Saturday, November 14, 2015

Photo Technical Studies

Here is a collection of cellphone photos and some technical transformations of them, trying to enhance their inherent mood. The photos were taken on Captiva and Sanibel Islands.
Your comments are always welcome and valued.

Boat and clouds 1

Boat and clouds 2


Sunset, palms

Friday, November 06, 2015

The Eternal Jew hears a performance of Hollow Men

The Eternal Jew hears a noise one morning. At first he thinks its thunder; then an earthquake. Then he realizes, an army attacking...

And behind the forward shock of noise
The walls of dust that choke your breath
And cloak your face in a deathly mask
So dragoon and drayman, commando and corpse
All look like statues in a Roman tomb.

And this the song them dragoons sung:

We are the hollow men born for war.
We are the arrogant caked in hate.
We are the sons of pagan gods.
And we are the fruit of polluted clods.

March on, march on, man of dust.
Do what you will; do what you must.

Look on us, your conquerors,
Sharp our tongue and sharp our darts.
Look at us, above all law.
Bloody hands and bloodless hearts.

March on march on, hollow men.
Your road is long; who knows its end?

We are the wallowers, slogging in scorn.
We wallow in impotence, loving a sword.
We hide our envy in a bigot’s abuse,
And express ourselves best with a mob and a noose.

March on march on, man of chalk.
Your road is short; no time for talk.

Look on us who scorn the just. 
Past? We’ll have no piece of that.
Look on us, who mock your trust.
Future? We’ll have no peace in that.

March on, march on, hollow men.
March on, to find your punishment.

Is this the song I heard them sing?
Well, not exactly. I’m interpretin’ 
With the lens of time to focus it
And a lens of Torah for judgin’ it.
What they really sung is more like this:

We are good so we walk with God.
And God is good so He walks with us.
And what’s the proof that we are good
And therefore God will walk with us?
That we are strong in conquering;
That cities will fall and kings will flee.
And if we stumble, if we fall,
And if our enemies slaughter us?
Still God is with us and we are good
For our foes have called on demon gods
And God will curse them in time to come.
For us, who are good, God is our cause
And all that we do conforms to His laws.

And I’ve heared it like this in every land.

Here’s the original metaEnglish version, with its more overtly vibrating language:

We arren hawlo menz bornen wor.
We ar the araggenz kaekt in haets.
We ar the sunz uv pagen godz.
An we ar the frute a poluten klodz.

March on march on, man a dus.
Du wut yu wil; du wut yu mus.

Louk on us, yur konkerren.
Sharp ar tung an sharp ar darts.
Louk at us, abbuv awl  law.
Bludded hanz a bludles harts.

March on march on, hawlo menz.
Yur roed iz long; hu knoez it enz?

We ar the wawlowerz, sloggen a skorn.
We wawlo in impotens, luvven a sord.
We hiden ar enveez in a biggets abyuse,
An espres ar selz bes with a mobben a noos.

March on march on, man uv chok.
Yur roed iz short; no tiem fer tok.

Louk on us hu skorn the jus. 
Past? Weel hav no pees a that.
Louk on us, hu mok  yur trus.
Fewcher? We hav no pees a that.

March on, march on, hawlo men.
March on, an fien yur punnishen.

Friday, October 16, 2015

brickwork to a new world

Welllll, the brickwork maybe only goes to a new(ish) back yard.
Here's some pix of some of the fun parts...

Thursday, September 10, 2015

The Atternen Ju and the First Crusade

This brief scene in The Atternen Juez Talen (The Eternal Jew’s Tale) takes place in the Jewish year of 4856, 1096 CE. The poetry has been rewritten into prose, and the meta-English has been translated back to that archaic version of English commonly spoken in the world.

Godfrey of Bouillon is rounding up troops and money to lead an army on Crusade. He comes to Troyes, home of the famous vintner rabbi, Shlomo Yitzchaki, more commonly known as Rashi. There, the Eternal Jew is teaching at Rashi’s academy.

Hearing the pope’s call for Crusade, the Jewish community becomes worried...

Shlomo’s fears soon grow roots. Godfrey Bouillon, that aspirin’ prince, come visitin’ his vassal Jew, our Reb. Some say he’s a descent and tolerant man. I come to know him better than that. He was surrounded by jackals; some looked like men, and a few soldiers who claimed to be knights.
“We are off to liberate our land,”
says he,
“And re-assert the true faith. Once Jerusalem is ours again, mayhaps there will be a place for you.”

