Wednesday, February 26, 2014

I remember the towering and ancient sequoia and redwood trees in the John Muir park north of San Francisco, across the lovely Golden Gate Bridge. One thing I learned on a visit there was that these trees grow in a kind of circular family of say six or so trees. There is the original tree, and then other trees get their start somehow from the network of the roots of the parent tree, from sprouts off the roots. My memory is not precise on this topic and so some of the details may be a little off. But I bring it up because I grew up here in Louisiana among tall and graceful pines. There were two clusters in our yard, and both were rather circular in arrangement. (So now I wonder if perhaps they had a reproductive process similar to the great trees in California.) The needles were long and lovely, in clusters of three - pliable enough to braid. The squirrels spent much time peeling pine cones for the little nuts along the core. Woodpeckers loved the damaged broken limbs, likely because they housed insects. Sticky sap oozed from the thick bark. After a rain, a scent of sweet poignance filled the air.

songs shared across species

Sometimes I wonder if the melodies of composers, especially those before recorded music, were not in part influenced by natural sounds of the outdoors. The voices of familiar birds and frogs and buzzing bees find their way into human works of melodic art.

Whenever I'd hear the song of the Bewick's Wren, it brought to mind a bit of a Beethoven symphony. When I hear the piercing call of the chickadee (from which it got its name), I think of the outer space note pattern that is repeated throughout the movie Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

Perhaps some human composers are like mockingbirds, weaving beautiful music from soundbites of what they hear from day to day.

Monday, February 24, 2014

Louisianans love their crawfish. Because crawfish, are a protein-rich staple food for Cajuns, herons, and other residents of the area, they are close to the heart. So many ways to fill the stomach! - bisque, gumbo, jambalaya, salad, étouffée, creole, fried, boiled, boulette, and so on. Crawfish festivals and crawfish boils are at the center of Louisiana celebrations. For many years, crawfish have been raised in collaboration with another local crop: rice. Rice and crawfish both both thrive in shallow water. They're grown side by side, and they're digested together in that gumbo and étouffée!

As a kid, I watched crawfish in the ditch in front of our house. There was always an inch or so of water down there, and if you crouched quietly above, out would sidle a crawfish or two. Uncooked, they are pale in color, and well camouflaged against the dirt at the bottom of the ditch. As an adult, I watched them in the wet weather creek in our neighborhood in central Texas. They were a little more visible against the limestone creek bed, and brought me great pleasure to watch. The water there when I'd see them was maybe two inches deep, very clear.

But crawfish don't just hang out in the water. Anyone who's lived in south Louisiana for long has seen the mud holes they construct. (Though the last one I've seen in a yard was in 2008.) In all my childhood, I can't say I ever saw crawfish actually building these - maybe they built at night. As an adult along the Texas creek in daylight, though, sometimes I watched a crawfish using his or her feet to build crawfish architecture right at the water's edge. They patted and stacked small balls of mud on a donut shaped foundation around a crawfish hole. These structures when complete look like a crumpled tower of crawfish footprints, six to 12 inches high. They are very sturdy once they dry out (like barn swallows' mud nests) with a round entrance to the hole and tunnel below. These would be near the ditch in our yard, and in the swampy grass area of the back pasture (along with two-foot-high ant hills in the early 1960s). Sometimes I stuck a stick straight down the hole - it would reach down maybe eight inches, a foot.

So familiar with crawfish, and yet I realize there's a lot I don't know. Are crawfish land animals or water animals? Do they breathe both under water and on land? How do they reproduce? What is the point of the mud structures? (My conjecture is that since ditches, creeks, and flood plains can flood, the tunnels perhaps are dug out in ways to keep the crawfish safe until the waters settle down. But that is just a thought - I don't know the answer. The towering part above ground may be just the dirt they dig out to make the tunnel, and might keep water from flooding through the entrance to the tunnel.)

