Ocean Energy Surge - Tsunami Day

Even if you've never heard a tsunami warning siren ever before, you know what you're hearing when it sounds.  At 6 AM this morning, I heard the long warning signal oscillating around the surrounding valley of Manoa uphill from Waikiki Beach area.  Simultaneously, all over the Hawaiian Island chain, the same signal was wailing in its odd distinctive way.  We heard neighbors turning on their news channels and checking for information.

You know by now that Santiago, Chile, has been stricken by an outrageously powerful earthquake. Immediately, energy waves began to travel out across the Pacific Ocean to all points on its rim.  This island chain was, of course, situated in a direct path from the shore of Chile.  Hawaii had been crunched in 1960 when Chile was whacked by an even stronger quake.  Back in those days, no warning system like ours today existed, so phone calls, telegrams, radio (HAM radio operators, no doubt) passed information around.  The warnings were scoffed at, unfortunately, and Hilo took a big hit from a series of swells caused by that quake.

Once a month or so, here in Hawaii, the locals hear the siren go off as a practice, rather like the familiar Emergency Signal that is broadcast on TV as practice for disasters.

This morning, the claxon sound was repeated every hour from 6 AM to 11 AM because the surges from the earthquake were to begin arriving at about 11:20 AM, local time.

Like most folks in the area, we decided to go to the local Safeway store and get some groceries, not because we believed the waves would cause significant damage but because we needed to stock up in general.  We found the shopping center in Manoa to be filled with people bustling around or just hanging out, drinking coffee at the local coffee bar and talking.  Inside Safeway, it was very busy.  No one looked panicked or stressed, but the level of industry and alert was more evident than ever before.  After making our selections, we passed the bread aisle.  99% of it was gone.  So, the wisdom of the day is:  Tsunami coming?  Buy bread!

Back at home, we watched the local news stations breathlessly describing the scenes they were showing, and all of them were from very shaky hand-held laptops with cameras and Skype connections.  Friends were dropping by and pretty soon the living room was full of about 10 of us watching for anything that might suggest a threatening wave.  Nothing.  It was a nonevent, and everyone went home again after a few hours of joking and laughing, lounging around at our impromptu tsunami party.

We did learn about the unique characteristics of the a "tidal wave."  The ocean acts very differently with that kind of energy phenomenon.  The wave incidence is much greater; the waves appear to form in very slow motion, beginning with water actually flowing away from shore and then reversing in a large wide swell that flows back onshore.  The onshore flow continues for many minutes --10 or 15 or 20, depending on the impulse of energy that was originally generated by the quake -- and then flows out again.  The outflow takes another long, long period of time because such a massive amount of water is moved by the surge, and stuff onshore that was inundated by the water incoming is then carried out to sea - for a long time.  So, the pattern is:  Long flow out to sea, long period of time of water swelling in, then swoop back out to sea including debris.  Repeat for five or six hours, in and out, back and forth.

Next time you're in a bathtub, make your own tsunami and watch how the water behaves.  Move your leg to the side when it's underwater and watch the water pulling down behind it and then rebounding back and forth.  Same thing happens in God's big bathtub we call the Pacific, or any other ocean.  Lakes, too.

There was indeed tsunami action here today, but the height of the wave surges that finally arrived were very small.  Funneling harbor openings were where the surge was most visible, probably four to six feet from trough to wave crest.

The all-clear was sounded by 2 PM or so.  The quiet streets and highways refilled with cars and the waves with surfers.  We watched the wave riders of all sorts from the overlook below Diamond Head along the coast road.  There were hundreds people on boards all along the coastline, lining up for the beautiful curling waves coming in from the southwest far below us and out as far as a half mile off the shore.  Just the kind of view that the disaster planning had hoped to produce:  Everyone safe; no damage at all.

Hawaii is my Groove This Week

I flew the Groove today and ended up in Honolulu, which is pretty far out of my usual groove, wouldn't you say?  The day started out early from the airport.  I was squished into a seat the size of a hamster cage and was further compressed courtesy of the seated passenger in front of me who reclined her seat all the way back into my lap.  I think she wanted me to give her a neck massage.

