Making magic, wonder and smiles in Brooklyn.
Tonight we’re headed to the highline and tomorrow Alexandria in DC. Come play!
Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
— not his Father but his Mother stirs
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality. From time to time she claims
kindredship with us, and some globule
from her veins steals up into our own.
I am the autumnal sun,
With autumn gales my race is run;
When will the hazel put forth its flowers,
Or the grape ripen under my bowers?
When will the harvest or the hunter’s moon
Turn my midnight into mid-noon?
I am all sere and yellow,
And to my core mellow.
The mast is dropping within my woods,
The winter is lurking within my moods,
And the rustling of the withered leaf
Is the constant music of my grief…
Henry David Thoreau
Photographed by Nichole Hastings
With the iPhone 4S
Out in my evening run on Hopson, by way of Elm Street, the trees lining the road suddenly disappear and the sky opens up. I stop and stare. My breath and pulse quickened from the run and sweat trickling down my neck. A blue moon dominates the rose pink sky, large and luminous, and my heart soars.