Like a cheap bobble he holds this out, hopin’ to buy the reb’s support. He wants his money or some reckless men.
“The law forbids us to carry arms, as is your will. And gold is scarce. How might I serve your dangerous quest? Perhaps your carts are not so full that space may be made for some tuns of wine. And our grapes are not the sweetest, as you yourself say, but they pack right well into raisin cakes.”
That seemed to sate Bouillon’s thirst, which we had fears might know no quenching. But then as he turns to go, over his shoulder, smilin’ a growl,
“Oh yes, there’s one more thing I need. That Jew of yours, I want him too. I need his tongues and his travel eyes. No doubt, his service you can spare.”
And then he turns, my heart in hand.

Question, argue, beg as we might, he hears it not. Pointin’ his finger, some snarling jackals bumble inside, grab my arm, my cloak, my beard, me kickin’ and shoutin’ as they stumble back out. And there’s Bouillon all stink and sweat. With a crooked finger he spears down at me,
“You run from me, and that vintner Jew -- my serfs will throw him into a vat along with them girls and that wife of his, and they’ll tromp ‘em down with his sour grapes and turn their blood into satan’s wine. Hear me, you talkin’ viper Jew?”

There’s Reb Shlomo a-gaze at me, sorrowful eyes and suddenly old. So I temper my voice  and replies to Bouillon,
“Now hear me, honorable prince. This gang of serfs, your army here, what do they know of battle and gore? I seen Muslim armies too. You’re pickin’ a fight with no good end. I doubt you’ll ever return to Troyes. but if you do, you’ll return alone, you and a few of your horses is all. The rest of these, their blood will cry from soil and stone, wherever it spills, accusin’ you when your soul is judged.”

Now Shlomo rushes to Bouillon, a-mount, and grabs his boot.
“Have mercy, sire.”
Bouillon kicks him and lopes away as they tie a noose around my neck, and drag me along like a dancin’ bear.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Innonna, divine mother, divine whore

I am closing in on completing another image for my ebook edition of the poem The Song ov Elmallahz Kumming, Bouk 3. This image shows Innonna (Inanna/Ishtar), modified from the carved relief from Sumeria, now in the British Museum, and known as The Queen of the Night.

The image accompanies the following lines in my poem:

We loukt up tu Innonna,
     We hu wer lost,
     Hu wer livving in a waest,
Tu her hu iz Wilfull
     Az the liyon
     Az the ass;
Huze miend pennatraets
     Like the wind
     Like the flud;
We saw how unlike she wuz tu us
And koud not take owr eyz frum her boddee.

We saw how unlike she wuz tu us
And we ternd owr harts tu konker.

Here are 5 versions of the image. Do you prefer one above the others? Your general or critical feedback on the images is welcome and desired.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

The Atternen Ju at a death and a birth

In my ongoing translation of the narrative poem, The Atternen Juez Talen, I just completed these two scenes. They take place in the Franko-Germanic region of Metz in the year 1039 CE. Our hero has brought letters from the kingdom of Granada to be delivered to the greatest sage of the era, Rabbenu Gershom, the "light of the exile." Thus...

A month of roadin’ and changin’ names and here I am in the verdant vales of Metz, preparin’ to meet the Rav, Rabbenu Gershom, the light of galut*.
                        * Hebrew: exile

A little aside.
How long it’s been since my thoughts turned to Aden. How far the road to Jerusalem. How far our Lor, the ways in You. Once I thought I could walk the way. Then I hoped I could find the way. Now I wonders if there is a way. How far, our Lor? The eye can’t see.

Yet, this is the Palace our Lor created, this world and its talkin’ spirits, us. If we say it is fallen, we are to blame, and we are the architects to renew the Ark....

So I finds my way to the street of Jews, but every alley and lane is blocked with crowds of people shovin’ and wild with wailin’ and screamin’ and beatin’ of breasts.

Into a passage lined with stalls sellin’ belts and shoes and leather goods, I push my way just to free myself from the crush. A man signals to me and rushes up a stair to a balcony. And there down below a street of wails, shoulder to shoulder, such a cry rises up. No king never got such an outburst of tears.

Then the dirgin’ women mad-stagger along, mixin’ their lamentations into the crowd. The din of it all shakes the walls, but just for a moment, it sounded to me like two lutes playin’, melodies entwined, translatin’ the spirit as it leaves this world, its tales of woe and longin’ for joy. Many’s the women leadin’ the mourning. And here comes the coffin, hoisted on high, on the shoulders of the six that are bearin’ the box, it draped in fabric, billowin’, black.

