Art, I make art, sometimes I don't know what I make, or why.
Sometimes something moves me and forces my hand, a new thing, a new place.
Right around the bend, here, at home, so close to the hub of the city, is such a place. I am afraid, very much afraid that this place will break my heart.
It's name will be Coultice Park. It does not, yet, officially exist. But the land is there, the trees, and the hills and the grasses and somewhere, buried in the mud of the tiny sloughs that dot the properties, green frogs and leopards frogs and toads wait for their spring awakening. This land will break my heart, already I feel it. I love it, deeply, since I took my first tentative steps on the what were lush verdant grasslands. Bitter fear and trepidation to see it marred with it's first hint of scars from the cutting treads of machine tires. Just little cuts, here, and another cut there, one at a time, two at time, droves. They are coming, word gets out, not everyone's idea of a good time is a walk in the park. A section of fence has been erected, a small token of feeble protection against the onslaught. Now there is a sign, small, bright, unmistakable, ignored. Motorized vehicles prohibited, Pededestrians Permitted. It is almost poetry, and as mournful. I've seen what can happen in a single day, and I've seen the permanent destruction that can be wrought in a summer of freewheeling fun. They leave a brownland behind, brown and barren, rutts that will take decades to grow anything better than the most tenacious of weeds, and those sloughs, I don't want to think of what can happen if they get to them. So yes, this land, this place that is yet to have an official name, this place that was donated in trust for environmental stewardship may yet break my heart. My heart beats faster in fear, everytime I think of it, everytime I hear a machine speeding past, wondering, are they going there, to the edge of the fence, where they forced their way in through the shrubs, are turning and whirling, and revving and digging their wheels and treads into the soft thawing soil beneath. I hope not, I hope not, I hope that by spring, when the thaw comes, they will have the decency to leave things be, and leave the grass to be grass, and bullrush to be bullrushes and the shrubs to grow and thrive and shelter seedlings of trees and leave places for flora and fauna to flourish and leave space for this artist to breath and dream and pass through, leaving nothing behind but thoughts.
Or break my heart.
posted from Bloggeroid