little oomph and i got chased off the local grade-school astroturf soccer
field where we've been practicing bike riding by public health
authorities who were staking the place out. little oomph had just clipped
a post with a handlebar and was crying between the ground and my
embrace as public health authority called to me from the far side of a
car to inform me the place was closed. i comforted my child (little oomph was ok; their hand was a little sore from whacking the post) while the
authority approached (to about 10 ft) and repeated it. "i wondered" i
said, "we were going to read that sign over there when we got within
reading distance." "the signs are posted" said the authority gesturing
to no signs at all. "maybe you ought to put them on that gate we came
through where there were no such signs" i didn't grumble back. no need
to argue or express pique; it's a thankless job, i reasoned with myself
as we left. we tried a local church nursery school. had some success,
bailed a couple times, decided it was too small. so we went to a local
public high school parking lot across the street from a park. there were
lots of people going and coming from, traversing and gathering in the
park all day. we rode unmolested in the parking lot for several hours.
little oomph can bring the bike to a stop and stand there holding it with
fair consistency. toward the end the child managed to get going from a
standstill unassisted several times, though with some frustration.
finally little oomph fell and we packed it in.
talked to mom. she wanted to read an email to me. these people mostly
send me jokes, she said and read a headline "guiliani interviews dr.
soandso about 100% success rate curing coronavirus -- is there really a
dr. soandso?" i don't know. it sounds like a name -- waitaminute: did
you say guiliani? delete that and block the sender. she read on about a
100% success rate curing coronavirus with azithromycin, and zinc. i
interrupted her: did you say guiliani? she said "what is the citizen
free press?" it sounds to me like one of those right-wingnut propaganda
sites that wingnuts accept as news. i don't think that's a joke. i mean,
there's a fine line between what we recognize as trenchant parody and
what a certain portion of the population take as serious independent
news. so, yeah, it is a joke. you should regard it as a joke. but it is
malicious disinformation. as i understand azithromycin and hydroxy
chloroquine are dangerous; she seemed to know and agree to this. as a
general rule, you should make every effort to prevent anything from rudy
guiliani from getting into your awareness: that stuff is bad for your
mind. "oh!" she twigged, "rudy guiliani?" yes: guiliani. rudy guiliani.
all he wants is to throw sand in your eyes. "i didn't realize." delete
that, and tell those idiots to skip you with the bullshit disinformation
in future. she agreed to delete it, but probably won't push back on her
brainwashed friend, more's the pity. then -- as i often do these days
-- i related a recent episode of TWiV
on which a virologist who has recovered from covid-19 said he'd been
treated with hydroxychloroquine, and he recovered -- after experiencing
some explosive diarrhea -- but was hesitant to link them causally,
"because he's a scientist." mom chuckled.
fucking guiliani, man.
little oomph and i played "coronavirus testing and contact tracing" which
mama found a bit morbid (the child is 5), but i'm game to run with the
imaginative play and try to infuse the sensible nonpanic of not unduly
censoring the scary thing. the child also reported spending a lot of
time thinking about coronavirus like everybody else, and worrying that
while we're all paying attention to that disease we'll fail to be
attentive to the dangers of other diseases. both mother and i,
separately, explained that those measures we're taking to stay safe from
coronavirus are also keeping us safe from most other transmissible
diseases. but it is true that if everybody in the hospital is focused on
that one emergency maybe some of the other care we count on hospitals
to perform will not be available or not be as good. so we were going to
do our best to stay safe and healthy and not go to the hospital.
stay safe, y'all.
Showing posts with label sunlight on water. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sunlight on water. Show all posts
20200329
20200322
wobbly loops
that mask
i was prompted to search for in the basement and found (over in the
truthiness thread, yesterday) will be en route to an acquaintance-chained emergency room
doctor in kissimmee, florida,
via usps tomorrow, if all goes well at the post office. serendipitously,
i also happened to have a large-enough bubble-mailer and $4 in odd old
stamps available.
check-in-wise, just to update a tale left mid-stride last episode, whereas yesterday little oomph went from freaking out and losing balance when they noticed i wasn't holding them anymore to excitingly riding alone for up to thirty seconds, today little oomph worked up to being able to ride indefinitely, in big wobbly loops, and even to steer a bit. the starting and stopping still leaves a bit to be desired; there were some falls, some bouts of tears, a multiparty collision with some soccer-playing boys (who, after, were very, adorably, concerned that little oomph was ok), their ball, little oomph and myself, running alongside. there were some moments of terror and some crying, but little oomph was game. the child's mother was there for much of the time, took some videos, did some running, voiced some praise before heading to the grocery store. eventually i commented that at this rate i'd have to switch over to a zone-defense. what's that? i'll have to tell you next time we rest, i panted. so i got to be jock dad explaining a sports metaphor -- not my usual lane! not sure i did a great job, little oomph not knowing very much about the gameplay of the several sports i referred to, or what offense and defense are, as far as i can tell. i guess little oomph humored me, pretending (?) to follow my breathless dadsplaining. and, after some time, i did get to stand mostly still, toward the center of the big wobbly loops, only occasionally sprinting to intervene when it looked like little oomph might ride straight into a fence or wall or another child, and mostly not having to. even grew calm enough to hoist the phone and shoot some video, myself.
i'm quite proud of little oomph & very happy with the rapid accomplishment. and exhausted and quite debilitated with allergies from running so long and breathing so hard in the chill breeze on this perfect, pollen-filled spring day. also: i didn't have a heart attack and am probably far enough past flu (and subsequent cold and acute allergies) to be increasingly confident it has probably not been sars-2 coronavirus.
take care of yourselves; care for others; keep eviscerating the bullshit while bringing the humor, hope, humanity and sense.