Somehow the crowd folds itself back and the coffin passes thru. And there he lies, an ancient, white bearded sage of a man, wearin’ his kittel* and a saintly smile. Tiny he is, like a withered bouquet.
                        * death gown; shroud

“And who can that be?” I murmur to myself, and the man beside me, looks aghast, and sneers at me,
“Are you a worm? What hole do you live in? You even a Jew?”
“A wanderin’ worm, I suppose,”  says I. “I just arrived from Muslim Spain with important letters for the Light of the Galut.”
“Well, there’s the Light; a flame gone out, and all the worlds are dimmer now. Your travels are wasted. You can go back home.”

Bit as I were by his snippy talk, the shock of his words corked up my mouth. And then like a hand  grabbin’ my wrist, the great man’s spirit sweeps over me, and quickly drags me back down the stairs and into the crowd, that’s heavin’ and contortin’, like behemoth himself is grippin’ us all and slowly trudgin’ behind the corpse.

We comes to a river and an old stone bridge, then follows the stream on the other side. Tiresome long to the burial place, yet a ten minute walk any other day.

Outside the graveyard they set the box down and drag it by rope the last thirty steps, as if to scrape with an adze or a file the last traces of this earth from his soul. Or maybe the gratin’ and grind and bump is to warn his spirit of the darkness ahead.

“Four steps and chant our woe. Four steps at the end of the road. Four steps; our life so brief. Four steps; death a release. Four steps, and the grass is fade. Four steps; the Lor is breathe. Four steps; the earth reseeds.*”
                        Others say ‘recedes’

No doubt Isaiah and King David said it better, but that’s my translation of the death-wailin’ march.

Now the hespeds,* the heapin’ of praises, usually enough to fill the whole grave, but in this case we’re talkin’ the Light of Galut. Except maybe Moshe** and some prophets and kings, who stands taller than the rabbi of Metz?
                        * Hebrew for ‘eulogy’
                        ** Hebrew for ‘Moses’

Then ropemen heft the coffin once more, walk it over Gehenna’s* door, and ease it into its worm hole. Then each man heaves a shovelful of dirt to fill the yawning jaws of the grave. And like the Reed Sea that split in two, two lines form in the mournin’ crowd, and between walks the family, touchin’ hands amidst murmurs like “May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion’...
                        * an after-death place related to ‘purgatory’

Well, I still got these letters for someone to read. If it won’t be Gershom, then the one in his stead. I have a pretty good clue who it will be from the crew that gave the eulogies and the way the pack postured and growled and who was bitin’ and who was yippin’.

At the end of the shiva* I make appeals to Ya’akov ben Yakar but his door is closed to mourn his rav for thirty days. But then he eagerly calls on me to deliver my epistles and be on my way. Problem is: I don’t see myself just bein’ a delivery boy. Spite of my stumbles and crude appearance, I’m like to parley with the bitin’ dogs and not them as yip or skulk or drool.
                        * seven days of mourning

And so I bargains,
“It’s a long and windy road, and dangers there be and letters get lost or are easily confiscated or robbed. You need to confide your tikkun* with me, in case I survives but the letters don’t.”
                        * Hebrew: interpretations and conflict resolutions

And then I adds, just to nail it tight,
“Espania and all of Afrik awaits the definin’ word from the din* of Metz.** Even Sura and Pumbedit let their standards blow in your wind.”
                        * Hebrew: judge, judgement;
                        ** others say: ‘din emet’, Hebrew: judge of truth

His face don’t let his thoughts escape but I can see he’s readin’ me, and plenty of flatter has been dished to him. What I don’t know is, how worldly wise he be of the thievin’ officials and desperate poor and connivin’ traders and murderous crows, the flood and fire and storm and plague that walk and stalk and snake the road.

“I must study the words your prince has written and prepare responses to all of his questions. Once I know its critical mass I can then determine the force of it, and whether your eyes can bear to see. But in the mean, to ease our wait, a nephew has been born to a notable, a student of Gershom’s, Shimon of Mainz. In three days is his brit milah.* Why not come and celebrate?”
                        *Hebrew: covenant of circumcision

Well, I always goes to a brit milah. Eliezer’s verses* declare the feast will save from Gehenna.** Seein’ this world, I got no taste for anything worse. Or to flip it over, the taste of the feast is rarely better than at a brit.
                        * Pirkei d’Rabbi Eliezer, chapt. 29
                        ** see note on Gehenna above

That particular brit hardly stood out from the hundreds I’ve witnessed. The scrawny lad was held by his sandak*, that same Rabbi Shimon. The infant hardly squawked at all, then heartily sucked the wine-soaked bib. I remembers this brit for only one thing, as the first of many a meeting I had with Shlomo Yitzchaki, Rashi the Sage. We didn’t discuss much Torah that day. Of course, he was only eight days old.
                        * godfather who holds the baby during the ceremony

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Sofer writing a Megillah scroll

The video below shows Jeffrey Shulevitz working on writing a Megillah scroll (scroll of the Book of Esther). In the audio portion of the video, I talk about some of the advice Jeffrey has to offer.


