Birds of a Feather Flock Together

As I was walking around campus one day, I caught this photo of a group of ducks all glancing in the same direction and edited it on computer to bring out a brighter contrast. As anyone who has walked the University's campus even once can attest, these ducks are everywhere to be seen always waddling together on the pathways and down by the lake.

This particular photograph to me represents the Miami in the way that the exiles and immigrants who came to live here from other countries tend to stick together and hold a strong sense of community. Take for example the Cuban community: Little Havana is filled with generations of Cubans that hold the same ideals and traditions as well as the dream that they can one day return to a free Cuba. Though they literally live in the city of Miami, they clump together and don't associate themselves with the locals.

Much in the same way, although the ducks do come in contact with other birds across campus, they still flock together as a pack when they do and share similar physical characteristics as Cubans do. This particular shot struck me, perhaps in the way that Barthes describes punctum because it is not simply a picture of three ducks but strikes me that all three birds share a similar stature and are staring in the same direction; this reinforces the sense of community and a shared ideology, almost as if they are after the same thing.

Words are mightier

The University of Miami's MFA in Creative Writing Program and the Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation announce “Words Are Mightier,” the first VONA/Voices regional writing workshop, to be held on Martin Luther King weekend, Jan. 13-15, 2012 at the UM Coral Gables Campus. The workshop is open to all writers of color with or without experience in workshopping, writing or publishing. Students will exchange work, discuss craft and strategy, generate new writing, and develop writing communities.  Deadline November 8th.  Application here.

Wynwood

When one thinks of the nightlife of Miami, what comes to mind? The nightclubs on South Beach with the pumping bass beating out the doors of the club as the bouncer lets in another lady wrapped in a tight red dress with matching stilettos for free while the guy has to pay with a crinkled twenty. Or maybe the bars with the music-too-loud-to-hold-a-conversation pulsing in the background as more and more rounds are ordered for, sometimes underage, college students and older folk alike. Or maybe even the crowds of people flocking to the beaches at the wee hours of the morning once all the clubs begin to close, staring up the few stars visible through the light pollution of the city.

But there is a whole other side to the nightlife of the city, and yes right in South Beach itself. The second Saturday night of every month is known as ArtWalk in the Wynwood Art District where galleries and studios for blocks and blocks are open to the public to view and peruse at their leisure. Besides the stunning paintings and sculptures made by local artists there is also a section called the Wynwood Walls which is a permanent outdoor art fixture that features a large mural accompanied by some sculptures, including the multi-colored deer featured above.

And if you are of age, some of the galleries even offer wine and champagne as well as mixed drinks to viewers as they enjoy the artwork. A few other studios will have music subtly or quite loudly playing in the background and hand out free h'ordeuvres of cheese and crackers. The environment created in each is completely unique and tuned to that particular artist's taste.

So probably contrary to popular belief there is a lot more to the nightlife of downtown Miami than simply the flashing clubs smashed full of dancing drunks, but rather the sophisticated taste of art critics sipping champagne.

Picture Source:

http://www.google.com/imgres?q=wynwood+miami+deer&hl=en&nord=1&biw=977&bih=532&tbm=isch&tbnid=_e2joozw8XEizM:&imgrefurl=http://miami11.nytimes-institute.com/2011/01/06/photos-of-the-day-jan-6/&docid=2GLTvfXDMmbNeM&imgurl=http://miami11.nytimes-institute.com/files/2011/01/06iod_5.jpg&w=938&h=560&ei=v1eiTszYLsXGgAf6sIGmBQ&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=111&vpy=170&dur=759&hovh=173&hovw=291&tx=159&ty=57&sig=117623727538718551351&page=1&tbnh=158&tbnw=235&start=0&ndsp=7&ved=1t:429,r:0,s:0

Bananas

As old hazel eyes crinkle open like the pale blue sheets she rests on, she glances out the windowpane, streaked with tears from the early-morning thunderstorms. Enormous leaves bent with the force of the storm plaster the frame and she looks away as she slowly pushes herself up onto the creaky hardwood floor, heavy leather shoes scuffing along the way.

She arrives earlier than almost everyone else but the usual vendors begin to trickle in, setting up their booths and adjusting their handmade signs. They lay out the fresh, and slightly bruised or stale, fruits and vegetables and baked goods – recipes that never needed to be written down.

Single rays of sunlight peak through reluctant strokes of clouds and strike the bright yellow of her banana booth; only 10 cents per pound. In fact the whole market becomes a rainbow just as the early crowd begins to bustle from stall to stall, carefully examining something as simple as an orange, twisting it around their fingers and squinting, pinching, searching for any sort of minuscule imperfection.

The day fluctuates as normal, between the hours of boredom, tapping feet along the pavement, and the moments when one can hardly keep track of who ordered or paid for what over the yelling demands of sweaty faces and the jingle of change as it shuffles from hand to hand. At least this hasn't changed she thinks. She can remember being a little girl, the constant sun beating down upon her slender, dark shoulders grasping her mother's hand and watching the constant blur of exchange between customer and vendor, the colors all swirling together.

But most significant, she remembers the vibrant yellow of her Mama's banana trees, sprouting in the yard back home, far across the sea. And after the sales from the day when she lies back down on those crinkly pale blue sheets, she can almost see the bright yellow fruit peeking at her from beyond the window pane.

