Columns

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A row of marble columns recedes in backward view, tall with heavy Corinthian bases.  Beautiful Ionic capitals, on which nothing rests, glimmer in the morning sun.  I consider their gigantic size, and marvel that I could sculpt them with my father’s tools.  

 

I placed these columns along the way to add grace to the road and to link the various buildings to one another, an esplanade to the theater on Saturday nights, and later to the third floor of Motel6.  

 

Looking at them now, life seems a series of columns, marching along like days.  I have never had enough columns or enough days. 

 

How many marble columns did I sculpt?  Five thousand? Ten thousand?  They are the unifying beauty—the reasons that last. 

 

I’ve made a forest of marble: Death Valley, Rocky Mountains, Wind River Mountains, and now red-desert places of Utah.  I have erected these silent marching men of marble who bring grace to the roads they walk. 

 

What difference does it really make whether he comes today or six days from now?  I am still lean as when tramping Mt. Shasta, and stubborn as when selling the farm in Tennessee.

 

I found early the one man I was destined to love, and though there were times of joy in his graceful company, I always returned to my lovely columns.  He, pour soul, has known ten wives, and has grown to hate them all, while I have drifted in a small boat, as down a river, toward the sea of obliteration, always finding new pleasures in scenery along mossy banks.  

 

I knew his glory intimately, and since then have worked hard, imagining myself an athlete of the Olympiad.  

 

These recent columns summarize thousands left along pathways less traveled.  How they shine in their variety, how perfect in their proportions.  I keep seeking out ideas for the most perfect pillar.  If the others were shown, it would not improve upon this group.  Stand there my shimmering columns bearing nothing upon your heads. 

 

All along I have been more smiled upon than many and more fortunate than most, with many columns to chisel out with those old tools of father. 

 

 

Column of Air

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A note to cell phone users: In the past, some of you complained that you were not allowed to comment on the blog when using a cell phone.  I offered solutions, and usually my solutions failed.  

I believe the problem is now understood:  You can only comment using a cell phone if you are logged in with a Google account.  You cannot even comment as “anonymous” unless you are so logged in.  (Using a laptop computer, you do not need to be logged in to leave comments.)  This is a major flaw in Blogspot.com, and I was unaware of it for years.  Google (which includes Blogspot) seems unwilling to fix it due to their ongoing war with Apple.  If you find this explanation inaccurate, please let me know.