Saturday, June 13, 2015

A scene from Arabian Nights

I just finished translating the following scene from The Atternen Juez Talen, taking it from MetaEnglish (stevetok) to Old English (what you call "normal" English, as if there's something normal about it), and from poetry to prose.  I hope you enjoy it.

Here's the setting:
The Atternen Ju (Eternal Jew) is an associate and agent of Shmuel HaNagid, the vizier of the king of Granada, 1039 CE. Sent as the king's emissary to Metz, he has been thrown in jail as a spy while entering Gaul from Spain. Meanwhile, back in Garnottah (Granada's old name), his wife Batkoel is having her own adventures. Here they are (but remember, this is a reflection, being told by the Eternal Jew, so the story is in his voice)...

Back in Garnottah Butkoel arises from her modest and withdrawn place in the court. Free of constraints, and walkin’ the streets, she sees the straits of women and girls. Outcast they are, downcast, domineered, and cowed. Like chattel by law and by fisty men.

Weeks and days she walks and she broods. At last, she makes a plea to the king,
“Let me start a school for girls.”
“Away with you! A woman you are and have no right to sue the king!”
But words come round to Shmuel the Prince and he sits with Butkoel, and this is her say:
“Half the people in this land have no voice. Are we nothing but cows to milk and to plow? You have cut out our tongues; why not cut off our hands? Would the king poke out his falcon's eye, or cut off a leg of his cavalry’s horse? So why do you hobble us? Give us a school. Give us the tools to think and to build, and double the worth of the land and the crown.”

Times pass, then a moment comes when Shmuel is sittin' in the royal lounge chattin' with his king. “Once I sailed to a distant land where the sun was  bright and the soil rich, and everywhere orchards with fruitful trees, but the people languished, hungry and weak.”

“Strange”, says the king. “Why was this so?”
“The people must let a half of the fruit rot on the ground for bird and beast.”
“What a foolish king and a foolish law. The people should rise up and drive him out.”
“That king is you, oh honorable one!”

Then the king jumps up and furious roars, and Shmuel is sure his head will roll. But quickly, composure returns to the king.
“Surely I am not so foolish as that. My land is wealthy; the people thrive.”
“But how much more if women too could learn and work and build up the land.”

“That Jewess has captured your ear, I see. And if she catches your eye, your heart is next. But let her go out and start her school. We will quickly see that a woman’s skill is in boiling troubles and spinning lies.”
Then he leaves his vizier in a foul mood. And thus thinks Shmuel:
That’s not the last time this matter will growl and bite at me.

A school for girls is no simple thing. Where will it be and who will attend and who will teach and what texts will they use?

But who will teach? That’s a harder thing. Teachers are plentiful, but all are men, and forbidden to be alone with girls. In any case, which of them approves of girls learning to read? Probably not a single one.

And if a teacher falls from the sky where is a father who will send his girl to be more educated and learned than him? And if teachers and fathers rain from the sky where’s the rabbi, imam, and priest to agree about which holy text they will learn?

Thinking all this, Shmuel’s fears allay.
‘This episode will pass. The king will be stung by it no more.’

Butkoel, all excited and open eyes, has  already found three empty rooms where the baths of the harem used to be, behind the ovens that heat the tanks of water supplyin’ the new hamam.* Open rooms with brickwork domes full of lights for the sun to shine in, and plenty of space for many a girl.
                        * baths

On the first day of Chanukah, Kislev 25, forty eight hundred years into creation; in the month of Rabi, 431, the years since Muhammad fled from mobs in Mecca; and December 17 of 1039 by the Christian count of when their Lor came down. That’s when Butkoel opens the door of her school, a modern Chanukah*. Hardly two months since she spoke to the king. Twenty two girls sit there that day, twelve of them Jews; of the Muslims, eight; and two Christian girls who had to sneak past their mothers who never heard of such a thang.
                        * means “dedication” in Hebrew

Them mothers come rushin’ in just about noon,
“Where’s my girls? You give ‘em right back! Abductin’ them to pollute their minds. There’s work to be done, you lazy brats.”
Then they looks around all scowl and accuse, and their girls stand up in trembly fear. And here come Butkoel, calm and smilin’, and says, “Do you know who’s teachin’ your girls? Come meet her. She's one of the wives of the king.”
You could see just a little knife in that smile.

