We went to the Forest Hills Cemetary yesterday, the same place that did the lantern festival. It's huge and full of trees and sculptures and they let you drive around and park wherever you want and have a picnic. We didn't picnic, but we did drive around looking for the contemporary art stuff. I'm not sure that Sam liked it as well as I did, but I certainly fell hard for a few pieces, for the whole place really. I made a mosaic of my pictures in Picasa, so that's what you're seeing here. I had too many pictures I was in love with to just post them one by one, and as it is this represents a severe butchering of all the others I wanted to show you.
My favorite was probably the one that looks like the trees are wearing dresses. In fact, the trees are wearing dresses, delicate-ish wire ones. I think you only see the mama dress here, but there was a whole family--one for mother and father, an older sister, and a child. Man, they're spooky and gorgeous. While I was hanging out with them, Sam headed back to the entrance for another map, and I ultimately got spooked enough to go back and try to find him. There was something just too real (or unreal?) about the dresses. Too close to what I imagine it would look like if a ghost family came to visit in the forest.
After the ghost-trees, we wandered past a village of tiny houses, set up in the rocks. The "Poet" house is what's here, but there were a half dozen of them--very strange and lovely.
And the stone pillow comes from a piece with a few tiny stone beds.
I should have written down the artists for you. Whoops.
Then we sat by the lake on these cool tree stump chairs, like the one I sat in the night of the lantern festival. It was such a lovely day, and there were lots of Canada geese and a pretty grey-blue heron.
We found e.e. Cummings grave, which was quite a task, actually. The map had him marked, but we kept looking for at least a semi-impressive headstone. Instead, after much searching, Sam sort of stumbled on him, an extremely unassuming flat marker, set in the ground, next to his wife. Very e.e. of him. People had set out flowers and a little pile of cashews, who knows why.
I insisted we find him because I wanted to think about him. I like e.e., more than I think is in fashion these days. This is mostly because of my mom, who is the best darn reader of Cummings I've ever heard. At this moment I can absolutely hear her saying, "and the little lame balloon man whistles farrrr and weeee." Sigh. If she were here I'd make her read it to me and pat my head.