milk carton

I still sometimes drink from the milk carton, if I know no one is watching, it just takes a little longer to drink through the tiny hole

I always thought my father walked on water, I know realize, he is treading water like the rest of us - AM

swimming with sharks, the water is not bloodied with fear and calamity, it is filled with courage and strength

ebbortz

It was Saturday, I drove from Pittsburgh to Cleveland.  Downstairs in the basement, Mac’s-Backs Books on Coventry, we sat amongst bookshelf after bookshelf of books, it was Poetry Without Walls though really it was poetry with walls of books.  If the world came to an end and we were the only ones left, this is where I would want to spend my days.  We all sat in a circle, on card table chairs, ebbortz sat across from me.  We all seemed to read about people and little pieces of each of our own landscapes.  ebbortz sat in front of a bookshelf labeled history.  All the books were about politicians and war, the books seemed poised and dress right dress as if standing at attention for kings and all the kings men, and here was ebbortz sitting right in front of this shelf reading earth notes, I found it surreal, like Starry Night by Vincent Van Gough though with tanks and exploding bombs.  After the reading ebbortz gave me a copy of his book, a slice of his landscape, little slices of earth with notes he penned along the way.  I was very excited, I am drawn to everyday history, history seldom told.  Bookshelves hold books of generals; life holds chapters and verse of real history.  A general did not build the mountains, they were built, minute-by-minute by working class e co-systems, ebbortz captures these earth notes.  I am drawn to everyday people; we are being faced with the loss of our father.  He is a hero to so many people though there will never be a bookshelf for him, no statue built in his honor, he will be just a moment of a memory, and a flower once photographed, an earth note in someone’s mind.  Memorial Day 1966, Pittsburgh, ebbortz captures this same sentiment, a note of a human landscape that was once there, a clarinet player touched the life of another and helped build and preserve the perspective of a another humans landscape, earthnote 208 captures the process, minute by minute.  ebbortz’s book has helped me realize, I am mourning my father before he hikes his last trail, I am building a statue of words in his honor, taking photos of places he has been, I am trying to capture how he perceived his landscapes, trying to make sure I can see what he sees, minute by minute, I watch the mountains, waiting for morning and I fear he watches the same mountains and waits for the sun to set, I try to write earth notes and capture his landscape before I am once again sitting in a circle, reading about people and little pieces of my own landscape.