Seated next to me was an older gentleman, apparently from India, who never spoke a word but was murmuring in his native language with the young family across the aisle from him.  They were a young Indian couple with a small boy, probably age 2, who was in constant wiggle mode.  The parents did as good a job containing him, but he was 2 and he wanted to get loose and go.  He squealed, screeched and tried to get away, but -- credit to the parents -- they kept him distracted and occupied as well as can be expected of any parents in a confined space for five hours.  I've seen and heard lots more obnoxious and upset kids on flights before, so it wasn't that horrible.

The irony was that the airline was featuring the movie Where The Wild Things Are.  The boy was a handful for his mom right up to the moment when the movie began and then dropped off to deep and peaceful sleep.  Last I looked, his mom was sitting with a glazed stare, watching the screen as the boy sprawled across her lap, head resting on her crooked elbow.  He looked like an innocent angel.

Hawaii caresses you from the moment you first meet her.  So it was today:  Soft warm air, flowers, pretty girls and guys with surfboards carried on scooters zooming around town.  The lifestyle here is busy but still slower and definitely easy going.  People wave you in from merge lanes on the freeway and drive more slowly.  Compared to almost everywhere else I've driven a car, Hawaii is easy and nearly fun.

After I picked up by my rental car (Mini Cooper convertible - my splurge on this trip) and went over to Kapiolani park, the large urban greenspace at the base of Diamond Head that offers mellow views of Waikiki and the mountains beyond.  I ate, chatted with strangers who seemed friendly and interesting, watched tiny waves lapping the shore and planned out my coming week.  Nice start so far.  Vacation time, and still in the groove.

Ways of Changing

I was right in the middle of a perfectly good blue-sky day, enjoying it to the hilt, when it changed.  One thing you can say about the weather, it pays no attention to you at all.  No matter what you do or say, it just gets up, stops listening to you going on about how pretty it all is, and walks away.  Takes its ball and goes home, so to speak.  

I guess I was feeling a little full of myself, pleased with the idea that it felt like spring today and that the willows were in early bud, swinging their branches all swishy and gentle.  I was tricked into believing that I had it all figured out and had a fine afternoon ahead of me.  But, no.  

Life in general is kind of like that, changes always happening no matter what you think.  You get all comfortable and cocky, keep track of events and places, and they're all okay.  Then either a big change hits you right between the eyes or little ones sneak up like a bunch of hungry cats and tear into what you know about things, turn them into crumbs and scraps.

I take change in two ways.  One way is tell myself not to count on anything, just take whatever happens and just go on with it, like a donkey who is heaped up with a huge load of sticks and just keeps walking along with its head down and eyes half closed, bearing the load.  The other way is to sit down and think about things very hard and see a pattern in it all.  Then, you can predict and brace yourself a while and not get hit broadside by the big stuff that comes along.  Sometimes the little hungry-cat things show you that you'd better keep your eyes open for a big between-the-eyes surprising change.  I try to do it that way, sit and think things through, and maybe I'm getting better at it than I used to be.  But, the trouble with that is you have to remember to sit and study it all out, look at the little changes happening because they're always there, stuff is always changing.

There is a famous quote from someone wise who must've had a big smackgob change hit him right in between the eyes one day:  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

When you expect that things will always change, you're always going to be right about that at least.  Today was a fine day.  But, I believe it was fine because I expected changes, looked for them, and when I saw them happening, I wasn't in the least bit surprised.  But, there I go feeling smug again.  Time to study again and look for the next big change.

Ants in the Kitchen

There are ants in my kitchen.  This is a condition that has existed for a year or more.  But, these ants are not the long columns of mysterious infinitesimal insects that I'm familar with.  Those are little sugar ants which are smaller and keep together in groups, frantically conveying bits and pieces of other things to a cache hidden in the ground somewhere.

The ants I see in my kitchen these days are solitary scouts who seem to pop up out of nowhere.  Also, they are really hard to squish.  That makes me curious.  How is it that I, a large strong human with ten good fingers, can barely crush an ant?  If I had a microscope, I'd put one under it and take a good look.  I mean, of course I can squish one, but I really have to use a lot of strength, and even then they seem to keep on wiggling.  It's kind of creepy, but I admire them in a sort of revolting way.  Maybe an engineer could study their structure and design a crush-proof car.  But, if it would have to have legs, too, I don't think we'd be too thrilled with that.  They'd get all tangled up together and, wow, if you've seen a multicar pile-up with sleek four-wheeled vehicles like we have now, just think about the mess you'd see if cars had six legs.

