Most of the cemeteries in San Francisco proper have been exhumed, moved or hidden beneath new facades. All around the city one can find evidence of this. Gravestones and monuments show up on odd and unexpected places, in golf courses, along seawalls, in between freeways, on well trodden trails. Many bodies were moved to the fog drenched town of Colma, but many lie unannounced and unmarked, under the most popular tourist spots in the city. Often these are the workers, the immigrants and the orphans, the forgotten. Undoubtedly, their blood sweat and tears went into creating this place we celebrate but also take for granted.
My meandering mind mulls over the push pull of our government crumbling, the chaos of a broken system. I also pause to appreciate the work of warriors for real and positive change. It is often hard to find peace within the noise, the room to celebrate what is actually good. It is hard to understand the hate, dressed for battle in a theater of madness. The clock keeps ticking and we remain. Like a sweater with one loose thread, a slight pull in the wrong direction causes it all to unravel into a tangled mess. We will stitch it together again but we might need some safety pins, tape or glue to keep it from unraveling once more.
I stand now where Joan of Arc keeps watch over the museum, and where The Thinker has found a friend. The art inside waits for the watchful eyes it once knew. If art hangs in a gallery with no one there to see it, has it lost its vision? I once was told by a respected art professor, to make my work as if no one was ever going to see it. It was good advice for a young artist, the brightest shade of green. I still approach my art that way to some extent, but I hope not to be the tree falling in the forest, into a dead echo of silence.
For the ones that lie beneath, your presence is deeply felt. I greet you with an openness reserved for those I hold dear. Whomever you once were, you are no more, but your mark was made, your sweat filled brow turned into the dewey mist that falls upon the bay. I close my eyes and can hear your footsteps, the ones that created the paths of future generations. We spin in our own dust, carried like glitter in the wind, yesterday's stars.
My meandering mind mulls over the push pull of our government crumbling, the chaos of a broken system. I also pause to appreciate the work of warriors for real and positive change. It is often hard to find peace within the noise, the room to celebrate what is actually good. It is hard to understand the hate, dressed for battle in a theater of madness. The clock keeps ticking and we remain. Like a sweater with one loose thread, a slight pull in the wrong direction causes it all to unravel into a tangled mess. We will stitch it together again but we might need some safety pins, tape or glue to keep it from unraveling once more.
I stand now where Joan of Arc keeps watch over the museum, and where The Thinker has found a friend. The art inside waits for the watchful eyes it once knew. If art hangs in a gallery with no one there to see it, has it lost its vision? I once was told by a respected art professor, to make my work as if no one was ever going to see it. It was good advice for a young artist, the brightest shade of green. I still approach my art that way to some extent, but I hope not to be the tree falling in the forest, into a dead echo of silence.
For the ones that lie beneath, your presence is deeply felt. I greet you with an openness reserved for those I hold dear. Whomever you once were, you are no more, but your mark was made, your sweat filled brow turned into the dewey mist that falls upon the bay. I close my eyes and can hear your footsteps, the ones that created the paths of future generations. We spin in our own dust, carried like glitter in the wind, yesterday's stars.
