“If there is a hard, high wall and an egg that breaks against it, no matter how right the wall or how wrong the egg, I will stand on the side of the egg. Why? Because each of us is an egg, a unique soul enclosed in a fragile egg. Each of us is confronting a high wall. The high wall is the system which forces us to do the things we would not ordinarily see fit to do as individuals . . . We are all human beings, individuals, fragile eggs. We have no hope against the wall: it’s too high, too dark, too cold. To fight the wall, we must join our souls together for warmth, strength. We must not let the system control us — create who we are. It is we who created the system. (Jerusalem Prize acceptance speech, JERUSALEM POST, Feb. 15, 2009)”
― Haruki Murakami
There would be big crowds though, so I intended to go early. Unfortunately, I had a late night, so I didn’t get up and around on time and didn’t leave the house until eight thirty AM or so. To save time, I decided to drive to a train station instead of leaving home on my bike. When I pulled into the Forest Lane Dart Station (the Cottonwood bike trail goes through there, so I could ride back) I saw the parking lot almost full and a thick crowd up on the elevated platform. Most of them were hauling coolers, bags of food, and folding chairs So I knew I wouldn’t be able to get on that train with my bike.
I walked up there, a little disappointed, and waited in line at the ticket machines to get my day transit pass. It took forever – the folks in front of me were not experienced train riders and they had a terrible time figuring out the ticket machines… plus a lot of them seemed to be drinking already, at nine-thirty in the morning. When I finally had my pass in hand (I checked, it took me less than thirty seconds to buy mine) I waited in the growing crowd for a train.
The next two trains came through the station and when the doors opened we were presented with the hellish vision of a compressed cube of green covered humanity. The cars were literally packed full. Not a single person from our station could get on the trains.
So I bailed. There was surprisingly little traffic on the highway and I was able to get down to one of my “secret” free parking spots in Deep Ellum. I could ride my bike over to Klyde Warren from there – won’t be able to get very many miles of exercise in and I’d have to make sure and get back to my car by sundown (I didn’t want to risk these streets after dark on a bicycle with all the celebrants driving).
Now, next year I want to go to the parade with my good camera. I am disappointed that I wasn’t at the opening door on the DART train with my camera ready – that was quite something to look at.
I remember, once upon a time, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, having a conversation with a cow-orker about art. We were in a bullpen-style office, during a break, and talking about buying artworks, where to find affordable paintings, if affordable, original art was worth the cost for poor workin’ stiffs like us or if we were better off with prints or reproductions… that sort of thing.
All of a sudden, a voice broke in. It was from another worker, one that we never thought would be interested in the subject. He was a good guy, bright enough, but not from the city. You can take the boy out of the backwoods, but you can’t take the backwoods out of the boy. His voice was slightly garbled from the giant chaw of tobacco he had stuck in his lower lip.
He said, “Oh, I just bought an original painting, myself.”
We were a little stunned at this admission. After a few seconds, I regained my composure and asked, “Oh, what did you buy?”
He said, “A painting of a well muscled Aztec warrior on black velvet.”
Not that I have anything against black velvet paintings, but at that time I didn’t really consider them art.
In the intervening decades between who I was then and who I am now… I have changed my mind.
Graffiti in Deep Ellum. This warrior is nothing if not well-muscled… plus he is carrying off his prize of war.
You know I don’t understand
Why you don’t treat yourself better
Do the crazy things that you do
‘Cause all the debutantes in Houston baby
Couldn’t hold a candle to you.
—-The Long Run, by the Eagles, Don Henley, Glenn Fry, Bob Seger
There were a cluster of expensive shiny SUVs scuttling around the entrance and a flustered clutch of shiny parents shuttling stuff in and out. I peered in the open doors, curious about what was up, and saw the long double row of professional portraits of young ladies in fanciful gowns. It was time for the Dallas Symphony Debutante Ball.
As I pedaled past, looking like an old overfed homeless man on my “vintage” bike, I snapped a quick photograph, felt the warm, dry air of the opened doors wash past me and I headed on down to the park to get a beer.
Waiting for the Debutantes
One thing that has always fascinated me is how different people exist in such different worlds and how little these worlds intersect. We all breath the same air, walk the surface of the same planet, our atoms obey the same laws of physics, yet the reality of a Dallas Symphony Debutante is so far removed from… well, mine or anyone else’s reality. It is not only a different world – it is a different dimension, a strange reality completely.