© Michael L. Carlebach
Copyright	http://merrick.library.miami.edu/digitalprojects/copyright.html

Banyan Trees

Rough, brown tentacles intertwine, braided together like a school girl's hair. Looking at the perfectly tangled limbs, I wonder how they learned this trick. The banyan trees spread their roots and display their branches as far as they can, making it impossible not to notice them, not to be awestruck by their beauty. They command attention. They make it impossible not to stare. Streets wrap around their roots, and holes are cut into fences to accommodate their branches.

Occasionally I will see a young child attempt to master the spiral trunk. No one ever wins. For some reason they still try though. They are too young to realize their place in nature. Determined little kids compete to see who can get higher. They place one foot above the other, reaching for thick branches or a clump of leaves, grasping on in order to pull themselves up. The kids always have the intention of reaching the top, but they rarely do. No one can.

Both big and beautiful, their presence intimidates the city. People willingly build around the striking giants, going out of their way to preserve the trees. As adults, they are aware of their status below the winding branches and twisting trunks. They know nothing they could build could ever be as flawless as the banyan trees. They know these trees move for no one.

Picture source: http://merrick.library.miami.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=/asm0530&CISOPTR=1702&CISOBOX=1&REC=2

It's All About the Shiny Things

The sun glinted off the windows of the building, the long rectangular panes reflecting the light, baking the street pavement below. Onto this pavement rolled a black Cadillac SUV. Heavy bass beats shook the vehicle, the driver bobbing his head to the electric sound of the song. His arm stuck out the window, a cigarette sticking out from between two meaty fingers. He flicks the thing onto the sidewalk and makes a turn at the stoplight ahead into a fenced-in parking lot.

On the curb stands a man holding a cardboard sign. He wears a green flannel jacket and white shirt, stained with sweat. His thin, overgrown hair clings to his forehead. His shorts hang loose from his belt, his shoes worn to their limits. The shiny Cadillac pulls up to him, the passenger window rolls down.

"Ey, how much you want for parking?" The driver asks, jerking his chin at the half-full parking lot.

"Fifteen dollars, sir," the man replies somberly. He holds out a shaky hand.

"Fifteen dollars? Nah man, it ain't no fifteen dollars, that lot up there said ten. I'll give you five." The driver hands him a crumpled five dollar bill and enters the lot. The man lays down the cardboard sign so he can fit the money into his jacket pocket. He is about the pick up the sign again when he hears a whistle and looks to his left.

Up ahead a police officer can be seen on the opposite street, his patrol car is parked on the side of the road a ways off. He is speaking to a few drifters laying on the sidewalk. One of them gets up to leave. The officer is pointing at the other two to do the same.

The man folds up his sign and steps back. With a glance around, he walks into the lot, lost amidst the shiny metallic blur of cars.

The officer leaves after a while. From his hiding place, the man with the sign sees a group of three or four middle-aged men and women walk by. They lean in as one of the men begins to tell some sort of story or joke. The drifters are gone and the group crosses the street at the crosswalk. Their shiny black shoes reflect the light from the windowpanes of the building. The man delivers the punchline as they enter the building, and the man in the parking lot picks up his sign again just as he hears the group's laughter fade away.

Photo from Merrick Library Archive: http://merrick.library.miami.edu/cdm4/item_viewer.php?CISOROOT=%2Fasm0530&CISOPTR=449&DMSCALE=6.50000&DMWIDTH=700&DMHEIGHT=700&DMMODE=viewer&DMFULL=0&DMOLDSCALE=2.50585&DMX=0&DMY=0&DMTEXT=&DMTHUMB=1&REC=18&DMROTATE=0&x=36&y=80

South Beach Encounters

We discussed much about the reality versus spectacle of Miami and South Beach as the epitome of the city's impression. Viewing Michael Carlebach's photos on Miami, I found "Woman with camera standing on South Beach pier" interesting and relevant to this theme. While this started as an analysis, I decided to make it a short narrative.

South Beach Encounters

The gentle, sea breeze calmed my cheeks and shoulders, agitated by the sun’s early-afternoon rays. The wind brought smells of saltwater and sand. They rubbed against my skin, a natural substitute to the sunscreen I had forgotten. I could see why beachgoers praise South Beach and its magic. A small wall stands as the only obstacle between ultimate paradise and the real world. I admit that I didn’t believe others when they related the beach’s bliss. I immortalized the moment with a photo. Was there a better way to preserve such an image than with a camera, an extension of my limited eyes?

As I pulled the trigger, a noise startled me. I turned around to find a man with sun-proof skin and a loose-fitting silk garment with matching turban. This would not be my first choice for summer attire. He turned his head and looked at the background and then me in a rhythmic fashion. His meditation then led him to look at the sky and raise his arms. It appeared as though he was reaching for the sun. I felt the sun accepted him; it did not confuse him as another Icarian hopeful. Though I left it to ritual, I wonder why no one mentioned that another culture resided here beside the tourist. Are there more men who reach for the sun? What is he trying to reach?

Before he left, he stared at me. Our eyes met for a brief second or two. I thought the wall began to crumble. I felt I was slipping from its small fortitude. He made himself and his world known in the glance we exchanged. After he departed, the horizon changed. The beach lost its luster, and gusts of wind, which I called a breeze, could not console me. When my friend arrived to take me home, I dropped the camera into the sand. The photos were not that great, a collection of glamour shots. I wished I had photographed the man. He knew about the beach’s magic.

http://merrick.library.miami.edu/u?/asm0530,971

This photo is copyright of Michael L. Carlebach. All rights reserved. Courtesy of UM's Libraries, Special Collections.