check-in-wise, just to update a tale left mid-stride last episode, whereas yesterday little oomph went from freaking out and losing balance when they noticed i wasn't holding them anymore to excitingly riding alone for up to thirty seconds, today little oomph worked up to being able to ride indefinitely, in big wobbly loops, and even to steer a bit. the starting and stopping still leaves a bit to be desired; there were some falls, some bouts of tears, a multiparty collision with some soccer-playing boys (who, after, were very, adorably, concerned that little oomph was ok), their ball, little oomph and myself, running alongside. there were some moments of terror and some crying, but little oomph was game. the child's mother was there for much of the time, took some videos, did some running, voiced some praise before heading to the grocery store. eventually i commented that at this rate i'd have to switch over to a zone-defense. what's that? i'll have to tell you next time we rest, i panted. so i got to be jock dad explaining a sports metaphor -- not my usual lane! not sure i did a great job, little oomph not knowing very much about the gameplay of the several sports i referred to, or what offense and defense are, as far as i can tell. i guess little oomph humored me, pretending (?) to follow my breathless dadsplaining. and, after some time, i did get to stand mostly still, toward the center of the big wobbly loops, only occasionally sprinting to intervene when it looked like little oomph might ride straight into a fence or wall or another child, and mostly not having to. even grew calm enough to hoist the phone and shoot some video, myself.
i'm quite proud of little oomph & very happy with the rapid accomplishment. and exhausted and quite debilitated with allergies from running so long and breathing so hard in the chill breeze on this perfect, pollen-filled spring day. also: i didn't have a heart attack and am probably far enough past flu (and subsequent cold and acute allergies) to be increasingly confident it has probably not been sars-2 coronavirus.
take care of yourselves; care for others; keep eviscerating the bullshit while bringing the humor, hope, humanity and sense.
20200321
family matters
finally convinced, on the one hand mom & pop, and on the other hand,
little oomph & mother, to stop visiting each other. kinda
heartbreaking, but hopefully not as heartbreaking as otherwise it could
be. i think what moved mom -- apart from her new habit of hatewatching
the president's autos-da-nascent-fascism and obsessively tracking a
handful of (mostly local) case-tracking websites -- was when i told her
"if you're having baby and mama visit i'm coming over too, so that
little oomph doesn't have to grow up feeling solely responsible for your
death." i know: a bit harsh; it followed a lot of other attempts at
persuasion and then a decision to stop arguing. not certain what little oomph's mother has been thinking, beyond that she's better at hygiene
than everybody else (she's not wrong to think so!), but she acquiesced without resistance.
it is tough: pop has dementia at just about the point where he's sometimes almost too much for mom to handle (though he remains remarkably serene about it) and mom loves nothing more than time with her grandchildren, while little oomph loves the visits and the doting love of both. have really been valuing their time together while pop is still more lucid (for very-confused-and-wanting-to-go-home-although-already-there values of lucid) than not: he knows his grandchild, and usually his son. also mom's not as naturally talented at social distancing as i am, and chafes at isolation. thought little oomph would weep to learn visits with grandparents are on indefinite hiatus, but little oomph took it in stride, very interested just now in infectious disease and being safe. (pop was a great depression baby, and has been marked by admirable if sometimes frustrating frugality throughout his life in common with many of his generation; not sure what this is likely to foster in little oomph). we all hopefully agreed to revisit the arrangement in two weeks.
i'm still visiting with little oomph & mother regularly, but will isolate from them should the occasion arise that my parents require in-person support i'm able to provide. ... though, come to think of it, that would probably defeat some of the purpose.
today little oomph managed to ride unsupported on their bicycle for the first time ever (and several other spans of several seconds up to about a max of thirty) before being grabbed in the process of ... no longer successfully balancing. i was the only one there. it was exhausting to run alongside & exhilarating.
just drove home: the roads were almost empty. also the first time on the roads in maybe two weeks that i haven't felt (more) endangered (than usual) by several other drivers, i guess trying to lock in that hospital bed (for themselves and me) while supplies last.
it is tough: pop has dementia at just about the point where he's sometimes almost too much for mom to handle (though he remains remarkably serene about it) and mom loves nothing more than time with her grandchildren, while little oomph loves the visits and the doting love of both. have really been valuing their time together while pop is still more lucid (for very-confused-and-wanting-to-go-home-although-already-there values of lucid) than not: he knows his grandchild, and usually his son. also mom's not as naturally talented at social distancing as i am, and chafes at isolation. thought little oomph would weep to learn visits with grandparents are on indefinite hiatus, but little oomph took it in stride, very interested just now in infectious disease and being safe. (pop was a great depression baby, and has been marked by admirable if sometimes frustrating frugality throughout his life in common with many of his generation; not sure what this is likely to foster in little oomph). we all hopefully agreed to revisit the arrangement in two weeks.
i'm still visiting with little oomph & mother regularly, but will isolate from them should the occasion arise that my parents require in-person support i'm able to provide. ... though, come to think of it, that would probably defeat some of the purpose.
today little oomph managed to ride unsupported on their bicycle for the first time ever (and several other spans of several seconds up to about a max of thirty) before being grabbed in the process of ... no longer successfully balancing. i was the only one there. it was exhausting to run alongside & exhilarating.
just drove home: the roads were almost empty. also the first time on the roads in maybe two weeks that i haven't felt (more) endangered (than usual) by several other drivers, i guess trying to lock in that hospital bed (for themselves and me) while supplies last.
20150108
numinous earworm bibliomancy!
a colleague and i recently lapsed into another lengthy episode of the earworm game in the office at the instigation of other coworkers' folly.
what is the earworm game, you ask?
why, it is the way these things go.
surely you are familiar with earworms. that word may have evolved a more technical definition over time, but i understand it to mean, broadly, not merely a song that gets stuck in one's head, but a song having an inherent (or developed*: i don't think there is anything inherent at all in "hungry like the wolf" but heavy airplay during years my neurons--and those of others in my generation and media environment--were still actively plastic has made it something that waits there, to be invoked and recalled and recalled and recalled and recalled) propensity to adversely infest awarenesses: "i've got a song stuck in my head" is a not uncommon water-cooler complaint. usually, it is not a song in whole, but some fragment of a song. in my experience it is often three of the four lines of a verse, or just the first line of each of several verses with nothing in between but attention sucking vacuum.
there are solutions from the folklore: one old saw prescribes simply singing the song aloud.
i have had some success with this method, but it can be challenging -- say, when the song stuck in one's head is instrumental; here whistling or humming might be of use (i heard a guy whistle a pretty-amazing brandenburg concerto once...) -- insofar as many around the water cooler are too inhibited to sing. it sounds, to me, that most would prefer others to not sing, and i often agree in particular instances while cherishing the notion of everyone feeling free to sing.
when someone does sing, whistle or hum, it may relieve the singer's plaint, but it may also lead to transmission of the earworm. if language is a virus, song is among its best replication strategies, and earworms, its most virulent strains. this, in turn, may lead to the earworm game: trading volleys of fragments of catchy jingles with other persons in an effort to secure the most mindshare for one's proffer.
