appeared to the previous color.
A closer inspection during the cutting in process however captures the significant change.
I look forward to watching the space fill with early morning sunshine soon. How much will it rekindle the nostalgic daydream? Or will it feel like the departure that Susan has long anticipated? I’ll share an update soon…
Much like nature and gardening and the creative arts, construction supplies a wellspring of impermanent perspectives. Perfect fodder for those of us with protean proclivities. Perennial process, or so it sometimes seems, the finished product merely a mirage dancing in the distance.
I’ve touched a time or two (or ten?) on my fickle criteria for field note gathering, my quasi chronicling, and my munge-meets-compost creative process. I pretend no historical authority, no architectural acumen, no matrimonial expertise. Just an unabashed curiosity and abiding appetite for adventure and creative exploration. In short, what finds its way into Rosslyn Redux is a bit of a mystery. Even to me!
The experiences these coup d’œil capture are inevitably shaped and edited by my perspective… Shoot for objectivity; settle for subjectivity. (Source: Voyeuristic Glimpses & Mosaic Mirages)
These temporary points of view (POV) — as much a part of rehabilitation as of writing and revising — are one of the highlights, *addictive* highlights, of any construction or reconstruction project.
The photo above and the photo below were taken inside the icehouse mechanical room looking west, through a tangle of framing. A fleetingly photographable point of view…
Impermanent perspectives
transient apertures
mercurial moments
vignettes vary
vistas evolve
gazing inward
into and through
a building’s bowels
interim point of view
through a thicket of
studs and stringers
headers and plates
an ephemeral photo
possible now but
impossible soon
as progress clads
walls and risers
as progress courts
completion
These impermanent perspectives intrigue me. Often they provoke second guessing and new ideas. Sometimes they alter the path forward. Though not this time.
Soon the mechanical room wall will be clad in plywood (to provide blocking) and the walls will be paneled and trimmed. The staircase will be finished with risers and treads. A column of balusters will march up the stairs carrying a “brightwork” handrail. This layered look, this filtered view, this multidimensional perspective on the vaulted main room of the icehouse will transition from reality to memory. A few photos. A poem.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Such a curious commemoration of love and romance, right? Remember those grade school Valentine’s Day rituals? Awkward… Jumbled memories of cards, candies, and eventually flowers, as if we were being trained for love, for romance. Those microscopic messages on sugar hearts, so much made of the colors — pink and reds vs oranges, purples, and yellows — an early lesson in color consciousness that would prove to be as regimented in candies as in carnations and later roses. Color, we learned, is critical.
Balderdash.
Fortunately, a benevolent universe allowed these two star crossed lovers to collide in Rock Harbor more than two decades ago, and we’ve been challenging color codes (and virtually all other expectations) ever since.
And so today I offer you a slightly irreverent twist on the annual celebration of love and romance. Decidedly unsaccharine vignettes with moody hues and mysterious shadows. And a microscopic poem unlikely to be cribbed for schmalzy Valentine’s Day cards. And an Instagram reel celebrating my Valentine, my bride, my everything. L
Let’s break the rules together and make EVERY day Valentine’s Day. Let’s celebrate love. Let’s celebrate romance. Let’s celebrate.
Never buttercup,
honey dumpling, sugar pie.
Ever beloved.
I hope you enjoy this IG remix of snapshots (and a couple super short videos) of my funny valentine across the last 22 years. Ever beloved.
A coiled garden hose,
— Geo Davis
a verdigris copper pot,
sunset puddling…
Some moments are captured best with wordy reflection, others with a watercolor. Sometimes a it takes a photograph or a lyric ode. But best of all is an instant, a glance, a gasp… The briefest of moments. The ellipses suggesting an interstitial moment.
This verdigris patinated copper pot concealing a coiled garden hose, warmed by a splash of setting sun offered itself up as a haiku. It was not my place to question or resist.
Hroth sent me the photograph above so that we could troubleshoot some subtle details for the old/new icehouse entrance and the relationship between the door and the still-to-come exterior landing. I think we’re 99% in sync, but we’ll hash out the details tomorrow so that we’re 100% in sync. In the meantime, I’m enchanted with this photo. The significant evidence of progress toward a new chapter in the life of Rosslyn’s icehouse. The new floor visible within. The shadowed but perceptible interior framing for windows and doors on the far western elevation. A through-view of the area west of the icehouse where lie the gardens and orchard, and where — on a less overcast day — the sun will set into Boquet Mountain a few tree lines beyond Rosslyn’s meadows and woods…
Ever since 2006 when we removed the existing windows and closed up the gaping openings on the north and south elevations of the icehouse in order to re-stabilize the structural integrity of the building, this handsome edifice has been a shrouded utility building primarily employed for off-season storage of deck furniture, hammock stands, unused building materials, and almost decades’ worth of architectural salvage.
