The speech wall from the other day was still standing this morning. It's morphed again, quite considerably. There was a can of pbr, which was painted over again, and a curved staff with music trailing over it. Most of the words are obscured entirely. It's been changed since this photo I took of it this afternoon, though I think all the spray cans are gone now. It still mostly looks like a disaster, in my opinion.

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This afternoon I walked out to Museum North. There is a lookout spot where, on clear days, you can see Denali (120 miles away). Today, however, it was raining. Which is not to say that the view was ruined. The trees stood bright yellow against the rainy clouds. After I had looked into clumps of bight yellow and dark green for so long it was nice to see tree tops, and leaves, pushed by wind and rain. It's as if, after a month of not having glasses, I am getting them for the first time all over again. Everything is crisp and clear, and I'm amazed that people can see like this without assistance. I'm almost jealous of them. Except then I feel like perhaps I can appreciate it more.

As I continued walking I noticed people on the path opposite me keeping close to one side. In a bizarre effort to clear the grass by the road a man stood with a leaf blower, blowing wet clumps of leaves from the grass onto the sidewalk. I didn't know what he intended to do once all the leaves were on the sidewalk, but I hoped for his sake that it didn't involve raking them all up. I thought the spots of yellow and gold were pretty against the grass, but someone from the university clearly didn't agree. He kept having to get off the road, onto the grass, as cars passed him. It felt ritualistic, as if he had done this many times before. I wondered how he felt, continually interrupted, stepping up and down, moving about a foot at a time down the side of the hill, stepping up and down again.

There is a spot, as you walk to the museum, that smells like something has died just inside the tree line. I'm reminded of how close we are to nature here. Reminded of the story of a man getting trampled by a moose that some kids had been antagonizing with snowballs, just outside of one the science buildings. I hear rustling in the trees and know that the most dangerous creatures are the ones afraid. Unfortunately, I am not afraid.

The museum itself is a wonderful place, and doesn't smell like dead things at all. I plan on going there quite a few more times before the end of the semester. There is a lot of history and art to be seen, and though the collection is relatively small it is beautiful. This is, by far, one of my most favorite pieces:

Along with this petrified heart of a tree:

It's nice to be in this place, and though much of the art and writing is inspired by Alaska, I can't decide if that's a bad thing or not. So much of it focuses on the phenomenon that is living in the far north. It could be repetitious except that it's so impacting. For now. Perhaps that feeling will change. I can't help but feel as though it is marvelous still. The dark and light, the flush and drain of life. The stirring of minds as they collect here. The interior, as it's called. Some days I can't help but feel it's the interior of a very different kind of earth.