Vanishing Leaves is a digital geocaching game made to engage with Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass and the neighborhood in which he lived and worked, Brooklyn Heights, in a fun and interactive way. The premise is that Whitman’s work is being censored and suppressed by mysterious gate-keepers of knowledge known as S.N.A.K.E. You play an agent tasked with saving Leaves of Grass from extinction. The platform on which the game is presented, ARIS, is only available for iOS. Since I don’t have an iPhone I wasn’t able to fully experience the digital aspect of this project (which looked fun enough to make me consider getting an iPhone.) I was, however, able to go to some of the locations used in the game, interact with the physical spaces as intended by the project creator, and write reflections on my experience.
My first stop was at the first location prompted in Vanishing Leaves: Whitman Park. I walked across a wide, grassy mound and was greeted by a circular open space with selections of Whitman’s writing engraved in the ground. I say greeted because of the immediate sense of welcome I felt upon seeing this open-space monument. I took some photos and then sat nearby, reflecting on this space and on Whitman’s words and sentiments.
Reflection in Whitman Park
I was angry and alone until I crossed the round, empty field and approached the circular square. Whitman was there. He welcomed me as I passed through an unseen opening. I asked forgiveness for my anger, and he smiled and let me in. The empty space slowly peopled, and my desire for solitude stabbed me, then prodded me, then poked me, until it tickled, and then I was happy.
Not focusing on or even knowing him, the others enjoyed their lives, being the filters through which all can pass and be known and be felt. Angus the dog was told to get out. I want to allow him in. I want to allow the more difficult ones in, too.
Gratitude
Thank you Walt. Thank you Professor Devlin. Thank you St. Francis. Thank you Mom and Dad. Thank you God who I don’t know but love and hate just the same.
Swell of emotion, not wanting to leave.
How do I live here and let go of the rest? How do I live with the rest and keep here with me?
It was profoundly moving and I felt a desire to stay longer, but it was cold and getting dark, so I decided to continue the following day.
The next day I walked to other locations in the Brooklyn Heights area which were influential to Walt Whitman’s life and writing. First was Plymouth Church, where preachers like Henry Ward Beecher advocated for social reform, specifically the abolition of slavery during the Civil War era. I walked in the small courtyard in which Beecher’s statue stands, and noted a row of strollers. I inferred that some type of day care for young children takes place there, as well as Mass services and other community functions. I was moved by the statue of the scared women beside him, noting that the monument was not just for him but for what he stood for, which was fighting for and defending and humanizing the people who needed it most. Just as I was reflecting on this, I saw a woman and child of different complexions walking together in the courtyard. It struck me how their diversity and unity is what individuals like Beecher and Whitman would have hoped to help bring about through their efforts.
Place: Plymouth Church. 57 Orange St, Brooklyn, NY
57 Orange
On a quiet Orange street, the stately Plymouth Church stands with somber columns.
The stained glass catches the sun.
Within a small, grassy court, behind an orderly row of strollers, a monumented Henry Ward Beecher preaches and beseeches you to see the humanity in the frightened faces at his feet.
Today, on this street, mothers and children of all places walk proudly with un-cowered faces.
I made my way up Orange Street toward the water. Arriving at the lookout point, I took a panorama video of the Manhattan skyline.
Apparently, I can’t simply upload a video taken with my own phone onto my own blog!
But here’s a picture of Cranberry Street with the skyline at my back. It’s just as good!
After feeling feelings, I walked down to Old Fulton Street on my way to Brooklyn Bridge Park. Seeing the Brooklyn Bridge so close, like a postcard in my face, made me want to hang around this area more often.
I took a left toward the pier.
Teeming throngs of thirsty tourists thoughtlessly tossed their tickets toward the unthanked taker.
I wondered if Walt was ever cynical.
There’s a whole park here for you to enjoy. No pets or furniture on the lawns though, which is fine. Imagine goldfish and La-Z-Boys everywhere?
I walked with the water beside me. I thought of what the Manhattan skyline must have looked like when Walt was here. Radically different. But something about the ever-growing enterprise of then and now made me look elsewhere for promise.
What are you looking at?
Out of the Sun and away from the people, a tall, dark-skinned man stands with his back to the Manhattan skyline. Early that morning he went forth with wry spirit and symbolic gesture in mind. He took his hat and he took his coat. He took his gloves and he took his muff. He took his time, and he took his steps until they were enough. After feet, or after miles, he found his spot, stood tall, and smiled. Deliberate and intentioned, he denied this view his sight. “What are you looking at?” I ask him to myself. His gaze unfixed, he looked satisfied at what he saw. With purpose, he gives the city his shoulder.
Future gazers! Gladly ought you look upon the monuments of bounty and progress. But do not let your eyes and hearts rest there. Look for meaning, look for signs. Look for substance beneath or beyond or behind or beside. The beauty lies not only over there: over the fence, over the shore, over the water, over time. It lies in the once rusted renewed fence, in the low-tide now replenishing shore, in the dark yet glistening water, in the current troubled times. Ask yourself, and others who are like yourself, What are you looking at? What do you see?
I slowly made my way back to the ripe fruit streets off the Columbia Heights vine, and down to the Brooklyn promenade.
I walked, looking, listening, smelling, seeing to the end.
Sights and Sounds on Brooklyn Promenade
Woman ran, hustling with determination.
Guitar Dan listens for his inspiration.
Writer’s hand moved by her imagination.
Large man shuffles through perspiration.
Noisy cars and quiet ships.
Soft waves and hard pavement.
Hazy towers and glistening spires.
Motorcycle like machine gun fire.
Children laugh and couples fight.
Photographer is losing light.
I, like the inspired American poet, am from within and eye from without.
John @ SFC 