{"id":319,"date":"2016-06-30T10:00:47","date_gmt":"2016-06-30T10:00:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/?page_id=319"},"modified":"2020-04-18T16:34:06","modified_gmt":"2020-04-18T16:34:06","slug":"frames","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/stories\/frames\/","title":{"rendered":"frames"},"content":{"rendered":"

An image accompanied with a poem or a bit of prose. Please click on the images below to view the full text.<\/p>\n\n\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\"Tidy<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\tFixed feet, the marching band plays.\n\nSweet silent tunes. Sean, Dylan, Papa. I hear your music. \n\nTidy city. Perfect pavement.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div>

\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\"Connecting<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\tAs we walk through the streets of the central island the first thing I notice is the light. A warm coating covers the old stone buildings, and the soft summer sun transports me to a place that feels like home. A sense of surprise and wonder overcomes me, I am in Stockholm and la Provence at the same time. \n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div>

\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\"Suomen,<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\tEmpty street. A single torn cement bag below a raised tram track, \nand a borrowed wicker chair, witted morning break. The work site is resting.\nAt Senate Square time stops with a song of recorded bells,\nand starts again as a trumpet sounds. An old man plays one melody, then he departs.\n\nSuomen, small, tidy city of grey stoned paths,\nwhere caf\u00e9 signs tell roller-skaters not to pass.\nAt corners, cables trickle from open drain pipes, summer stalactites,\nto fend off, perhaps, the long winter\u2019s ice.\n\nYesterday, navigating through scattered islets and gusts of cool air,\nToday after the rain, water paints the Baltic through the tiles.\nMerikasarminkatu, empty street. Allegro, a train, 11:30PM, the lighted sky.\nHelskinki, this place we pass by.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div>

\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\"Renewal,<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\tEl Che greets us on a street corner as we wander through Saint Petersburg, in search of old factories and new creative hubs. \n\nThe familiar sight of urban spaces in constant renewal.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div>

\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\"Station,<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\t20 minute stop.\nWalk to the end of the platform. The platform is long. The sun is warm. The buildings are high. \nThe tundra in squares on the walls. Pastels of the summer thaw. \nSiberian station.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div>

\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\"Welcome<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\tRound smiles pave our paths in the city, \nreflections of its country\u2019s people. \nOver the mountains a large plateau opens.\nWarm hearted yet troubled souls, \nthe border police smiles \u201cWelcome to Mongolia\u201d\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div>