Just now, I looked at my stove top and one came up out of the burner to the flat surface, looking around and walking fast.  I was morbidly thinking I should teach it a lesson and turn on the burner, but then it was gone.  The other day, a splat on the wall had been missed during morning clean-up and six ants were feasting on it.  Just six.  But, they looked like prehistoric dinosaurs, velociraptors, gnashing their teeth over the carcass of something squishy.  I think I could hear their teeth clicking and chewing.

There is an equilibrium between me and the ants, a stand-off of sorts.  I keep my kitchen tidied up and the ants just show up here and there, always solitary, staying out of sight for the most part.  If there are any drips or slops, the ants come 'round and I'll see three or four, but they know I'm after them.  They seem to know anyway.

At a certain point, when I've had just about enough, I do a more intensive cleaning and then finish off my efforts with window cleaner.  If the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding could see me using window cleaner, zapping ants, he'd smile.  He cured all ills with it, so I use it to clear my counters of ants.  I stand back feeling like a vanquisher, holding my spray bottle.  I stay on the alert, though.  I have to be vigilant.

All this ant thinking has me wondering if I'm as small as an ant to some big being in the universe that's ready to flick me aside, spinning me into the next star system.  Aaaaaaiiiiiieeeeeeeee!  You never know.  Fact is stranger than fiction.  In my world, fact and fiction are one and the same, at least when it comes to ants.

Being Humans in the Universe

A ski acrobat wearing star-spangled pajamas flies up into the air in a very excellent attempt to overcome gravity and zoom away to Hawaii, where it's warmer and you can get a tan instead of a broken arm when you land on a frozen slope from 55 feet in the air.  He is wildly celebratory when he lands.  It seems likely that, so high has he gone, in the blink of time it takes him to spin and whirl in dizzy pirouettes above the dark tree tops, he actually made the trip to the tropics and back again, taking advantage of some frozen time warp.  He roars, and the people all round, whose necks had nearly snapped as they watched him come soaring back from palm trees, crystalline beaches and salt spray, shriek with surprise and excitement.

A thin, earnest young man in a baggy neoprene suit, a round helmet and huge goggles gazes down at the world spread beyond his skis to the distant mobs of screaming frozen fans.  Their painted faces and dazzled eyes gaze back up at him adoringly.  Then, as if prompted by a new idea he hadn't considered ever before, he shrugs, hops down off his perch, squatting like a crazy fly with big long laminated feet, and slides easy as you please down two parallel tracks in the snow.  He springs up into the cold as if shot out of a cannon.  His fingers, in big gloves held at his side, tickle the air.  He leans far forward, nearly kissing his ski tips, surveying the passing countryside like a skinny god suddenly borne aloft, looking for a good meal.  Almost incidentally he alights, on a whim, and slides to a halt near the admiring throngs.  Their full-throated roar shakes the snow from the tree tops.

Young couples, wearing outlandish costumes -- Halloween disguises pale in comparison -- frantically perform ravishingly passionate dances to operatic scores.  Arms clad in spangled spandex nearly detach from the spinning bodies of the skaters and take flight.  Shredded charmeuse skirts and bodices lift and float with every dramatic turn.  Legs bend, curve, lean and stroke in unison and the music powers over and around the audience which is rapt and thrilled by the drama before them.  Hearts soar and then flowers are strewn to the ice, cast there by enchanted and happy girls.

A hockey team wins its game and becomes delirious with the unexpected joy of victory.  Every woman on the team rushes out on the rink and tackles one another, bear-like, screaming, laughing, crying and screaming again.  They shake their J-shaped sticks at the crowd in the stands, who are banging on the walls and screaming, too.  All the women on the team, in a spontaneous mood of celebration, spread apart from each other and then turn, flop down on their bellies and slide around, like seals on arctic ice floes, glad to have not been eaten by the opposing team.