it was learning, through the dynamic of this competitive effort, to immediately start thinking of another known earworm upon recognizing one, that led me to the notion of inoculation. just about every american since the invention of mtv, if not the phonograph or radio, has the resources already at hand to inoculate him or herself! the inoculation may be performed by playing the earworm game alone and as quickly as one can for some time, but essentially inheres in developing the capacity to propose catchy passages of songs in rapid sequence: a denial of service defense to deploy (out loud or internally) against any earworm assault.
playing earworm with the guy at the next workstation in the sweatshop is not generally performed singing, or with only very quiet singing: usually some sense of the intonation of words is retained together with the meter (one can hardly say "come on shake your body baby do that conga, no, you can't control yourself any longa" or "ain't nothing gonna break-a my stride" without singing it). the game often devolves into a mere session of listing hit or memorable songs from yore, which, nevertheless, remains sufficiently distracting to defend against any particular infestation; this may also be a best outcome insofar as none of the participants are left subject to any earworm. sometimes it also flares across the sweatshop floor into a brief epidemic which, with too many cooks, usually will burn out in the acoustic equivalent of a flash (though some fragments from that flash may remain "stuck in the head" of one unfortunate auditor or another, perhaps in a dormant state).
so we had a nice session, during which the question of "yacht rock" arose, but my description failed to do it justice or even properly identify the personalities involved. so i followed up after hours with the proper selectors. but my clarification was taken as a challenge, and earworm developed and was played, slowly, via email over several days, during which all sorts of momentous events ensued beyond the game:
-------- Original Message --------
Date: Sun, 11 Jan 2015 21:37:19 -0500
Subject: Re: not the beegees & kristofferson
>>Let the sun shine, let the sunshine in.
Sunrise, sunset.
>>Don't let the sun go down on me.
sunshine daydream, wading in a cold stream!
>> You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
sunny days, chasing the clouds away!
>> We had fun, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun...
I'm happy, feelin glad, got sunshine on a bag!
>> Walking on sunshine, oooh-oooh.
I got sunshi-e-ine on a cloudy day.
>> Ah!
>>Here comes the sun.
I got you babe.
>> Baby come back! You can blame it all on me.
baby face: you've got the cutest little baby face.
>> Baby I'm a-want you; baby I'm a-need you
break on thru to the other side
>> Take the last train to Clarkville
we've got to get out of this place!
>> Baby on board, something something Burt Ward.
I been waiting for a girl like you to come in to my life...
oh girls just wanna have fun (we just wanna--we just wan-na-a-a!)
>>Walk like an Egyptian
we got the beat we got the beat we got the beeeeaaaat yeah we got it!
>> How can you mend a broken hear-eh-art?
sugar! (......) oh honey, honey ...
>> Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away, oh Mandy.
when you get lost between the moon and New York City...
>> And it's run for the roses, as fast as you can...
the leader of the band is tired and his eyes are are growing old, but his blood runs in my instrument...
>> The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind.
where have all the soldiers gone?
(yay the sixties; that's where I'm a Viking!)
>>Bye, bye miss American Pie
woah oh oh oh thunder road, oh thunder road, woah.
>>Muskrat Suzie, Muskrat Sam..
ain't noting gonna breaka my stride
>> Don't give up on us baby.
Frankie says relax.
>> Here's a little song I wrote
>> You can sing it note for note
>> Don't worry, be happy.
hey little sister .... SHOTGUN!
>> Come on Eileen
don't you want me baby?
>> Oh Micky you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Micky!
turn around, bright eyes.
>> Do you really want to hurt me?
who can it be now?
also: careless whisper; wham
>> Men at work - living in the world down under.
but the doobie brothers & Christopher cross.
* the culturally constructed field of effective song fragments is naturally not inherent at all, but a factor of overlapping media environments of players' individual experience -- that song from the music man may not be familiar to a significant chunk of the population -- so playing the earworm game calls for assessment of other players' . . . likely susceptabilities . . . and selection of fragments calculated to thrive there.
what is the earworm game, you ask?
why, it is the way these things go.
surely you are familiar with earworms. that word may have evolved a more technical definition over time, but i understand it to mean, broadly, not merely a song that gets stuck in one's head, but a song having an inherent (or developed*: i don't think there is anything inherent at all in "hungry like the wolf" but heavy airplay during years my neurons--and those of others in my generation and media environment--were still actively plastic has made it something that waits there, to be invoked and recalled and recalled and recalled and recalled) propensity to adversely infest awarenesses: "i've got a song stuck in my head" is a not uncommon water-cooler complaint. usually, it is not a song in whole, but some fragment of a song. in my experience it is often three of the four lines of a verse, or just the first line of each of several verses with nothing in between but attention sucking vacuum.
there are solutions from the folklore: one old saw prescribes simply singing the song aloud.
i have had some success with this method, but it can be challenging -- say, when the song stuck in one's head is instrumental; here whistling or humming might be of use (i heard a guy whistle a pretty-amazing brandenburg concerto once...) -- insofar as many around the water cooler are too inhibited to sing. it sounds, to me, that most would prefer others to not sing, and i often agree in particular instances while cherishing the notion of everyone feeling free to sing.
when someone does sing, whistle or hum, it may relieve the singer's plaint, but it may also lead to transmission of the earworm. if language is a virus, song is among its best replication strategies, and earworms, its most virulent strains. this, in turn, may lead to the earworm game: trading volleys of fragments of catchy jingles with other persons in an effort to secure the most mindshare for one's proffer.
it was learning, through the dynamic of this competitive effort, to immediately start thinking of another known earworm upon recognizing one, that led me to the notion of inoculation. just about every american since the invention of mtv, if not the phonograph or radio, has the resources already at hand to inoculate him or herself! the inoculation may be performed by playing the earworm game alone and as quickly as one can for some time, but essentially inheres in developing the capacity to propose catchy passages of songs in rapid sequence: a denial of service defense to deploy (out loud or internally) against any earworm assault.