\n\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\"Kowloon,<\/a>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\tTres hombres fuman sentados sobre cajones de pl\u00e1stico. Uno se sac\u00f3 una de las botas de goma y se masajea el pie. Miran un rato al piso, pegan otra seca al faso, y vuelven sus ojos sobre las pantallas de sus m\u00e1quinas. Un mensaje de texto, un juego, fotos. M\u00e1s atr\u00e1s, bajo un toldo verde de pl\u00e1stico, otros cuatro juegan a las cartas. Visten guardapolvos blancos y hablan grit\u00e1ndose por encima de sus risas. \n\nEsp\u00edritus absortos en su escape.\n\nSe abre una puerta, y otro hombre, camisa ochentona con rayas oblicuas rojas, marrones y grises, se aparece empujando un carro con cajas de cart\u00f3n. \n\nAlrededor suyo, las paredes son de un ladrillo color marr\u00f3n ocre y los aires acondicionados se amontonan unos sobre otros goteando calor y humedad. El suelo est\u00e1 lleno de charquitos de agua, grasa, y puchos. Colgado de un ca\u00f1o, un paraguas rojo y blanco que alguien dejo a secar. \n\nFruta podrida, aceite quemado, carne y sopa. Uno de los tachos de basura est\u00e1 abierto. Respiro humo, pero no s\u00e9 de d\u00f3nde, o de qui\u00e9n viene. \n\nMe giro y sigo caminando por el garito de poca luz. Negocios de ropa y suvenires baratos. Alguien intenta venderme un buda chiquito de madera. Al final del pasillo, la calle. Y sobre la vereda del frente, unas ca\u00f1as de bamb\u00fa. Obra en construcci\u00f3n. Bocinas y sirenas, y mis ojos tratan de seguir los pasos apresurados. \n\nLa ciudad late. Detr\u00e1s, el callej\u00f3n descansa.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div><\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\"Tidy<\/a><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
Fixed feet, the marching band plays.\n\nSweet silent tunes. Sean, Dylan, Papa. I hear your music. \n\nTidy city. Perfect pavement.<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\"Connecting<\/a><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
As we walk through the streets of the central island the first thing I notice is the light. A warm coating covers the old stone buildings, and the soft summer sun transports me to a place that feels like home. A sense of surprise and wonder overcomes me, I am in Stockholm and la Provence at the same time. <\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\"Suomen,<\/a><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
Empty street. A single torn cement bag below a raised tram track, \nand a borrowed wicker chair, witted morning break. The work site is resting.\nAt Senate Square time stops with a song of recorded bells,\nand starts again as a trumpet sounds. An old man plays one melody, then he departs.\n\nSuomen, small, tidy city of grey stoned paths,\nwhere caf\u00e9 signs tell roller-skaters not to pass.\nAt corners, cables trickle from open drain pipes, summer stalactites,\nto fend off, perhaps, the long winter\u2019s ice.\n\nYesterday, navigating through scattered islets and gusts of cool air,\nToday after the rain, water paints the Baltic through the tiles.\nMerikasarminkatu, empty street. Allegro, a train, 11:30PM, the lighted sky.\nHelskinki, this place we pass by.<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\"Renewal,<\/a><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
El Che greets us on a street corner as we wander through Saint Petersburg, in search of old factories and new creative hubs. \n\nThe familiar sight of urban spaces in constant renewal.<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\"Station,<\/a><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
20 minute stop.\nWalk to the end of the platform. The platform is long. The sun is warm. The buildings are high. \nThe tundra in squares on the walls. Pastels of the summer thaw. \nSiberian station.<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\"Welcome<\/a><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
Round smiles pave our paths in the city, \nreflections of its country\u2019s people. \nOver the mountains a large plateau opens.\nWarm hearted yet troubled souls, \nthe border police smiles \u201cWelcome to Mongolia\u201d<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\"Kowloon,<\/a><\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
Tres hombres fuman sentados sobre cajones de pl\u00e1stico. Uno se sac\u00f3 una de las botas de goma y se masajea el pie. Miran un rato al piso, pegan otra seca al faso, y vuelven sus ojos sobre las pantallas de sus m\u00e1quinas. Un mensaje de texto, un juego, fotos. M\u00e1s atr\u00e1s, bajo un toldo verde de pl\u00e1stico, otros cuatro juegan a las cartas. Visten guardapolvos blancos y hablan grit\u00e1ndose por encima de sus risas. \n\nEsp\u00edritus absortos en su escape.\n\nSe abre una puerta, y otro hombre, camisa ochentona con rayas oblicuas rojas, marrones y grises, se aparece empujando un carro con cajas de cart\u00f3n. \n\nAlrededor suyo, las paredes son de un ladrillo color marr\u00f3n ocre y los aires acondicionados se amontonan unos sobre otros goteando calor y humedad. El suelo est\u00e1 lleno de charquitos de agua, grasa, y puchos. Colgado de un ca\u00f1o, un paraguas rojo y blanco que alguien dejo a secar. \n\nFruta podrida, aceite quemado, carne y sopa. Uno de los tachos de basura est\u00e1 abierto. Respiro humo, pero no s\u00e9 de d\u00f3nde, o de qui\u00e9n viene. \n\nMe giro y sigo caminando por el garito de poca luz. Negocios de ropa y suvenires baratos. Alguien intenta venderme un buda chiquito de madera. Al final del pasillo, la calle. Y sobre la vereda del frente, unas ca\u00f1as de bamb\u00fa. Obra en construcci\u00f3n. Bocinas y sirenas, y mis ojos tratan de seguir los pasos apresurados. \n\nLa ciudad late. Detr\u00e1s, el callej\u00f3n descansa.<\/figcaption>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/figure>\n\t\t\t<\/div>\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An image accompanied with a poem or a bit of prose. Please click on the images below to view the full text.<\/p>\n Read More<\/span> frames<\/span><\/a>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":606,"menu_order":3,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"Layout":"","footnotes":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/319"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=319"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/319\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":648,"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/319\/revisions\/648"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/606"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.jesidewalks.net\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=319"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}