Here's a portrait of the artist as a young man, visible only as the shadow of the photographer on a bright autumn day. I vaguely remember the Brownie style camera, its airy heft, looking through the viewfinder, the plastic clicks of cocking the shutter, of taking a photo.
Here are Mark and Matthew, comrades in arms, guns at the ready, taking a break from patrolling the 3600 block of S Street, N.W., Washington D.C., a neighborhood I later learned was called Burleith, just uphill from Georgetown, and a short walk west of Dumbarton Oaks and the Naval Observatory. I was only two blocks from Kindergarten, and I came back across town years later to attend Gordon Junior High, another block east.
I remember the alley behind the houses where I searched for treasure in the cracks, a natural occupation for a child who always kept his head down. Washers, bolts, springs, and other wayward hardware, the occasional penny. Potential untapped. Mine to keep.
I remember the fragrant wisteria climbing a tree high into the cloud-strewn welkin, distant and cerulean. The shining realm to which I longed to escape, eyes straining to glimpse the path to safety, to glory, to my real home. The mourning doves who, alone, knew my sadness in exile, and returned my plaintive whistle.
Just out of the frame, up the walk, the sturdy wooden door, locked, the pyracanthas standing mute sentry before the bricks. The house, silent and dark. And I, keyless and home too soon, sink into despair at this, the emblem of my young life.
Here are Mark and Matthew, comrades in arms, guns at the ready, taking a break from patrolling the 3600 block of S Street, N.W., Washington D.C., a neighborhood I later learned was called Burleith, just uphill from Georgetown, and a short walk west of Dumbarton Oaks and the Naval Observatory. I was only two blocks from Kindergarten, and I came back across town years later to attend Gordon Junior High, another block east.
I remember the alley behind the houses where I searched for treasure in the cracks, a natural occupation for a child who always kept his head down. Washers, bolts, springs, and other wayward hardware, the occasional penny. Potential untapped. Mine to keep.
I remember the fragrant wisteria climbing a tree high into the cloud-strewn welkin, distant and cerulean. The shining realm to which I longed to escape, eyes straining to glimpse the path to safety, to glory, to my real home. The mourning doves who, alone, knew my sadness in exile, and returned my plaintive whistle.
Just out of the frame, up the walk, the sturdy wooden door, locked, the pyracanthas standing mute sentry before the bricks. The house, silent and dark. And I, keyless and home too soon, sink into despair at this, the emblem of my young life.
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