playing earworm with the guy at the next workstation in the sweatshop is not generally performed singing, or with only very quiet singing: usually some sense of the intonation of words is retained together with the meter (one can hardly say "come on shake your body baby do that conga, no, you can't control yourself any longa" or "ain't nothing gonna break-a my stride" without singing it). the game often devolves into a mere session of listing hit or memorable songs from yore, which, nevertheless, remains sufficiently distracting to defend against any particular infestation; this may also be a best outcome insofar as none of the participants are left subject to any earworm. sometimes it also flares across the sweatshop floor into a brief epidemic which, with too many cooks, usually will burn out in the acoustic equivalent of a flash (though some fragments from that flash may remain "stuck in the head" of one unfortunate auditor or another, perhaps in a dormant state).
so we had a nice session, during which the question of "yacht rock" arose, but my description failed to do it justice or even properly identify the personalities involved. so i followed up after hours with the proper selectors. but my clarification was taken as a challenge, and earworm developed and was played, slowly, via email over several days, during which all sorts of momentous events ensued beyond the game:
-------- Original Message --------
Date: Sun, 11 Jan 2015 21:37:19 -0500
Subject: Re: not the beegees & kristofferson
>>Let the sun shine, let the sunshine in.
Sunrise, sunset.
>>Don't let the sun go down on me.
sunshine daydream, wading in a cold stream!
>> You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
sunny days, chasing the clouds away!
>> We had fun, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun...
I'm happy, feelin glad, got sunshine on a bag!
>> Walking on sunshine, oooh-oooh.
I got sunshi-e-ine on a cloudy day.
>> Ah!
>>Here comes the sun.
I got you babe.
>> Baby come back! You can blame it all on me.
baby face: you've got the cutest little baby face.
>> Baby I'm a-want you; baby I'm a-need you
break on thru to the other side
>> Take the last train to Clarkville
we've got to get out of this place!
>> Baby on board, something something Burt Ward.
I been waiting for a girl like you to come in to my life...
oh girls just wanna have fun (we just wanna--we just wan-na-a-a!)
>>Walk like an Egyptian
we got the beat we got the beat we got the beeeeaaaat yeah we got it!
>> How can you mend a broken hear-eh-art?
sugar! (......) oh honey, honey ...
>> Oh Mandy, you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away, oh Mandy.
when you get lost between the moon and New York City...
>> And it's run for the roses, as fast as you can...
the leader of the band is tired and his eyes are are growing old, but his blood runs in my instrument...
>> The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind.
where have all the soldiers gone?
(yay the sixties; that's where I'm a Viking!)
>>Bye, bye miss American Pie
woah oh oh oh thunder road, oh thunder road, woah.
>>Muskrat Suzie, Muskrat Sam..
ain't noting gonna breaka my stride
>> Don't give up on us baby.
Frankie says relax.
>> Here's a little song I wrote
>> You can sing it note for note
>> Don't worry, be happy.
hey little sister .... SHOTGUN!
>> Come on Eileen
don't you want me baby?
>> Oh Micky you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Micky!
turn around, bright eyes.
>> Do you really want to hurt me?
who can it be now?
also: careless whisper; wham
>> Men at work - living in the world down under.
but the doobie brothers & Christopher cross.
* the culturally constructed field of effective song fragments is naturally not inherent at all, but a factor of overlapping media environments of players' individual experience -- that song from the music man may not be familiar to a significant chunk of the population -- so playing the earworm game calls for assessment of other players' . . . likely susceptabilities . . . and selection of fragments calculated to thrive there.
20141207
tilth & husbandry: when you're a houseplant no one hears you scream
i attempted my first solo garden this year with marginal success. everything could have been done better.
my parents have had a garden as long as i can remember; as children, my sister and i participated by dint of "chores" and sometimes attempting to cultivate our own beds. i remember a patch of pumpkins particularly.
as an adult i have not had a whole lot of access to soil. a more green-thumbed-than-i apartment neighbor likened my feeble attempts to maintain houseplants to protracted torture sessions for the plants - the opposite of waterboarding: drydirting, and shading. anyway, unequipped to perceive the medium in which plants scream and groan, if any, and considering it may be a fair characterization, i soon gave away those survivors that weren't cactus. the cactus, a prickly pear variety, more or less thrived.
in reading charles mann's 1491 last winter i learned a little bit about some of the modes of agriculture practiced by the indigenous people of central and south america -- who, incidentally, invented most of our food -- and with interest about the three staple co-crops: maize, beans and squash. this -- without the slash and burn; not enough land for the slash and burn (also local ordinances may apply) -- is what i wanted to try. there was reinforcing resonance with some wendell berry notions about land use, a tantalizing background feature of the setting of neal stephenson's anathem, in which members of a cloistered community grow their produce in individually-tended "tangles," the prospect of subsisting on which really appealed.
the small plot planted with maize, beans and squash was denoted a milpa in 1491; i took this as my search term in seeking (whatever the search engine chooses to highlight among) the collective wisdom of all people with internet, and found just about nothing useful. it was significantly later, well after the garden had been dug and tilled and planted and fenced and hoed and weeded and watered, that i stumbled across a reference to the "three sisters" which are conveniently featured on the sakagewea dollar, while searching for a deer and rabbit discouraging "companion planting" approach.
(bucket & spade for scale)
having lost that great maple, i now enjoy a much sunnier back yard. i did not do a whole lot of rational planning in selecting the site: i had been more attentive to where the rain runoff flows through and pools in the yard than to where the sunlight strikes, and chose a modestly-sized plot on a high point that turned out to be somewhat subject to house shadows. also, the part of earth that was to become the garden bed, being close to the stump of the former maple, was rife with convoluted roots. (on reflection: i think the rootbound character of my former houseplants' situation might qualify as a stress position ... for inclusion on the list of my crimes, above). pop came over and played shane to my inept, impotent, innocent, nigh-cuckolded, joe starrett with the roots there -- or rather enough of them to have a foot and a half deep bed; the roots themselves appear to be solidly massed all the way down -- except that there was no jean arthur, no jack palance, and no tow-headed waif lacking role models. it will probably never be safe to run a rototiller over this bed.
i think i bought my seeds from that rack at home supply boxstore where, to my dismay, there were way more varieties than i had prepared to face for each of my target crops. eventually settled on a corn, and thought "summer squash" sounded sufficiently generic and familiar. screwed up on the beans, though, buying bush rather than climbing beans. some more experienced gardeners comforted me, suggesting that such preferences are not necessarily fixed, so that my beans may revert to a climbing mode. this did not, however, turn out to be the case.