In all the arenas of celebration, the world allows for happy insanity and wild abandon.  The stupidity of war and horror of starvation and all other disgusting privations visited upon humans by other human beings does not exist here, pushed back far into the shadows by thousands of yelling, screaming, shouting, banging, clapping, whistling, cheering, crying, laughing and shrieking-with-happiness living souls.  All at once, the whole place lifts up off the ground and flies around the universe and all the powers and forces gathered there realize we are something special, we are embodied magic and we deserve something more than to be turned to ashes and left to eternity all alone.

Red Flowers in a Vase

Morning came and went somewhere, like it walked up wearing a sparkling dress and said hello but left again.  It was a glistening morning, emerging brightly after the spitting gray storm that left in the night.

I sipped my coffee at the table and contemplated a vase with flowers.  It is a gently curving clear glass, with water pierced by emerald stems.  My mind brushed itself along the petals, poured their fragrance into all the hollows and valleys of memory and experience.  They spoke to me quietly in claret, blood-red crimson and scarlet, enfolding me in their velvet arms.  All the color was singing silently, moving everywhere like love, glowing like a sacred vow.

Out in the shine of the day, redness pursued me, haunted me and shouted out its glories.  Color was running in clouds in the streets, climbing to the treetops and bounding across the Gabilans, all the way to heaven.  Redness everywhere, all shades of it, sleek, shining, beaming, vital and eternal, recalled the redness of silent, tender flowers in a clear glass vase.

The sky has shifted from vigilant brilliant blue to a quiet rustle of silver organza strewn from Bonnie Doon to the Ventana and beyond.  Sounds of life in town are distant, wrapped in cotton quilts, listening in the streets and alleys for echoes, tapping on the fence posts.  Time is lying on the window sill, yawning and stretching languidly, idly thinking of promises and answers, keeping many secrets.

Refreshed by the passing brilliant day, twilight is striding in, cloaked in a soft grey wool, checking the windows for drafts, the lamps for light and the sky for stars.  Tenderly, it pauses at the vase and gently caresses the flowers, covers them in grey, then black, and then hushes them to sleep their deep crimson dreams.

Raising the White Flag

I've been watching spandexed bodies flying, spinning, flipping, running, skating, and flashing by so fast I can't see them unless I see it all again in slow-mo.  I am held willing captive by my television, white flag held high, taken prisoner by the scenes before my eyes.  It happens to me every Olympics, this surrender.  This is bad.  I have yielded heart and soul to the fantasy of Olympic endeavor even though I know it is a representation of only the most elite, most talented and gifted athletes the world has to offer in an arena created at extreme expense, leaving out the vast majority of humankind who also strive and compete.  But, then again, maybe they aren't left out.  Not totally.


It's true I've never come close and never will come close to being an elite athlete, but I need to know that those flying-squirrel ski jumpers are out there gently floating down long slopes to settle lightly and gracefully as you please 140 meters from liftoff.  I need to see a girl readying herself on a pair of skis before she slides down, and then up, and then way up into the cold sky where she does turns, tumbles, flips, and somersaults and lands again back on earth.  I need to see two people dancing with impeccable grace and flair on razor sharp skates to a cacophony of corny music and see them look effortless and fine.  I need to see an icy toboggan chute that barely contains a heavy sled with four muscular men crouching down, slashing downhill at 90 miles an hour.  


I need to witness it all that because I believe it's impossible to do those things.  I need to see the huge cauldron of fire set alight after a million-mile relay all around the country because I am small.  I am small, and I have attempted to live a good life, and my life has been safe.  I live in a small town where a few of our citizens can run pretty well or swing a golf club respectably, but from which no one has really distinguished themselves to Olympian heights.  


I swim and I think of Olympic swimmers who seem to have some ungodly ability to accelerate from an already insane pace.  I run and I think of diminutive Kenyan runners with the lungs of a whale who are so fleet that 26.2 miles is the same to them as my 1 or 2 miles are to me.  I ride my bike up Forest Avenue and I think of Tour de France riders storming up the slopes of Mt. Ventoux in France, a severe and horrible climb created by Lucifer himself.  


I need inspiration and hope and all my heroes, every one of them.  They are the gifted angels who fly among us, tapping us on the shoulder, nudging us to give it another shot, try again, go a little harder next time.  They have bitten off more than anyone should chew, swallowed it and grown up to be nearly immortal.   



