o
m Centra
ivioiiiomi Ot lime
uni
O
O
fir,;
Y
' - " - ... '
1
I.
JL
k . v
X
1 I "
iif HBiJi ii ill '
K I. 111!
t m
ipy- y - -
j
Spring's child, fresh. Ready for a twirl, a flip, and
grassy fields of green. Through the pink perios, she
smiles. Oh, Mommy, look . . . The joyous swirl of
red balloons, the wind carrying us along. Cotton times
are here again and flowers sweeten the air with fuzzy
bumble bees. ,
Innocent's child. Honest with life, naturally. Here on
to enter a world tempting blackness of spirit. There
the shade, granny's laugh, the age-old sardonic passer
by. . . .. ,., t ;-s::i v. --j:;v.r.- ... i-A '
- '. utrtrsr; spring, vdpabtf&me,. now. The
butterfly above flutters for me while I'm waitings to ?
fly with sunshine's wings ;
- f i
-7 s--
v
We're together, searching for the rubber ball that
bounced away. Where did it come from, where will
it go? Cracker-jack kid, a rock and a brush of the
breeze. A monkey springs in the trees, and fellas, that's
free. Let's get it.
"Sit M
I . , . - - n j L.iiui m y ii i li r-A' ' "'-W"" X
y ij M H r;4.
Susan's pigtails. I can remember back many years
ago. There we were with Sam, the ice cream man.
Mommy held the treat, hmm. . . a kid's delight. But,
Sam, Sam, where have you 'gone? They say you've
faded away, your youth flown with the wind. Have
you left, Sam? Where is the sunshine that used to
be the blue sky and the robin redbreast that came in
the spring, with you, sam . . .?
Photos And Captions By
Peter Harris
Text Of Essay By .
John Greenhacker
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
T.S. Eliot
How often had it happened before? Ten times, fifty,
a hundred?
Saturday night, sometime, he had sat on the couch
surrounded by people arid music. Another drink, an
other cigarette and anbther five thousand sentences
that meant nothing to anyone. Flushed faces and bright
teeth had scored another empty victory. The tabula
tions of irrelevance groped forward with clumsy hands
in the dark to another triumph.
Inside, he had seen it and recorded it, but for how
long? Give the mushy grey brain a year or two; time,
and these few precious hours will be lost forever, un
redeemable. The foolish mind had been caught in its theft be
fore, toying with elementals in a vacuum, when he
walked the wooded street one fall day stupifed, a gentle
brute animal, sensing and stupified.
In these unthinking gaps of living history, there was
sadness jW'1dee'rfor. words:;. One, . instant he was lost, 1
feeling; the rworldo and ? withVut purpose I'anct then 'the -:yj
torrent' of longing smashedfhis solitude. r: - ;
The time was being lost, and the bony living death
of winter's branches were pointing desperately to the
ends of the earth.
His first living memory of consequence was history
and truth before him: The small child who had just
learned to walk followed the endless city sidewalk
and its rowed guardians, the massive elm trees of
spring. .
But the telephone poles, what were they, those
tall brown spires that followed as far as the eye could
see (three blocks), and made the child feel infinity's
meaning? Youthful minds seek simple explanations:
they were monuments to all the "yesterdays" that had
passed.
And maybe, that one there waslast week, and that
one beyond it . . . Time present and time past . . .
He had seen, too, the old men. The great uncle, who
had sat in the sun with withered mouth agape, staring,
at the rolling land he had long called his own, knew
the time was fleeting through the pines on the hilltop.
The old man's youth had been marked off in glowing
points of void, externally present. Where, oh where?
Unredeemable? God, no!
The youth is here yet, and youth cries now to have
it. Let time future contained in time past rejoice when
. this youth has gone through the pines. Gold help him
to know it all, time present and time past. Have him
touch it to its inner depths and communicate with its
soul, tomorrow and yesterday, past and future, present
and past.
1-0
1 -
You know, if that little frog had just jumped the
other way . . . but now, we've got the hook for bait
and maybe, if we wish hard enough, a fish will break
the surface, and our romp through the muddy wa
ters of Central Park will continue . . .
. ". -
4 -
Trod along, lit's all said in me; the people, the city,
the sea, the flower that once budded . . . on my birthday.
4 "
wr1
.T
PIS
I
Sparkling sun. It's for me after time has filtered
away all the shade and handed it to me in a bundle.
God has given me a veil to think beneath, to imagine
the new times and never ever, let on that old times
were once, too.- - - - . -
)?$? yn "y
a
7jrr
; r
.5
What have you got in that brown satchel, old man?
Is it a bag of tricks, or a bag of knowledge wherein
the black wall lies? Deep, gone in the white sunshine
back there . . . California's glowing youth flip in their
salty surf, not the brown ground where you lay your
feet.
And mother of old . . . is the sun so bright that
age cannot see? Your canes ought to be filled with
candy and lollypops, for little children to enjoy. Open
them, oh, please.
X m a si -j rj , f
M -i -III- : Uy-.i
h t t' i ,. n I fCS'-i i
f '-wt .
4. , - .... . i. 1
1 a i
Vs. ' v, ., -L."
tag-'
We're happenin'. It's Fifth Avenue and we're
what's happenin'. We know it. That swan ... it came
in tae bargain.
So die young man, in the prickly heat of oppres
sion; and kid yourself no end it's the bitter folly.
4
I
- 1
1