i planted the corn and beans, and, two weeks later thinned the corn, probably not enough, and planted the squash.
there are stupid rabbits in my yard. i adjudge them stupid, that is, because of how late and slow they tend to flee when i encounter them, but actually suspect this is just normal rabbit behavior, making those who forage in my yard likely to rate of about average intelligence. for rabbits. i haven't caught one barehanded, yet, but have, on a couple occasions only refrained from giving it a sincere go by considering what i might then do with a panicked rabbit in my grasp. maybe my visceral conviction that they ought to exhibit a great deal more fear of me, and my offence that they do not, is unfounded.
they surely have more to fear from birds of prey and foxes. i have seen a small hawk, and understand there to be hungry owls in the area. in fact, a bird of prey or fox did just what i had been joking about doing, leaving a grislier totem than an impaled head, though: all the parts that weren't meat or organ in a loosely-connected skein of sinew, skin and skeleton. i think it must have been done by a fox, understanding raptors to leave a somewhat more compact, and less recognizable, bone ball.
the menace did not deter those rabbits surviving from foraging in my garden. a neighbor also reported seeing a deer. the forager clearly preferred the sprouting leafy bean bushes to the corn. i deployed fencing and all was good.
the corn proved virile
and nubile,
and sprouted ears.
in no time the whole bed looked like a garden,
replete with its own mantidae (and other insects).
(not a great pic; featured here for the beanleaves and notional continuity.
the good photo was already posted in the "yard fauna" post from august.)
the corn produced a lot of growths that seemed to promise to become ears, but only a few of them did. not a huge corn eater, i had hoped to have many to give away. as it turned out, i produced about four that were recognizable as the kind of ears of corn that people eat around here, and twice as many not-properly formed and developed nodes of ear-like corn growth that might be suitable for livestock feed. the closest thing to livestock i have is a mulch pile. in they went.
those four recognizable ears did not inspire a great deal of confidence either.
they cleaned up pretty well, though. i ate them all myself and found them to be delicious.
notwithstanding my one delightful corn-intensive meal (my cornmeal!) the poor yield from the maybe too many, too crowded plants does not rate as a success. (contemporaneous research and anecdote suggests corn is difficult in small plots due to pollination concerns; i am not aware how such issues may have affected my crop, but if each of those little silken threads must get its own pollen grain in order to produce a robust kernel -- which i'm not sure, but surmise as possibly the case -- then my ears could have used a bit more. which is strange because there were times everything out there seemed to be covered with corn pollen.
oh yeah: the squash. the squash also appeared to have been too much in the shadow of the corn. it produced several yellow squash, kind of small, before the corn was harvested and the stalks cut down. after that, many more flowers, but few of them developed into squash. the plants were still flowering, without much fruit production in early november when i consigned them to the mulchpile. in retrospect, i probably should have let them and the beans continue until the frost. i guess i did not get any photos of the squash. without meaning any disrespect to lovers of yellow summer squash, i detect in myself evidence of the view that squash may be unremarkable.
i would expect or aspire to do better at every stage of more or less the same process next year, except i am not certain that i will: i have undertaken other projects certain to take priority over gardening in the near term. but i do hope to cultivate a plot whenever i can: it is very satisfying.
my parents have had a garden as long as i can remember; as children, my sister and i participated by dint of "chores" and sometimes attempting to cultivate our own beds. i remember a patch of pumpkins particularly.
as an adult i have not had a whole lot of access to soil. a more green-thumbed-than-i apartment neighbor likened my feeble attempts to maintain houseplants to protracted torture sessions for the plants - the opposite of waterboarding: drydirting, and shading. anyway, unequipped to perceive the medium in which plants scream and groan, if any, and considering it may be a fair characterization, i soon gave away those survivors that weren't cactus. the cactus, a prickly pear variety, more or less thrived.
in reading charles mann's 1491 last winter i learned a little bit about some of the modes of agriculture practiced by the indigenous people of central and south america -- who, incidentally, invented most of our food -- and with interest about the three staple co-crops: maize, beans and squash. this -- without the slash and burn; not enough land for the slash and burn (also local ordinances may apply) -- is what i wanted to try. there was reinforcing resonance with some wendell berry notions about land use, a tantalizing background feature of the setting of neal stephenson's anathem, in which members of a cloistered community grow their produce in individually-tended "tangles," the prospect of subsisting on which really appealed.
the small plot planted with maize, beans and squash was denoted a milpa in 1491; i took this as my search term in seeking (whatever the search engine chooses to highlight among) the collective wisdom of all people with internet, and found just about nothing useful. it was significantly later, well after the garden had been dug and tilled and planted and fenced and hoed and weeded and watered, that i stumbled across a reference to the "three sisters" which are conveniently featured on the sakagewea dollar, while searching for a deer and rabbit discouraging "companion planting" approach.
(bucket & spade for scale)
having lost that great maple, i now enjoy a much sunnier back yard. i did not do a whole lot of rational planning in selecting the site: i had been more attentive to where the rain runoff flows through and pools in the yard than to where the sunlight strikes, and chose a modestly-sized plot on a high point that turned out to be somewhat subject to house shadows. also, the part of earth that was to become the garden bed, being close to the stump of the former maple, was rife with convoluted roots. (on reflection: i think the rootbound character of my former houseplants' situation might qualify as a stress position ... for inclusion on the list of my crimes, above). pop came over and played shane to my inept, impotent, innocent, nigh-cuckolded, joe starrett with the roots there -- or rather enough of them to have a foot and a half deep bed; the roots themselves appear to be solidly massed all the way down -- except that there was no jean arthur, no jack palance, and no tow-headed waif lacking role models. it will probably never be safe to run a rototiller over this bed.
i think i bought my seeds from that rack at home supply boxstore where, to my dismay, there were way more varieties than i had prepared to face for each of my target crops. eventually settled on a corn, and thought "summer squash" sounded sufficiently generic and familiar. screwed up on the beans, though, buying bush rather than climbing beans. some more experienced gardeners comforted me, suggesting that such preferences are not necessarily fixed, so that my beans may revert to a climbing mode. this did not, however, turn out to be the case.
i planted the corn and beans, and, two weeks later thinned the corn, probably not enough, and planted the squash.
