Neutral Tones

This semester, and last, I assigned--among other things--Thomas Hardy's poem "Neutral Tones" in my intro literature classes. 

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod;
—They had fallen from an ash, and were gray.

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles of years ago;
And some words played between us to and fro
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept thereby
Like an ominous bird a-wing …

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me
Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree,
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

Where I live, and where I rode yesterday, can hardly be compared to Hardy's Wessex countryside--which, actually, wa even deader than the love lamented by the speaker of his poem.  Wessex was an Anglo-Saxon kingdom the Danes invaded a millenium before Hardy started writing.  Today it consists of Dorset, where Hardy lived most of his life, and neighboring counties in southern England.

But we are entering our season of "neutral tones":  the incandescent of Fall has burned away, and even the lastflickering and smoldering hues of dying embers have faded away.  Here in New York, we can see some of those "neutral tones" in the trees, even in the light of the sky--and manmade structures:

It wasn't particularly cold, though the temperature was beginning a precipitous drop, propelled by the wind, that would continue through the night and this morning.  So, I was the only cyclist--and one of only a few people--on the waterfront park just south of the Brooklyn Bridge.

I am not lamenting a lost love--or much of anything, really--right now.  I am just tired from the heavy workload I took on during the past few months--and from the election and the ensuing tumult.  All right, maybe I am ruing the relative civility, and concern for the truth-- or, at least, the appearance of those things-- of the past few years.

The other night, I was having a conversation with someone I've come to know a bit during the past few months.  We both agreed that we are now in a completely different world from the one in which we first met:  as I recall, some time late in the summer.  We can see it in the faces of people; most important, we can feel it, we agreed:  the air of resignation and defeat in places like the neighborhood in which I work, and the belligerence (manifested in an increasing number of attacks against people who are, or look like, Muslims, LGBT people or anyone Trump scorned or mocked) in other places.  

"But you know, we created all of that.  Everyone did.  Just as Americans created the Soviet Union as much as those folks in the Kremlin did."

I reflected on that observation as I stopped along the Brooklyn waterfront.  Obviously, humans created that bridge--which I love.  But we also made the "neutral tones" of that sky and the trees.  The hues were those of winter until we made them neutral--when, as in Hardy's poem, love is lost or, worse, abandoned. 

I had another insight, for whatever it's worth, about why Christian (white ones, anyway) and Jewish fundamentalists voted for Trump.  He famously declared climate change a "hoax".  (His unique spin, of course, was to attribute the ruse to the Chinese.) The religious folk might not like the fact that he made much of his fortune from casinos and other unsavory businesses, and that he's been married three times--or that his views on abortion are those of the last person who discussed the issue with him.  But what he said about climate change aligns completely with the most fundamental tenet of Abrahamic religions (as I understand them, anyway):  that of God's sovereignty.  That notion is challenged, to say the least, if you believe that human-generated pollution can cause a rise in sea levels and average temperatures, and can wipe out entire species. 

And to think that Trump came from the same city I inhabit!

Then again, I don't think he ever took a bike ride along the Brooklyn waterfront on a winter afternoon--and saw what I saw.

Two Writers And Their Bikes

I've assigned my students to read a group of poems from a diverse cross-section of poets classical and modern.  Those poems form a sort of cycle of the seasons.

Yesterday they read Neutral Tones by Thomas Hardy.

I read somewhere that he was an enthusisastic cyclist until late in his long life.  Somehow that doesn't surprise me:

Now doesn't he look so completely English with that bike?



On the subject of writer/cyclists, here's a photo of Arthur Conan Doyle and his wife on an early tandem in 1892:

Both photos came from Flavorwire.

Creative Cycling

"The meaning of life came to me while I was washing the dishes.  I wrote it down on a napkin, but it got soaked and the ink ran."

I don't remember who told me that.  It was said in jest, but perhaps it's not such a joke after all.

After all, how many times have you had ideas come to you when you were occupied with something else?  Or, better yet, while you were on your bike, dodging and weaving through traffic or pumping your way up an 8 percent grade?

If you've had inspiration, or simply moments of clarity, while riding your bike, you shouldn't be surprised.  After all, more oxygen is being pumped to our brains, which are probably in a somewhat altered state of consciousness anyway.

I am thinking about that now because I came across this photo of Sir Edward Elgar:

While it says great things about how good cycling can be for our creative processes, it doesn't say much about his relationship with his wife.  Was she a "bike widow" or a "music widow"?

Elgar was an enthusiastic cyclist who often pedaled the 90-mile (150km) round-trip to see his favorite football team, the Wolverhampton Wanderers.  He said that some of his music came to him while he was in the saddle.

That is what this writer said about some of his work:

 I can just imagine Count Tolstoy stopping in the middle of the taiga and hurriedly scribbling War And Peace before re-mounting his wheels.

Speaking of writers, you've probably seen this image of Henry Miller:

 

But I'll bet you haven't seen this one of Thomas Hardy:

Around the same time, one of the very first tandems was ridden by none other than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his wife:

About a century later,  Patti Smith was helping to make the Meatpacking District--and city bikes--fashionable:

And, of course, no blog post about creative people and great thinkers on bicycles would be complete without this image:

Einstein said that the concept of the Theory of Relativity came to him while he was riding his bicycle.  That makes perfect sense, especially if you believe that the universe is a giant wheel.