But the vision illuminating our rehab project is of a light filled space, a delicate balance between the finite volume of such a small structure and the uninhibited openness of vaulted ceilings and generous fenestration. Rosslyn’s icehouse is mid-journey between dark and constrained to light and open. It’s a transformation from merely functional to inviting, inspirational, invigorating, and multifunctional. A tall order? Perhaps. But the photo above suggests to me that we’re heading in the right direction.
Auburn and umber,
where embers are memories,
phoenix from ashes.
— Geo Davis
This micropoem draws upon the hues of the nearly century and a half old building, naked without siding, textured with time. And it associates these with earthen pigments and with the fading signs of fire. Ashes. Memories. On the one hand this photograph captures a moment on the quest for redemption. Rebirth as a new sort of utility building, relevant in the 21st century as opposed to an icehouse no longer fulfilling its original need. On the other hand, this photograph, as a tiny puzzle piece in my ongoing conversation and collaboration with Hroth, alludes to his still recent, still raw firsthand experience with the Calf Canyon/Hermit’s Peak blaze, the largest wildfire in New Mexico history.
I detect the energy of this post getting away from me. I intended to reflect briefly on Hroth’s photo, an aperture into the icehouse itself and into the vision for its future. But I feel the mounting wind pulling free the threads of my narrative. The focus is scattered and the motif is blurring.
A more entangled tale is untucking itself, fluttering and flapping, vying for attention. I understand that I can’t contain it forever, but I’d like — a little longer, at least — to discipline my post, my posts to march in a phalanx toward, well, toward the moment of truth. Or unraveling. Or arrival. Or departure.
I feel the azure dome spinning overhead, and the earth below. I realize I’ve been restraining this mythological force for months, for years. It surfaces and I acknowledge it, but then hasten on. Like a hummingbird or a butterfly lighting brightly, then buzzing on, fluttering on.
Here, for example.
Sometimes setbacks are actually the inspiration to regroup, reboot, and outperform original expectations. Sometimes fiasco fans the fires of triumph. Sometimes the phoenix rises from the ashes.
Icehouse Rehab 4.5: Foundation Collaboration
And here.
While our carpenter fiasco of the previous year might be summed up as a run-of-the-mill “crash and burn” story, this summer’s refreshing sequel was a quintessential “phoenix rising” story of mythic proportions.
Installing Garapa Decking 2022
Two fleeting mentions. And then this less oblique reference.
I’m hoping to eventually persuade Hroth Ottosen to share his very personal decision to roadtrip east from Santa Fe… after the 2022 catastrophic wildfire season that ravaged the southwest… Hroth reminds us that it is possible to emerge from calamitous circumstances braver, wiser, stronger, and freer than we were beforehand… Like I’ve already suggested, a phoenix rising from the ashes!
Installing Garapa Decking 2022
But now I’ll abbreviate this reference to Hroth, as the story is his to tell, if and when he’s ready. Instead let’s bring some semblance of closure to this curious clutch of field notes.
Without further muddling the message, I’ll step back and offer a sounder source.
To rise like a phoenix from the ashes means to emerge from a catastrophe stronger, smarter and more powerful. An example of rising like a phoenix from the ashes is someone who opens a new, successful business after his previous business has failed. Another example is someone who builds a new house after his previous house has been destroyed in a tornado.
(Source: Rise Like A Phoenix From The Ashes)
Familiar? Here’s a look into the mythological origins of this familiar “born again” story.
The phoenix bird is a mythical bird from Greek mythology. It was a feathered creature of great size with talons and wings, its plumage radiant and beautiful. The phoenix lived for 500 years before it built its own funeral pyre, burst into flame, and died, consumed in its own fiery inferno. Soon after, the mythical creature rose out of the ashes, in a transformation from death to life…
(Source: Rise Like A Phoenix From The Ashes)
And this, for now, strikes me as a suitable spot to sidle off.
I’ve succumbed to the rhythm and rhyme of Tuesday snooze-day, not because this is an especially unusual site, Carley enjoying a postprandial siesta (after all, the same could be said of Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.) But coupling the second day of the work week with the hole-up-and-play-hooky siren call of a mid morning snooze? That’s simply too intoxicating to pass up. Especially because every inch of my 50 year old frame, and the grungy gray matter between my middle aged ears are aching for a little unplug and reboot time. Soon…
Snowflakes drifting
at a remove
of two glass panes,
radiant heat,
a snoring dog,
shuffling paper,
a cardinal
gathering seeds,
morning meeting
double header,
conference call,
branches frosted,
fluttering paws,
barking in sleep,
time to triage
daily deadlines,
silence ringer,
to steal some z’s.
If I can’t justify a Tuesday snooze-day IRL, then at least I can pen a paean — albeit a quick micro-paean — and enjoy the revitalizing bump of an imagined siesta. Ah, the life of a dog!