HAYWIRE Issue 2 Fall 2013
Images in Transition
Publisher’s Note
By Lee Beckley
“And these things that live, slipping away,
But on this morning, with the amber light increasing
understand that you praise them;
our vision, a Tom Sawyer-esque “elastic heart of youth”
transitory themselves, they trust us for rescue,
quickly snaps back into shape and he’s off again with
us, the most transient of all. They wish us to
fresh tears sticking to his face. A knight’s aplomb.
transmute them in our invisible heart - oh, infinitely
In our transition to school, and while I follow his
into us! Whoever we are.”
shimmering red light, I have a notion: my son’s
Rainer Marie Rilke 1922 playground is everywhere. While we wait in search for
The anxious maelstrom of the day’s meetings,
inspiration with grand ideals, our immediate
papers, and novels runs through my mind as I blithely
surroundings often go unnoticed.
ride through birch lined streets in the rising light of
We think, like Keats, that “warm days will never
dawn. Other thoughts trickle in:
cease,” but on this October morning time fluttered by
Is it merely an adult act to reflect upon nature in
but the image remained:
platitudes? Why should kids care
tilting my head back - away from his
about Keats? Where are my keys?
meandering red orb - the diffused
haywire |ˈhāˌwīr|
How do seasons affect our
light seeps through our covering in
personalities?
planes of translucent geometries.
adjective, informal
These thoughts filter through
There is a certain tension in
erratic; out of control:
until my son’s wail arrests our
transitioning: from home to school,
imagination gone haywire.
sinuous path. He’s wrecked his
skinned knee to carefree riding, and
bike. I swivel and scurry back. He
ORIGIN early 20th
summer to fall that we become aware
lies contorted in the frame’s
of our place. And these images in
century (originally U.S.):
embrace clutching his knee. His
transition should never fail to let the
from hay + wire, from the
piercing cry shatters the morning
power of beauty speak to us.
use of hay-baling wire in
stillness with sharp clap and my
His tears dry before we wedge
empathy arrives in warm dad-hands
through the green gate, but a salt
makeshift repairs.
“owa!”
streak rests comfortably on his cheek.
Our school journey winds us
I reach for a Taschentuch, but he
down Biesalskistraße in a game of
sprints away, “bye, dad!” Standing
pinball for my my eight-year old; where branches are
there, holding my lock and key, I imagine he’s shared
meant to be broken, and puddles are targets. Sinewy
the same moment. Our radiant cover quickly changes to
roots ravage the macadam in sinuous plunder - these
the walls of our rooms.
oblique stones turn into launch ramps to infinity.
Please engage the places that our students share in
Shifting leaf mounds transform into cushions to
our second issue of haywire.
breaking our fake falls. The alternating stone pattern in
quiet street warbles our tires and rattles a symphony in
Please share your art in our next issue.
spokes.
Send submissions to: [email protected]
Painting by Jakob Eckardt
3