Sometimes called mudbugs, crayfish, and freshwater or poor man's lobster, I think of crawfish as an abundant freshwater manna from heaven. They're an integral link in the network of life.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

ode to noble friends

noble friends

you remind me of the nurse
who, tired of crappy equipment
measuring who knows what,
unplugged the blood pressure cuff
from the monitor...

the cord dangled loosely against the machine
as he wrapped the cuff around
each patient's arm
he didn't smile
but looked us in the eye
with valiant love and dishonesty
and gave each of us
a good number

you remind me of
the fellow who rode his bicycle down the lane
wearing only a smile
and some skimpy underwear
he nodded his head our way
and gave birth to a chain
of shy giggles
among those of us
on the sidewalk

you remind me of the motel maid
after i found my plants
scorched and shriveled in the car
from an hour of noonday heat
my first day in Texas...
the fern and the waxy schefflera
i cried to throw them out
after driving thousands of miles with them
to our new destination
the maid found me and asked
could she please have those plants?
she would nurse them back to life

you remind me of the dogs in the neighborhood
who don't complain about a thing
but keep an eye out for the residents
be they squirrels or birds
or kids weaving slowly by
on scraped and bruised skateboards.
Woof! say the dogs.
the cats run out
from under a parked car
just to greet you
just to arch and roll
against your feet

you don't think
you just show up
you may dangle among the
frostbit leaves of a banana tree
stressed but intent...
or in a jocular mood
gaze from a crumbled scone
or spilled jam and milk
and stick out your foot
when the attacking armies
rush forward
so they tumble down the hill
and do no harm...
you smell sweet as mint
thriving beneath the drippy spigot
i'm talking to you
hero with the big foot
the big stick
the big heart

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Packing belongings for a move, I came upon a weathered newspaper clipping saved from the Austin American-Statesman, dated Saturday, January 1, 2005. Here's a quote from Rev. Jim Rigby, identified as 'pastor of St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church'.

'Love falls upon the human heart the way sunlight falls upon the soil. It brings out invisible life hidden below the surface. To wait for people to be lovable before we love them is like the sun waiting for pretty flowers to appear before giving its light.'

Friday, February 21, 2014

cloud of birds

There must have been over 400 of them - perched in the highest bare branches of the trees around me - a high-pitched, metallic whistling filling the air. The birds had tail markings and a slight crest like cedar waxwings, but were smaller, and with shorter tails. Like starlings in a murmuration, or like bees in a cloud, they rose from the branches as one and hovered, then settled back in rows and rows. My breath was startled, and the moment was wondrous.

21 February 2014
in Lafayette, Louisiana
There is a good-natured little group I belong to called Geysers. There are no dues, nor fund-raisers - nothing to do with money. Just a group from the heart. I've shared the draft of a little charter a couple of times in a couple of older blogs. There's an addendum - a list of thoughts to loosely consider - that is added to now and again. Here are the ones I remember at the moment:

No martyrs.
Everything in moderation and nothing in moderation.
Just because it looks like a hat doesn't mean it's a hat.
Don't forget to pass the relay stick.
Being late is no crime.
In space there is no up nor down.
Leave no one behind.
Leave one person behind.
Muddle through.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

earth's symphonies

The varied songs of birds brought cheer as I walked this morning. Spring is on its way.

Every species of bird and insect has its own repertoire of sounds. Their vocalizations can also vary from one territory to the next, and one individual to another.

Bernie Krause, who has recorded the wild sounds of more than 15,000 species, says: 'Every place on the planet populated by plants and wild animals is a concert hall, with a unique orchestra performing an unmatched symphony. Each resident species possesses its own preferred sonic bandwidth - to blend or contrast - akin to how stringed, woodwind, brass and percussion instruments stake out acoustic territory in an orchestral masterpiece.'

He lists purposes of creature sounds: 'mating, protecting territory, capturing food, group defense, play, or social contact...

'The whisper of every leaf and creature's song implores us to love and care for the delicate tapestry of the biophony that was the first music our species ever heard.'


from the April 2013 issue of 'natural awakenings'
quoting from Bernie Krause's book, The Great Animal Orchestra

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

the behavior of light

Sitting in a cafe, I was drinking chilled tea, a crumpled white card on the counter before me. Over the years, as a photography, art, and physics fan, I've learned to follow the light. Here before me was something unexpected with how the light was shining from the card. In addition to its flat surface reflecting light from the fixtures above, light was gathered in the fold of the card, as though light were liquid and it had pooled in the crease.

I've seen light cupped in flowers (as though the flowers were a magnet or trap for light) and emanating from caterpillars (like auras), as though the caterpillar were the source. Sparks of light from tree limbs. Not sure how this works, but I've assumed it has something to do with life.