Their movements are beautiful and they make it all look so very easy, so simple.  The simplicity is deceptive, but this is good.  A simple deception is beguiling and alluring, tempts us to believe that if we really do give it one more shot, maybe we'll do better, overcome a bit of adversity, prevail somehow.  The coolest part of it all is that when you believe you have the possibility of prevailing, beating the odds, sometimes you actually do.  


I will keep watching the Games, fascinated by the wild abandon represented in each arena, the attainment of rarefied glory because I need to.  I know this is a very specific groove, probably the most stirring and exciting one around.  However, you think this is bad, you should see me when July comes along and the Tour de France commences.  I'm gonna be soooo gone then, and happily so.  I surrender!  

El Estero Lake, Monterey

There is a park in Monterey called El Estero Lake, a former estuary that has long since been transformed to a placid shallow lake.

There are grassy banks and lovely trees set about the perimeter of the lake, and there is a small tree-covered island.  At the southwest end is a statue of a blue heron behind which an arched circle of water fountains and splashes brightly.  Because the park has attractively mowed lawns, Canada geese -- handsome, stately, old-money birds -- have settled in and add to the bucolic splendor.

Mallard ducks, very fast fliers, streak in from their migration routes and circle the lake looking for a motel for the night; they are the Porsche drivers of the migratory bird population.  They are handsome, sleek, fast.  They carry some of their tail feathers in a rakish curl, and swagger with a bit of the bad boy in their hearts.

There are also a number of motley ducks, interbred beyond imagining and ugly to a point of sin.  These unfortunates live a hardscrabble life swilling pond water, lying about in the underbrush and yelling insults to one in another in rough coarse quacks.  They are the bastards of the avian world, the results of one night stands, hard drinking on Saturday nights on the island.  It's a dark shadowy life, but they know which elderly ladies have bags of bread, which garbage cans overflow first and where the insects and creatures of the mud are swarming.  They survive, they're tough, and because of their suffering they look out for each other, sing the blues at sunset and settle their feathers right down, baby.  Right on down.

Because the geese have size and money on their side, they walk slowly and expect much of the world.  Cars rolling along Del Monte Boulevard in four lanes have no bearing whatsoever on the intention of a gaggle of drowsy geese, which is to cross the boulevard, take a gander at the ocean and have a cool glass of something.  "Oh, I don't know, Harriet, how about we take a stroll over to have us a look at the bay, have a few mouthfuls of sod, maybe see if the flock is up for a game of Hearts."  They will amble along, pigeontoed, swinging their haunches slowly from side to side and peering over there, over here, taking their sweet time getting across a busy road.  Horn blowing has absolutely no effect on them except to irritate them a bit.  They pull out their notebooks and write down a few license numbers, call their lawyers later.  Some of them carry a Wall Street Journal under their wing to read at the beach.

The mudhens, coots as they are called, find low-rent housing where they can find it and work hard to make a living.  Modestly compact in size, they are energetic and busy all day long.  Coots do well, persisting and thriving in Monterey, a destination town where visitors come and go, expecting privilege and lavish care.  Everyone knows:  You need a good stretch of quality mud?  Ask a coot, he'll get it for you.  You need a dozen worms, right now?  Coot'll have here in no time flat.  The coots hustle for deals on bulk food, spread news quickly among themselves when prices go down on insects and look for any lucky break they can.  They make the best of their lot, keep themselves up the best way they know how because they know they have to overcompensate for an embarrassing feature doled out by a bored god:  Huge yellow feet.  Feet that can almost walk on water but which look like five-toed pontoons.  Life is just not fair when it comes to good looking, they say.

Mallards -- just listen sometime -- laugh uproariously when they see the coots' feet.  The industrious mudhens in their dozens dash into the water and swim around maniacally, doing their best to ignore the raucous insults hurled their way.  The geese yawn and blink languidly, gossip with each other and then settle down for naps.  A lady shuffles across the street and eases down on a park bench; out dash all the bastard ducks, surrounding her feet and scrambling for scattered crusts of bread.  Their feathers, loose and unruly anyway, form a small cloud overhead and all around, sifting down to the grass like small rocking boats on the breeze of the afternoon.