there are stupid rabbits in my yard. i adjudge them stupid, that is, because of how late and slow they tend to flee when i encounter them, but actually suspect this is just normal rabbit behavior, making those who forage in my yard likely to rate of about average intelligence. for rabbits. i haven't caught one barehanded, yet, but have, on a couple occasions only refrained from giving it a sincere go by considering what i might then do with a panicked rabbit in my grasp. maybe my visceral conviction that they ought to exhibit a great deal more fear of me, and my offence that they do not, is unfounded.
they surely have more to fear from birds of prey and foxes. i have seen a small hawk, and understand there to be hungry owls in the area. in fact, a bird of prey or fox did just what i had been joking about doing, leaving a grislier totem than an impaled head, though: all the parts that weren't meat or organ in a loosely-connected skein of sinew, skin and skeleton. i think it must have been done by a fox, understanding raptors to leave a somewhat more compact, and less recognizable, bone ball.
the menace did not deter those rabbits surviving from foraging in my garden. a neighbor also reported seeing a deer. the forager clearly preferred the sprouting leafy bean bushes to the corn. i deployed fencing and all was good.
the corn proved virile
and nubile,
and sprouted ears.
in no time the whole bed looked like a garden,
replete with its own mantidae (and other insects).
(not a great pic; featured here for the beanleaves and notional continuity.
the good photo was already posted in the "yard fauna" post from august.)
the bush beans did not revert to climbers; there were a few heartier bushes that were pretty good producers. overall, though, the bushes were too shaded by the corn, which i may not have thinned enough, anyway, and remained stunted. they produced a few meals' worth of beans that were crisp and tasty raw and steamed up nicely. this might have been the most successful crop of the three in terms of edible production.
the corn produced a lot of growths that seemed to promise to become ears, but only a few of them did. not a huge corn eater, i had hoped to have many to give away. as it turned out, i produced about four that were recognizable as the kind of ears of corn that people eat around here, and twice as many not-properly formed and developed nodes of ear-like corn growth that might be suitable for livestock feed. the closest thing to livestock i have is a mulch pile. in they went.
those four recognizable ears did not inspire a great deal of confidence either.
they cleaned up pretty well, though. i ate them all myself and found them to be delicious.
notwithstanding my one delightful corn-intensive meal (my cornmeal!) the poor yield from the maybe too many, too crowded plants does not rate as a success. (contemporaneous research and anecdote suggests corn is difficult in small plots due to pollination concerns; i am not aware how such issues may have affected my crop, but if each of those little silken threads must get its own pollen grain in order to produce a robust kernel -- which i'm not sure, but surmise as possibly the case -- then my ears could have used a bit more. which is strange because there were times everything out there seemed to be covered with corn pollen.
oh yeah: the squash. the squash also appeared to have been too much in the shadow of the corn. it produced several yellow squash, kind of small, before the corn was harvested and the stalks cut down. after that, many more flowers, but few of them developed into squash. the plants were still flowering, without much fruit production in early november when i consigned them to the mulchpile. in retrospect, i probably should have let them and the beans continue until the frost. i guess i did not get any photos of the squash. without meaning any disrespect to lovers of yellow summer squash, i detect in myself evidence of the view that squash may be unremarkable.
i would expect or aspire to do better at every stage of more or less the same process next year, except i am not certain that i will: i have undertaken other projects certain to take priority over gardening in the near term. but i do hope to cultivate a plot whenever i can: it is very satisfying.
20130817
rollin' with it
i am acquainted with a four-year-old who, after five months immobilized in spica casts under a tentative diagnosis of osteogenesis imperfecta, over the past fortnight, has been diagnosed with hepatoblastoma, biopsied, has endured the installation of a central line, a day or two of intravenous morphine, and several infusions of his first course of chemotherapy.
tonight he wants to eat sushi.
tonight he wants to eat sushi.
20120703
todo derecho
but don't you worry, dear reader.
while that storm disrupted power and uprooted trees everywhere in the region - including across most of the erstwhile thoroughfares between my unscathed (and consistently powered) apartment and my new home - my new home was just fine, with neither power lost nor magnificent trees interposed among the architecture or across egress.
although the basement appears prone to flooding (two sump pumps!), it did not flood on this occasion.
not knowing the impending regional disaster of the storm, i really enjoyed watching it (and experiencing it through other sensory modalities) from my fourth-floor apartment. as you may recall from previous mentions, the building was poorly ventilated, tending to absorb and retain a great deal of heat on the top floor in the summer. this summer has been no different, so, when it became apparent that a storm was approaching, i opened all the windows in hopes of letting some of that rapidly-cooling air displace some of the stagnant too-hot air of the apartment. that unit had six windows on the west wall, and a doorway on the east opening into the hallway. i appreciated the cooler air, and watched the increasingly dramatic clouds, punctuated by a lot of lightning, often in unusual colors - red and green mostly, which i am told might have been arcing from blown transformers rather than lightning itself. anyway, it became breezy, and, really wanting to cool the place down before the impending showers would force me to close the windward windows, i opened my door to the hallway, hoping for some cross ventilation.
well, dear reader, i got cross ventilation. i don't know which neighbor was on the other end of the wind-tunnel that was created, but the dust-storm at the front of the system struck just as i opened my door, and suddenly the entire unit was filled with dust, grit, and everything in my apartment that wasn't attached to something heavy shrieking around in vortices as i struggled against the wildly-flailing door. it dropped twenty degrees almost immediately in the unit, and, the piles having already expanded into full-blown literal paperstorm, i held that door open until the rain began, then hurried to close everything up and gather my scattered belongings. that was about all of the excitement for me: the best ventilated moment of my 11 years in the unit.
driving was an exciting adventure, fraught with obstacles, detours and major intersections lacking stoplights, as, over the ensuing days i slowly packed up one car-load of my stuff at a time and hauled it across town.
i did promptly learn that the clear wireless service, of which i had been a happy customer over the past year (but for two occasions when inclement weather appeared to render the wimax signal inaccessible -- the company isn't named "clear" for nothing: caveat emptor!), does not offer coverage on my block.
so i plan to switch over to fios, as the product that best fits my needs from perhaps not even the lesser of the two great regional monopolies.
while that storm disrupted power and uprooted trees everywhere in the region - including across most of the erstwhile thoroughfares between my unscathed (and consistently powered) apartment and my new home - my new home was just fine, with neither power lost nor magnificent trees interposed among the architecture or across egress.
