Gestures of Futility

 I went down to the Peninsula on Sunday. It was in the sixties, which in December in Erie is not a common occurrence, so I felt the need to take advantage of it, especially in light of our proximity to doomsday. It was a pleasant ride around on the bike, with a stop at Gull Point Trail for a hike out to the end and a return trip along the lakefront. The lake always has a surprise or two for the observant and this day was no exception. Saw a couple of Snow Buntings for starters and quite a few other unusual denizens of the littoral including this strange creature looking all forlorn and gesturing in despair towards Canada.

 In this close-up view one can almost feel Job-like resignation in the way the appendages supplicate towards the unforgiving expanse of water. I am brought to a near tearful state just looking at it now.

 

This carcass also gives one the same desolate feel of emptiness. It is as if Franz Kline designed a piece of driftwood to commemorate some tragedy to which we are not privy. All that great negative space trying to hold its own against the wooden leviathan.

 

And then you have this rather stark sentinel, head periscoping out of the sand like a reverse ostrich. Nothing seems to be passing here except time. 

 

This fellow seems to have a great deal more energy, he will stride and strut the beach whereas his counterpart merely stands. He directs the forces of surf and sand and wind to no avail, with a pent-up energy that contorts his frame like a spastic in a loose-fitting straight-jacket.

 

Now this has less to do with anything than nothing, but I thought it looked interesting. These two pictures show a fallen tree that had been covered with sand. At some point the sand was sucked out from under parts of it, leaving a layer of sand on top of the tree like layers of icing on a cake. So you gotta admit, that isn't something you see everyday.

 

In another unrelated observation, here is a birch tree lying on the surf-line with its bark stripped off of a section, revealing a burnt sienna-orange flesh. It was such a bright scar when the sun hit it, I thought it beautiful against the blues of water and sky.

 

Two last images of futility, one nature-made and one mine. Along a stretch of beach there were a number of these little pebble carpets trailing off towards the water. They perforated the sandy strip of beach in three foot intervals and tapered off into the water, like an arrow pointing out a preferred destination. Lasting only as long as the wind is down and then they will disappear like the hope of getting there. The second image is a stack of cobbles on my beach. I add twenty of thirty each time I go down, but in the end the lake will take it as well.