Cool The heat wave has broken; the air is warm; soothing - a gentle wind setting the leaves in motion. A climbing rosebush taps against my kitchen window. The birds, who earlier in the week were silent, hidden from the eye and ear, huddled deep wherever they go to retreat, now dart from branch to branch, hyperactive; an explosion of twittering enthusiasm. On my sleepy street people venture out to mow lawns and run errands; or to just take a moment to breathe in the cooler air. It is a temporary respite; the summer is not even half over yet. © Ellie Maziekien 071002 510. Untitled - Junly 10, 2002 The bright sunlight of July filters through the windows, broken only by the swaying of the summer breeze amongst the trees. The low hum that fills the background is loud against the silence that is the outside world; intersected by the dull roar of cars in the distance. The searing heat that filled the week has given way to a cooler clime that lets us enjoy the sun without melting away. The wind picks up and the outdoors beckon for an afternoon of dozing in the sun, until the evening shadows cast their way across the heated surface. Untitled These cool summer days remind me of the golden afternoons in early fall before the leaves have turned. Right now, though, the leaves and grasses still show their youthful green and an unruly and rambling garland of wildflowers carpets the fertile hills just outside the city limits. The town itself is summer sleepy children abound; they run and jump and play released from burdensome books, the trappings of the schoolroom. Skateboards and bikes bathing suits and boogie boards are the accessories required for summering. Those and a tall, glistening, glass of something icy and refreshing. © Ellie Maziekien 071002 511. Untitled - July 10, 2002 A cool tall glass of clarity rests against the grained wood bar. Every sip becomes a relief; soothing the hunger that gnaws within. In the smokey darkness, awareness fades away until night blends into day, and summer/winter seasons do not differ. Even as a sip is taken, the waves outside crash against the boardwalk, drowning out the syncophant cries of seagulls and other ocean flocks. The rush of excitement that begins the turning of the tide loses strength and ebbs away under the brilliant moonlight. Half Empty or Half Full? From ancient days we have looked oceanward dwelling and dreaming, searching the endless surface. We stand at the water's edge watching the inexorable surf crash against the shore - coming in all its completeness and then bleeding away, not to be lost, but to regain strength. It comes again and again. Although constant, it is not unchangeable. The moon drives its tides; storms drive its waves. We are like the sea. We have qualities of both clarity and shadows; our emotions ebb and flow; we change as with the wind. Happenstance can move us as surely as habit. The glass that holds the clear liquid is filled to the halfway mark again. The answers are not in it. Those we have to find for ourselves. In the dark of night sustained by passion or false courage we wait for the coming of dawn so we can start again. © Ellie Maziekien 071102 512. Untitled - July 11, 2002 Like the Ancient Mariner perched upon the cliffs, waiting becomes life, watching becomes living, and sometimes reality becomes like a dream. Even as the ocean waves pound away against the sandy beaches, the gradual erosion of land against water is happening against the tide. Eventually the island disappears from the sea, its particulates carried away into the unknown and deposited against a distant shore. Falling inwards into the watery depths where clarity and darkness are one and the same; where inky blue waters become the sun-filled surface. The oceans become the one constant; filling, emptying into itself; running through a cycle of destruction then rejuvination, continuing until it is emptied one day. Inevitable The human spirit can be used up; abused; finished. Unhappiness feeds upon itself and the person who embodies that spirit falls into the abyss. Discouragement leads to depression despair leads to suicide. Standing on an empty beach, his soul barren, he sees inevitability and sighs. As the land is worn away by the crushing power of the sea, so too, we can been battered down by life. But see! the birds are alive screeching raucously; brash and rowdy. Only look! The ocean is not empty! It abounds with life. In time, even the islands will be born anew. Life itself is inevitable; unavoidable; certain. © Ellie Maziekien 071102 513. Untitled - July 11, 2002 The absolute resilience of the spirit is the one true miracle in life; beyond all others, is the knowledge that there is no depth that cannot be surmounted. The footprints upon the beach sands are washed away by the receding tide; withdrawing the cloud of weariness from around us until all that is left is a soul refreshed and ready to do battle once more against the waves that would wash us away. Anchored a fresh ocean breeze blows through clearing out the staleness leaving a spirit refreshed. The constancy of the sea, the blue sky after a storm, the seasons coming 'round again in perfect order, the stars in their appointed place. are a steadying influence on us. Compare us to the sky, the stars, the sea and we are insignificant except that we have the ability to touch each other's soul We are anchored in this life, held fast in a safe harbor; our loved ones hold us here by the slender thread of love. It is whisper thin; shiny, silvery. It glistens, golden; fine Our lifeline binds us to each other. drawing on the power of the human heart. This connection between us is the strongest on earth. © Ellie Maziekien 071102 514. Untitled - July 11, 2002 The connection that holds the soul within this world is neither love nor money; but that of the memory; once golden in happiness; then silvered in age; until all that remains are faded shadows of what once was. The depth of the times past are the anchors that hold a life lived in reverence and solemnity. Memories created in both life and fiction; living onwards in words spoken, pictures taken, and occasions that were the high/lowpoints of life. The passing is hastened in this time, by the gradual disappearance of the milestones that marked a life; no pictures remain, nor many words remain, until the whisper of a name is all that is left to connect between this world and the next. Shadowbox The shadowbox of mementoes of long life lived left to others to peruse recalls that person to those who follow. I sifted through the belongings of an old man who had touched me in his passage. The bits and pieces reminded me of him. In the same way, snippets of a poem read, a story remembered; the timbre of a beloved voice brings times past, both joyful and sad, to the forefront of my mind. We each leave our mark upon the earth. An age may pass and those footprints will have been blown away; sifted over, and still we will remain alive so long as someone remembers us. © Ellie Maziekien 071202 515. Untitled - July 12, 2002 If a picture is worth a thousand words, then let there be no images but those carved on white stone with black ink. Like a pinhole view, let time fade the memories until only the words remain. Let the words speak for themselves, for that moment captured in time, and carefully released to the world. Faded Photographs even carefully kept, photographs fade over time. museums house treasures of time and place; paintings and sculptures done by the renowned, pieces of both antiquity and technology. they attract attention; eventually they gather dust. words first written lie stagnant upon the page until they touch another's soul. words spoken in anger or indifference pierce us so deeply we search to see if we are bleeding. words spoken to us in friendship or love bring pleasure and contentment. both are etched upon our hearts. weapons or gifts once said or read our words cannot be taken back. They are eternal. © Ellie Maziekien 071202