although the basement appears prone to flooding (two sump pumps!), it did not flood on this occasion.
not knowing the impending regional disaster of the storm, i really enjoyed watching it (and experiencing it through other sensory modalities) from my fourth-floor apartment. as you may recall from previous mentions, the building was poorly ventilated, tending to absorb and retain a great deal of heat on the top floor in the summer. this summer has been no different, so, when it became apparent that a storm was approaching, i opened all the windows in hopes of letting some of that rapidly-cooling air displace some of the stagnant too-hot air of the apartment. that unit had six windows on the west wall, and a doorway on the east opening into the hallway. i appreciated the cooler air, and watched the increasingly dramatic clouds, punctuated by a lot of lightning, often in unusual colors - red and green mostly, which i am told might have been arcing from blown transformers rather than lightning itself. anyway, it became breezy, and, really wanting to cool the place down before the impending showers would force me to close the windward windows, i opened my door to the hallway, hoping for some cross ventilation.
well, dear reader, i got cross ventilation. i don't know which neighbor was on the other end of the wind-tunnel that was created, but the dust-storm at the front of the system struck just as i opened my door, and suddenly the entire unit was filled with dust, grit, and everything in my apartment that wasn't attached to something heavy shrieking around in vortices as i struggled against the wildly-flailing door. it dropped twenty degrees almost immediately in the unit, and, the piles having already expanded into full-blown literal paperstorm, i held that door open until the rain began, then hurried to close everything up and gather my scattered belongings. that was about all of the excitement for me: the best ventilated moment of my 11 years in the unit.
driving was an exciting adventure, fraught with obstacles, detours and major intersections lacking stoplights, as, over the ensuing days i slowly packed up one car-load of my stuff at a time and hauled it across town.
i did promptly learn that the clear wireless service, of which i had been a happy customer over the past year (but for two occasions when inclement weather appeared to render the wimax signal inaccessible -- the company isn't named "clear" for nothing: caveat emptor!), does not offer coverage on my block.
so i plan to switch over to fios, as the product that best fits my needs from perhaps not even the lesser of the two great regional monopolies.
20120426
wendell berry!
Transcript of Berry's remarks is available here. A couple samples:
But . . . we are no longer talking about theoretical alternatives to corporate rule. We are talking with practical urgency about an obvious need. Now the two great aims of industrialism—replacement of people by technology and concentration of wealth into the hands of a small plutocracy—seem close to fulfillment. At the same time the failures of industrialism have become too great and too dangerous to deny. Corporate industrialism itself has exposed the falsehood that it ever was inevitable or that it ever has given precedence to the common good. It has failed to sustain the health and stability of human society. Among its characteristic signs are destroyed communities, neighborhoods, families, small businesses, and small farms. It has failed just as conspicuously and more dangerously to conserve the wealth and health of nature. No amount of fiddling with capitalism to regulate and humanize it, no pointless rhetoric on the virtues of capitalism or socialism, no billions or trillions spent on “defense” of the “American dream,” can for long disguise this failure. The evidences of it are everywhere: eroded, wasted, or degraded soils; damaged or destroyed ecosystems; extinction of species; whole landscapes defaced, gouged, flooded, or blown up; pollution of the whole atmosphere and of the water cycle; “dead zones” in the coastal waters; thoughtless squandering of fossil fuels and fossil waters, of mineable minerals and ores; natural health and beauty replaced by a heartless and sickening ugliness. Perhaps its greatest success is an astounding increase in the destructiveness, and therefore the profitability, of war.
. . .
That we live now in an economy that is not sustainable is not the fault only of a few mongers of power and heavy equipment. We all are implicated. We all, in the course of our daily economic life, consent to it, whether or not we approve of it. This is because of the increasing abstraction and unconsciousness of our connection to our economic sources in the land, the land-communities, and the land-use economies. In my region and within my memory, for example, human life has become less creaturely and more engineered, less familiar and more remote from local places, pleasures, and associations. Our knowledge, in short, has become increasingly statistical.
20111228
thaving tholes
"Of course the ideal design of shaft and blade will vary depending on one's intended use and personal taste; for reasons I would be happy to explain, I prefer Hangzhou Kanghua Boats Company to equip the dinghy, laminated Douglas Fir from Sawyer Paddles for the white-water work, and J Sutton for casual or Oarsport blades for competitive skulling," Tom orated.
20110725
sitrep: fluctuation in the heatwave
it has been a bit hot round these parts lately to run the computer in the very hot apartment with any sense of comfort or confidence that the machine would survive.
today there is a bit of a break, not an actual deep, cool and relaxing "trough" so much as a little fluctuation in the heatwave, with the promise of more grueling "peak" to again ensue.
today there is a bit of a break, not an actual deep, cool and relaxing "trough" so much as a little fluctuation in the heatwave, with the promise of more grueling "peak" to again ensue.
20110322
great heavens and awesome orreries!
orrery - n., an apparatus that illustrates the relative positions and motions of the planets of the solar system. (definition courtesy of WordNet).
this shockwave/flash orrery (not to scale), from dynamicdiagrams.com, is beautiful, spectacular and flexible: click on it; look at it.
look at your birth date; look at your birth date in an old-fashioned geocentric solar system, or at today, or whenever; see the zodiacal signs; set date; change speed; regard the myriad moons charging around! . . . or learn.
(also note the application name suggests it is a five-year-old design)
nasa's eyes on the solar system (which requires installation of a plug-in) is also quite breathtaking, albeit with a bit of a learning curve. be careful you don't get lost.
this shockwave/flash orrery (not to scale), from dynamicdiagrams.com, is beautiful, spectacular and flexible: click on it; look at it.
look at your birth date; look at your birth date in an old-fashioned geocentric solar system, or at today, or whenever; see the zodiacal signs; set date; change speed; regard the myriad moons charging around! . . . or learn.
(also note the application name suggests it is a five-year-old design)
nasa's eyes on the solar system (which requires installation of a plug-in) is also quite breathtaking, albeit with a bit of a learning curve. be careful you don't get lost.
20110317
20110302
summer sunlight on water, part the first
i think this phrase comes from somewhere other than my mind, like the loosening screw is from the child abduction scene in close encounters of the third kind. but it has recurred in my usage over the years, generally as a phrase made out of words describing, or seeking to describe, laughter and/or some state of innocent elation.
lately it has been the subject of some of my idle MSPaint-ings.