Real quick, them women’s faces change. Their words slop out like soup on the floor.
“Well I didn’t... my clothes... my baby back home...”
But it’s too late; she’s already standin’ there, and walks right up, face to face with the most forward mother, and grabs her arm and gives her a kiss on each dirty cheek. And then the other, kissin’ the same. Both of them just about falls in a swoon. Fear, astonishment, glory, pride. You can already see how fast they’ll run back to their neighbors to sashay and purr.

Butkoel steps up to introduce.
“Ladies, you are honored to stand before Katrina, daughter of the prince of Trier. And your honorable queen, these are the mums of your two students, Camile and Jasmine. Dames, would you like to tell us your names?”

The next day, just after sunrise prayers, the clouds still gilded in scarlet and gold, a storm gathers, like clouds stacked up, and wave after wave pushin’ and shovin’. There’s priests and fathers, mothers and girls, some of them wantin’ heads on a plate, some wantin’ to get their girls in the school. Then comes a gendarme, who turns back in dismay, and runs to enlist the king’s guard, all they can spare. Then comes the gawkers, the pickpockets and thieves, all raisin’ a clamor that rings thru the street.

Then another wave sweeps over the mob, startin’ at a corner by the palace gate and slowly ripplin’ over the square. It starts with gasps, and silence behind. As if the storm is swallowed up into a bottle and corked up tight.

The king! And all the storm’s in him. He’s  the bottle ready to blow its cork.
“Just as I said; here’s women’s work: pots boiled over and troubles spun. Where’s the woman? Where is she? Bring that Butkoel, bound, to me!”
As he walks with his guards to the school’s gate the crowd hisses and seethes back as if the king was a red-hot iron.

From the other direction, more hiss and seethe as Butkoel approaches, flanked by two queens. And there in the midst of the crowd they meet, the force of a storm meets the face of a cliff. The face of the king, facin’ his queens, both are stormy. Butkoel between.

Tuesday, June 02, 2015

The Atternen Ju meets a vizier

As you may know, I'm working on a prose translation back to "old English" (normal English to everyone but me) of my narrative poem, The Atternen Juez Talen (The Eternal Jew's Tale).

I just finished translating a scene in which he and his wife have undergone a difficult trip from Kairouan (in current Tunisia) to Garnotta (now Granada) to deliver a message to the vizier, Shmuel haNagid (Samuel the Prince)....

Long we are hustled down lightless halls and then, behold, marble baths, steamy and clean and smellin’ of mint. There, two attendants take my clothes, soak me, and scrub me with pumice and soap. They cuts my hair and oil it smooth and bring me new robes like the high-born wear. My own clothes they throw in a bin of rags. Probably use them to mop the floor.

“Now you are ready to meet the vizier.”
And I thinks, ‘Now I knows how Joseph felt when they whisked him from jail to interpret dreams.’

Butkoel come out, her hair in braids, lookin’ like a princess in silk and lace. And what’s that rosy tint on her cheek, and crimson lips like poppy blooms? And I think to myself, not without fear,
“When they brought Bathsheba to David’s room, no doubt they prepared her just like this. Will they send me, like Uriah, out to my death?”

Where next we’re led.... We enters a room like I never seen, and my fears fade. Casement windows with diamond panes inset in deep niches in the wall, with faceted peaks and surfaces in tile, glazed in a sparkly floral designs. Giant tapestries hang on the wall and couches upholstered in minute brocade of geometric patterns, who can describe? A table set with silver plates gilded with a delicate filigree, and silver utensils and silver bowls and silver pitchers all beaded and etched. And cups propped up on thin little pipes; goblets they call them, like drinkin’ from a flower made of glass.

And at every window and every door attendants with cocked heads and haughty stares, weighin’ our thoughts. Not chamberlains these snooty pages, but angels of death with bonebreaker hands.

And just as I wonders, ‘what should I do?’ a door bursts open and a guard shouts out,
“To stations, men!”
And there, the vizier.

Some people float like a leaf in a stream; some sink as soon as the waters get rough; some tumble on, gaspin’ for air; some get stuck in pools midstream or aimlessly drift by stagnant banks.