A lovely puddle of brightness. Where I expected there to be shadow in the folds of a piece of paper, there was light.

Monday, February 17, 2014

Every now and again, I say a little prayer of thanksgiving that Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. wrote. His works were very popular when I was a young adult in the 1970s, and they were also recognized as literature. Although I read several of Vonnegut's science fiction novels, two were my favorites, worth rereading: 'Slaughterhouse 5' (which revolves around the bombing of Dresden, Germany which Vonnegut experienced as a prisoner of war) and 'The Sirens of Titan'. The books casually introduce the reader to issues of time travel and the domination of one's mind by others through thought control. Both of these concepts were foreign to me, and I read of them as interesting, but, of course, fictional.

Except that Vonnegut wrote with such detail and confidence. Perhaps he was still suffering from what he'd witnessed during World War II and experienced these kinds of imaginations as real. He wrote convincingly in sometimes tragic, sometimes humorous ways. In 'The Sirens of Titan', many humans have been shipped to Mars to be trained as military. Soldiers' thoughts about straying or goofing off are promptly interrupted and punished with a burst of nerve-stimulated pain.

He writes of a soldier whose mind is so regularly erased, he's taken to hiding a little list of facts that he can refer to once he emerges from his treatments. Befuddled after one such event, he is ordered to take part in the execution of another soldier. The victim before he dies reminds his confused executioner of the list. After the death, the soldier finds the list, only to discover the man who was just executed was his best friend.

As a girl with an ordinary upbringing, grievous events like bombings and cruel executions were hard to fathom. There were history books out, but Vonnegut's quirky understanding of how the universe works, and his ability to create memorable characters who stumble through the realities and surrealities of life, prepared me for the possibility of the improbable and the extraordinary.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Some ten years ago, there were a couple of great TV specials I enjoyed, but I never got to see the endings. (We were going out to have dinner with friends, or we had to pick up someone at the airport - and left before the programs were over.) I don't watch a whole lot of TV, but I really wanted to see the whole of these two broadcasts.

Both documentaries were on PBS (Public Broadcasting Service), and both were biographical. One was about Hergé, a Belgian cartoonist, the creator of the very popular, occasionally controversial, Tintin stories. The program was not just about Hergé's life and work (the evolution of the Tintin adventures was fascinating), but it was also about the times. In 1940, Europe was rolling into World War II, and though newspapers continued to carry Tintin, once Germany occupied Belgium, Hergé lost his creative liberty and was directed to reflect the contemporary Nazi spin in creating his stories until the war was past.

The other program was on 'Pistol Pete' Maravich, the 1960s Louisiana State University basketball player. The program contained film from his young adulthood, not only displaying his stellar game performances, but showing him at play, going to a carnival, for example, and fascinating the crowds by winning all the prizes making impossible shots with his back to the goal. He died at a relatively young age, 40, but not before making a big mark in basketball history.

As long as I have TV on the brain, one other thing has been popping up, I believe from the show 'The Lone Ranger'. This masked rider was usually accompanied by his friend, a Native American Indian named Tonto. There were occasional references to the Great Manitou. I looked up Manitou this week, and found a description in Wikipedia that I'll paraphrase here: The Algonquin word Manitou refers to the interconnection and balance within nature and life, similar to the East Asian concept of qi. This spirit is seen as a person as well as a concept. Everything has its own manitou— every plant, every stone and, since their invention, even machines - and they are all interwoven. Unlike some understandings of God, Manitou is more akin to one part of the body interacting with another, both the spirit of every individual thing, and the collective Great Spirit (known as Gitche Manitou).

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Intro to Journalism

When I was seventeen, I took an Intro to Journalism class at the local university (called University of Southwestern Louisiana at that time). Two traditions of good reporting taught by the professor remain imbedded in my mind: 1) The first sentence of a news story should contain what, when, and where. 2) News stories stick to facts; conjecture and opinions are permitted only in editorials, columns, and some feature stories where it's made clear these reflect the viewpoint of the reporter or columnist.