(i don't paint)
(i hardly even MSPaint)
...
... stay tuned.
lately it has been the subject of some of my idle MSPaint-ings.
(i don't paint)
(i hardly even MSPaint)
...
... stay tuned.
20070612
riparian charts for lost canoers
I have been talking a lot with an enrapturing lady about whom I hesitate to speak in detail beyond saying that I find her wonderful, if a little hard to get. She's been the beneficiary (or, at least, object) of most of my attention lately.
Spent the past weekend at the Chesepeake bay beach house of my sisters' inlaws (sis and family now live out west, but have been visiting here). Apart from seeing her and all the brats, it was especially nice to paddle a canoe around for a couple hours.
Haven't been playing too much music (though I did have a chance recently at a party to perform in front of live people for the first time in maybe 10 years . . . with qualified results), and my reading has suffered a bit, but I did just finish reading Nadeem Aslam's Maps for Lost Lovers, which is a masterpiece.
The poet who recommended it to me said every paragraph is a masterful work of art in itself, and, having read it myself, now, I cannot (and would not) contradict his assertion.
Also: I have been enticed to dip my toe into the twenty first century by getting a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Now my pockets are too full, but I at least have a timepiece. And I can make and receive calls, which, I understand, is what those things are for. Big sort of beneficial surprise (I'm new to speaking about phone plans) is that I can speak to subscribers of the same phone service provider for free, and, as it turns out, each member of my family already is such a person.
Also, I'm learning to "text". That's what's up.
Spent the past weekend at the Chesepeake bay beach house of my sisters' inlaws (sis and family now live out west, but have been visiting here). Apart from seeing her and all the brats, it was especially nice to paddle a canoe around for a couple hours.
Haven't been playing too much music (though I did have a chance recently at a party to perform in front of live people for the first time in maybe 10 years . . . with qualified results), and my reading has suffered a bit, but I did just finish reading Nadeem Aslam's Maps for Lost Lovers, which is a masterpiece.
The poet who recommended it to me said every paragraph is a masterful work of art in itself, and, having read it myself, now, I cannot (and would not) contradict his assertion.
Also: I have been enticed to dip my toe into the twenty first century by getting a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Now my pockets are too full, but I at least have a timepiece. And I can make and receive calls, which, I understand, is what those things are for. Big sort of beneficial surprise (I'm new to speaking about phone plans) is that I can speak to subscribers of the same phone service provider for free, and, as it turns out, each member of my family already is such a person.
Also, I'm learning to "text". That's what's up.
20050908
it's E Z
Dear Norm:
I think Al Qaeda
might be plotting to attack
our great Gulf Coast ports
specific chatter
yet unsubstantiated
says "two if by sea"
maybe bombs, maybe
by spreading toxins into
the water supply
check before you act
you would not want to wind up
all wet over some
blunder, sleeep on it,
don't act precipatately
haste makes waste, norm
they would deny and
degrade our ability
to help our people
by engaging our
emergency services
in the colonies.
don't fall for it, norm.
home is where the homeland is
and in the shelters.
20010905
java lamp
better than a lava lamp,
the french press pot atop
the oft-repainted radiator cover
deliberately set there by the window
sill to catch and kindle in
the setting summer sunlight
that pours over the roofs and
distant cathedral's hillock to
splash radiantly into my gaping room
i don't have the angle right just now
for the encompassing view of that hill
and skyline, distant and nearer churches' spires,
intent only on the brownian fluid illumined,
glowing in the fire of that sleepy star
and savoring the elixir's anticipated vigor
my studied hours will soon sorely need,
but i know it's there and descry so for context.
it starts clear but hazy from the boiling tumult
but passes through lager and honey before
the pot is poured full, the roiling grounds
seething dark in the steam as the lid is placed;
by the window it is amber, ocher, golden,
strong tea bathed, suffused through in light.
the french press pot atop
the oft-repainted radiator cover
deliberately set there by the window
sill to catch and kindle in
the setting summer sunlight
that pours over the roofs and
distant cathedral's hillock to
splash radiantly into my gaping room
i don't have the angle right just now
for the encompassing view of that hill
and skyline, distant and nearer churches' spires,
intent only on the brownian fluid illumined,
glowing in the fire of that sleepy star
and savoring the elixir's anticipated vigor
my studied hours will soon sorely need,
but i know it's there and descry so for context.
it starts clear but hazy from the boiling tumult
but passes through lager and honey before
the pot is poured full, the roiling grounds
seething dark in the steam as the lid is placed;
by the window it is amber, ocher, golden,
strong tea bathed, suffused through in light.
20010219
membrane
i.
there, in the middle of infinite
space and infinite energy, grows
a membrane, elastic, extensible,
pliant yet definite, bounded. it
is skin, and all the things inside
(but not the mind, oh not infinite mind)
the skin and organism of embodied
perspective, stretched taut, the
rebounding surface on which the
resounding beat of infinite space
and infinite energy echos and plays:
as above so below; as below, above.
this membrane is the stage of love.
the allegory of the skin may be opaque,
may take some explanation, for those
who have firm brain-based metaphysics,
who have never dreamed or been elated
or traveled out-of-body or relegated
all these to endocrine neurochemistries
-those who pooh-pooh and psshaw, in
peer review literature, such non
reductionist holistic mysticism.
too bad for them. now must not be
their time to see these words, read
these lines, as in the story of the
pearls and swines. but those who have
the taste, let them savor the wines.
there, in the middle of infinite
space and infinite energy, grows
a membrane, elastic, extensible,
pliant yet definite, bounded. it
is skin, and all the things inside
(but not the mind, oh not infinite mind)
the skin and organism of embodied
perspective, stretched taut, the
rebounding surface on which the
resounding beat of infinite space
and infinite energy echos and plays:
as above so below; as below, above.
this membrane is the stage of love.
the allegory of the skin may be opaque,
may take some explanation, for those
who have firm brain-based metaphysics,
who have never dreamed or been elated
or traveled out-of-body or relegated
all these to endocrine neurochemistries
-those who pooh-pooh and psshaw, in
peer review literature, such non
reductionist holistic mysticism.
too bad for them. now must not be
their time to see these words, read
these lines, as in the story of the
pearls and swines. but those who have
the taste, let them savor the wines.
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