When Shmuel haNagid steps in a room he is not one of them awash in the stream. He is the mountain that sends forth the stream. Does he step in the room, or the room step to him? The force of his character bends the world. But what is the cost of such world-shapin’ will? Like a spring compressed, you cannot let up, or all your force will redound on you....

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Weekend at Greenbriar State Park

Nancy and I went to Greenbriar State Park in West Virginia last weekend. WV has an amazing state park system with remarkably beautiful cabins, many of which were built by the CCC during the 1930's.

Below are excerpts of some things I wrote and a few pix of some things we saw. Your comments and feedback, as ever, are welcome and valued.

To begin, the view from our front porch:

Which I then posterized:

Sitting on the front porch, working on my Atternen Juez Talen, I wrote this revery on theodicy (translated back into Old English):

Piled and compiled the evidence
That God has cast this world from His heart

And left this beast, flesh and blood
That once was His body, eyes and hands,

To thrash in the muck, to blindly thrash;
To build on the sands of our violent shores,
Stormy drunk and full of ourselves,
Till the tides have undermined our works,
Till the waves have eroded the genome of us.
God washing His hands, shakes them thrice,
Says a blessing, dries them, and we are gone.

(No, I have not lost hope or faith, but surely we must look, and see, and consider such things as we critique ourselves.)

This is our living room. Here's the opposite view taken from that corner chair...

The creek behind our cabin:

I spent a fair amount of time revising a story I've been working on. Here's the opening paragraph as it now stands, two revisions beyond what I wrote in Greenbrier...

How long will it take for this night to pass? The danger is palpable and I feel helpless and exposed. I’m afraid to move for fear of being heard. I try to penetrate the darkness but I think I’ve gone blind. I try to penetrate the confusion but anxiety is wailing in my ears. Is that the panting of an animal or my own breathing?
Perhaps I am dreaming. I try to wake but I don’t know how.

Down the road we found a pristine and prosperous little village, Lewisburg. It's a lovely place nestled in among the WV hills, standing in stark contrast to Caldwell, just 3 miles away, which, best as we could tell, was made up of 4 junk yards and a bar. Here's a little art installation in a gallery and a log cabin. The objects in the installation are about 4 feet long!

Zoey had a great time too. Here she is strolling with Nancy...

Here's a later scene in my story. Originally I talked Heisenberg and the psychology of his uncertainty principle. But Cal felt it was too cold and intellectual. So I scrubbed it a few times and this is how it turned out...

Formless. A last vestige before my own nothingness. Blown by voiceless winds. Washed away by rivers I cannot feel. I am a fragmenting atom. An uncertain thing. Uncertain of where I am. Of how I got here. Of where I’m going. I’m not even certain if I am. Or if I have ever been. Each moment is a separate reality.  Each act of observation. Each thought. Changes everything.
If only I could.

And here are a few pix of some hikes we took...

Saturday, May 02, 2015

A stroll in the Grand Central neighborhood

Nancy and I took the train to NYC early this week for meetings, and to do some work and research. We stayed at 3rd Avenue 42nd Street. I had about 2 hours to myself right after we arrived, so I decided to walk over to one of my favorite buildings, the Chrysler Building, one of NYC's unsung (or at least less sung) architectural wonders. But everywhere I looked I saw little architectural wonders. Here's a collection of some of them, all found in a few block radius from Grand Central, and easily walked in an hour or less.


Wells Fargo entrance

Building above Wells Fargo

Another reflection of the building above the Wells Fargo

Chrysler - elevator door and red Morocco marble

Chrysler - wall sconce

Chrysler - ceiling mural

Chrysler - more ceiling mural

Chrysler - another elevator

Chrysler - more ceiling mural

Chrysler - and still more ceiling mural

Chrysler - wall panel

Facade detail, #1

Inside Grand Central

Grand Central chandelier

Grand Central, ceiling

Grand Central, wall sconce

Grand Central, ticket window

Facade detail, #2

Facade detail, #3

Facade detail, #4

Facade detail, #5

plaque in the sidewalk, celebrating NYC architecture; there were dozens of these plaques

another plaque in the sidewalk

an elegant little garden

a park on Park


a religious fellow and his secular brother

Facade detail, #6

Facade detail, #7

Facade detail, #7, shopped a bit

Facade detail, #8

Facade detail, #9

Facade detail, #10

Facade details, #9 & 10

Facade detail, #11

Facade detail, #12

Facade detail, #13
That's all, fokes.