These are not only debutantes… these are Texas debutantes. While their lineage and tradition will pale when compared with some of the Northeast families of old wealth they will make up for this with enthusiasm and a dose of the Texas spirit of unapologetic “going for it”.
The New Yorkers curtsied demurely; the uncharitable might even say their bows were boring. But so were those by debutantes from England, Alabama and Arkansas, though the Arkansan’s bouquet of pink and red roses touched with silver leaves fluttered, hinting at a tremor of fear that the genuflection induced.
And then the Texans swished into the room, across the dance floor and onto the stage. Each handed her bouquet to her collegiate man, who stepped aside for the giant gown — everything, from the ball gowns to the bows, is bigger in Texas, of course — and watched his girl dip.
Claire Crenshaw, 18, lowered herself with such subtlety, it was as if hydraulics were hidden underneath her voluminous skirt. Once on the floor, she doubled over and buried her face in her gown like a person inhaling fresh laundry. In short, she milked it.
But the best bow was by Olivia Flores, 20. Her dip was no different from any other scene-stealing Texan’s that night, with one exception: she did it all with a broken collarbone, her arm bound in a raw silk sling. It matched her dress perfectly.
Last year I went into downtown Dallas at sunset for Dallashenge.
Dallashenge
Dallashenge, for those that never read or can’t remember my entries from over a year ago, is the date when the sun sets directly down one of the vast glittering canyons formed by the reflecting glass-clad rows of skyscrapers lining the streets. It is derived (by me) from the more famous Manhattanhenge, from New York.
Dallas and New York are interesting because their central business district streets don’t run on a direct east-west grid. Those that do, such as Chicago, will have their ‘henge dates on the summer and winter solstices… plus their morning and evening ‘henges will be on the same day. For a city on the bias, you have to calculate the henge dates – luckily the website Suncalc makes all that very easy.
So, last year, I calculated the evening Dallashenge as February 15th, took some test shots, and then went down there at sunset and made some photos. I don’t know if the photos do justice, but it was a fun exercise in research, travel, and photography anyway. It was fun answering questions about why I was running out into a crosswalk with a camera on a tripod at sunset.
I have been thinking about a morning voyage to a Dallashenge. Other than the sheer laziness in avoiding getting up that early, I have put it off because I didn’t have a good spot. I was thinking about a parking garage at the city jail – but it wasn’t perfect and I wasn’t sure if photography would be welcome. Then, one day I was riding the DART line to the Convention Center and as the train crossed over the famous triple underpass I realized that there was a walkway along the rail lines. The sight line went straight down Main street and would be perfect for a morning Dallashenge.
During a downtown bike ride I decided to head over to that end of downtown and do some test shots. The spot turned out to be a perfect view down the street, plus it’s a well known spot – you enter the railroad overpass from the infamous “grassy knoll” and look out over the area where the Kennedy Assassination took place almost fifty years ago.
The morning Dallashenge date will be April 19, with the sun rising at six fifty-three in the morning. Now, I have to get up enough gumption to get up that early and head down to get some photos.
The view east down Main Street from the Triple Underpass. The sun will rise right down the middle of the street on April 19, morning Dallashenge.
This is the walkway along the rail tracks over the underpass, with the Dallas Hyatt Regency and Reunion Tower in the background.
The view a little to the left of Main Street. That’s the curve of Elm Street. The grassy knoll is on the left, the Texas Schoolbook Depository is the lighter brick building over the trees. The assassination site is right in front of the two cars coming down the road.
As you move around, keep an eye out for the mysterious text that surrounds us. Here and there, in the odd corners and foggy backwaters of the city, there are messages. What do they mean? Who know? Who cares.
Stuck on a plywood-covered window. Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas
You are Now! Yes. Is this real? This moment, that you have chosen to co-create? I know not. What I do know is that everything in your life has led you to this exact moment in space and time. Yes your fantastic being of molecular vibrations slipping into the NOW. You, co-creating the awakening of your inner Shazam-Samurai! You, catapulting your nitro-burnin’, fuel-injected, Hootenany, Howlin’ Wolf, Love dance into the future of NOW!Yes!Yes!Yes!
Shazam!
Stencil (one of several) on the Santa Fe Bicycle Trail, Dallas, Texas
Sign attached to bicycle, French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana
Castin Call
Ride a Blind Camel
Ladies 18+ only
Call 229-9982
To play 4 Dominican Nuns
Boston Bank Job
(CIA Classified)
Libya Gold Assasins
Call Butch Cassidy Detective Agency
Bill Chance 