Lughnasa Monsoon Moon
Heading west, back home. In just a few minutes. Had my last breakfast in the club lounge overlooking downtown Minneapolis. Saved some real cash with the lounge breakfasts and appetizers in the evening. Food was good, but repetitive.
It’s been a trip big in matters of the heart: friends, good friends, lifelong friends. Woollies, docents, Groveland all. And I got to spend time with all of them.
The round the Cities venture to photograph all my former homes here was equally a matter of the heart, but this time in relation to place and the memories imbedded in specific locations. Playing catch with Joseph in Irvine Park. The brief and ugly time Raeone and I spent in the house on Sargent. The basement apartment where I got robbed in 1972. The statue of Ole Bull which marks a story about how to not get what you want. (story later)
Finally, my visit to the MIA, the Walker and Jazz Central woke up the aesthete. It’s easy for him to go to sleep if he’s not fed. The world is coarser and less meaningful without good and great art. My grief in the Asian collection at the MIA was the biggest surprise of the trip so far. It has something to do with the way Asian artists express their aesthetic visions.
Hoaxer, the jazz band from Friday night, reinforced my longing for more art in my life. Theater, jazz, chamber music, painting and sculpture, poetry, literature, all feed the soul in a way other things cannot. They are, I suppose, another part of a tactile spirituality, perhaps even as central a component of it as hands in the soil, as forest bathing, shinrin yoku.
People, places, art. Here, where I used to be. Substantial, nourishing. Worth the time and the money.