Friday, February 14, 2014

Coconut



Here are an image, a quote, and a song - all about the coconut:



Image by Franz Eugen Köhler, available via Wikimedia Commons: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cocos_nucifera_-_K%C3%B6hler%E2%80%93s_Medizinal-Pflanzen-187.jpg

In Sanskrit, the coconut tree is known as kalpa vriksha, "the tree which provides all the necessities of life". (Wikipedia)

Harry Belafonte's song, Coconut Woman, can be heard at youtube.com: ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AF5LGyTEpIk )

Thursday, February 13, 2014

happy st. valentine

she pokes a hole
into the dark earth
and plants the seed;
she's growing a poem.
will there be roots
will there be leaves
will there be words
dangling in the breeze
gold and brilliant
as aspen leaves?
she murmurs sweet nothings
to no one in sight;
the seed glows in the deep
of another's warm heart

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

the great divide

I never wanted to be rich or famous. Maybe a little recognition for poetry I wrote, or for photos. Play guitar in my back yard. Enough money to pay the rent, help out my kids, and comfortably travel now and again. Running with the in crowd was off my radar - never crossed my mind. Running with the quirky folks - the arty and the somewhat wild-minded - the park rangers and songsters and state employees - was more in my comfort range.

I never wanted to be poor or forgotten. Middle class security was a good match for me. The people I most admired had worked for the railroad or played weekly at local dance halls or nurtured high school bands or taught people about birds and nature on weekend trips. They shared vegetables from their flourishing backyard gardens, and paid your kids in the summer to feed the pets while the owners were on vacation.

The United States for a long time seemed defined by its strong middle class. There's more of a great divide now - the very wealthy and the poor to lower middle class. Now, the rich can be very generous, supporting local museums, schools, and services. The unexpected consequence of having very very wealthy people about is how they can gain control of a community. They can buy out schools, property, and local businesses. Obtaining jobs and places to live becomes less a matter of luck and effort and more a matter of who you know and the master plans of the big players, especially those with controlling natures. And if like me you're kind of quirky and blind to social expectations and who's who, and you stumble around, unsure of how to flow with the status quo, or unwilling to flow with a troubling status quo, life can pinch you hard.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

how many times did I gaze in fascination at 'The Sleeping Gypsy'? The framed poster of Henri Rousseau's studies of a lion and a robed gypsy hung over the white painted mantel of some dear friends. The poster's colors were bold but not abrasive. The gypsy and the lion were well delineated, and their simplicity permitted both figures to stand out in the glowing blues of twilight. Rousseau created a suspended moment, the painting faintly breathing from the wall. He created two powerful creatures, dispassionately connected by their unlikely proximity at night.

Monday, February 10, 2014

so comes the inevitable question - are we right or are we left?

We're left-foot right-foot left-foot right-foot left-foot right-foot... would we get anywhere otherwise?

the Beatles

I missed the broadcast on the Beatles tonight, but there was noise on Facebook about their February 9, 1964 appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. I do remember that night. I'd been in a children's Mardi Gras pageant earlier - a princess in long, pale green tulle and a sparkling tiara. There was a party that followed. The other kids went to a different school than I did and I didn't really know them, so I stopped for a moment to look at what all the screaming was coming from a little black and white TV and there were The Beatles, lean young men in dark suits, walking to their instruments on stage.

The Beatles have been covered and analyzed, head to toe, over and over across the subsequent decades. But I'm no expert on the Beatles, and as a kid, didn't get it until we saw the movie 'Help!' and spent a whole afternoon watching it run, over and over, at the picture show, the charismatic Beatles skiing in the snow.

I love the music that erupted from them, and that there have been discoveries for me - songs I missed until I was in my forties or later. (I'd never had their albums - I was only familiar with their 'top ten' songs, the ones with lots of air time on the radio.) 'Blackbird' and 'On the Wings of a Nightingale' both have tugged at me these past few years. (Was the latter a later Paul McCartney song?)

But the screaming. The kids, especially the teenaged girls, screamed as The Beatles approached the stage, and screamed through their entire performance, sometimes weeping and tearing their hair. For the next few years, they screamed at Paul Revere and the Raiders and The Turtles and The Monkees. What was that all about?

Saturday, February 8, 2014

Hemingway's sea

'He always thought of the sea as 'la mar' which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen, those who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats, bought when the shark livers had brought much money, spoke of her as 'el mar' which is masculine.They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.'

Ernest Hemingway
The Old Man and the Sea