Define A Transparent Dream

September 11th again. Too many feelings fill the cup of my heart to know where to begin to describe them. This is one of the few memories in my life that exists as more than a snapshot, but comes complete with the visceral shiver of exactitude in recalling the place, feeling, color of the moments that comprise it. I can remember the frantic phone calls, the shock, the anger, it all comes back. I had to turn away from watching the ceremony this morning. I'm sorry to the families, the city, the country, even the people of middle eastern backgrounds that have been tormented. Life continues somehow. Time doesn't diminish the importance of the day or help to make sense of what has happened.

With that in mind, and with no disrespect for the magnitude of this day, I'm posting a few food photos that have been hanging around and a poem. I don't know what to do other than continue to live. I hope you all give each other a big hug today and always remember to be grateful for all we have, and don't forget to tell the people in your lives that matter most how you feel about them every chance you get. This is all we have.

Love, Matt.




Below is a poem by former Poet Laureate of the United States, Billy Collins, that fits my mood today. It is from the book, Nine Horses, published by Random House.

Obituaries

These are no pages for the young,
who are better off in one another's arms,

nor for those who just need to know
about the price of gold,
or a hurricane that is ripping up the keys.

But eventually you may join
the crowd who turn here first to see
who has fallen in the night,
who has left a shape of air walking in their place.

Here is where the final cards are shown,
the age, the cause, the plaque of deeds,
and sometimes and odd scrap of news--
that she collected sugar bowls,
that he played solitaire without any clothes.

And all the survivors huddle at the end
under the roof of the paragraph
as if they had sidestepped the flame of death.

What better way to place a thin black frame
around things of the morning--
the hand-painted cup,
the hemisphere of a cut orange,
the slant of sunlight on the table?

And sometimes a most peculiar pair turns up,
strange roommates lying there
side by side upon the page--
Arthur Godfrey next to Man Ray,
Ken Kesey by the side of Dale Evans.

It is enough to bring to mind an ark of death,
not the couples of the animal kingdom,
but rather pairs of men and women
ascending the gangplank two by two,

surgeon and model,
balloonist and metalworker,
an archaeologist and an authority on pain.

Arm in arm, they get on board
then join the others leaning on the rails,
all saved at last from the awful flood of life--

so many of them every day
there would have to be many arks,
an armada to ferry the dead
over the heavy waters that roll beyond the world,

and many Noahs too,
bearded and fiercely browed, vigilant up there at every prow.