Trolley Coming! (Posted originally 2/19/10)

It’s cold and windy out today. A storm’s coming, whipping itself through the trees and around the flagpoles, snapping the pennants and flags, cracking them like whips.  Far out on the bay you can see the telltale footprints of the rough air scuffing the surface, darkening it.

I was amused to read in the paper yesterday that many people come to the Monterey Peninsula and have no idea that Pacific Grove exists, even when they’re standing right in the middle of it.  “Wow, really?” said the town leaders.  A couple of years ago, a decision was made, either by the Chamber of Commerce or The City, to opt out of paying a fee to the Monterey Visitors Bureau to promote Pacific Grove.  The idea was that the fee was too much for the city to afford.  So, maps of the Monterey area were printed for tourists that did not include Pacific Grove.  In the space where the city actually exists, the map shows a vague, undefined green area.  Tourists since then, clutching the maps in hand as they drove, made a mildly logical assumption that buildings they encountered west of the Aquarium -- the roads, the signs, everything -- were all simply an extension of Monterey. 

Now Pacific Grove, blinking in surprise, is finding the error of its ways and has decided to pitch in and help pay for a trolley-like bus to ferry tourists over from Cannery Row in the summer months.  The bus will provide a free little tour of PG’s charms as found along Ocean View Boulevard, Sunset Boulevard, and Lighthouse Avenue.  Imagine the surprise and delight tourists will feel when they are told that – what! – a wholly unexpected town has materialized from out of the fog, and it’s cute!  It has a sort of magical ring to it.  Discovery is always one of the best features of travel anyway.  Why not discover an entire metropolis that seemed to have not even existed the moment before?  I like the idea. 

As a matter of fact, it’s in keeping with the history of the city.  A little bit fussy, out of touch with the messes of the world, hunkered down most of the time when the weather turns up blustering and gray, like today.  You kind of get the idea that if Pacific Grove were set down in the middle of Los Angeles, it would be mowed down so fast that it would be reduced to smoking ashes in a matter of minutes.  That’s charm for you.

I've been experiencing some technical difficulties with my computer.  I published a post earlier today, but as you can see, this is it so far.  Odd, these computers.  They think they're so cool, you know? 

Inspiration in Spandex

I worked out really hard at the pool yesterday.  Today I'm a little stiff, a little creaky, grunting a bit when I sit or stand, but I had really good inspiration to go back for another workout in spite of the pretzelized condition of my body.

Last night Lindsey Vonn lay on the cold hard snow at the end of her downhill ski run, screaming and crying with abandon.  So spent was she that people all around stood looking down at her, wondering if they should scoop her up with a shovel and pile her into some quiet, medically safe place. 

Earlier in the broadcast, the announcer had breathlessly stated that Lindsey's shin was so sore that she could barely walk, could hardly put her right foot into her ski boot.  He said she was hobbled and sore, just like I felt today but probably 100 times worse.  At the top of a high mountain there were officials murmuring into their walkie-talkies, checking their timing equipment, looking at the markers and flags on the course.  They set skiers off at precise intervals and watched them rush away and disappear over the edge of a cliff, so steep was the mountain. 

To try to get an idea of the game, imagine you're sitting on the steepest incline, just short of vertical, that you have ever looked down.  It's covered with ice-like snow, there are curves and bumps here and there, but essentially it's a chute down which young, pretty, intelligent women streak, with slick flexible boards strapped to their feet, very fast.

Imagine you're driving on the freeway.  You're in your airbagged, comfort-controlled car, doing 65 mph, the usual cruising speed, and you look out your window and a pink blur goes past you 20 mph faster than you are traveling, all tucked down, wearing a gaudy spandex suit and a crash helmet.  She leaves you behind like you're standing still.  Tilt the road to 45 or 50 degrees, stretch the distance of the incline to 3 or 4 miles, add ice, curves, bumps, immobile trees and you've got Downhill Skiing.  Uh huh. 

So, there's Lindsey set to go in the starting gate, all trembling and twitchy up there, gloved hands gripping and regripping her poles and looking like wild horses couldn't keep her from tearing down the slope.  Then, she takes off.  It was mentioned that she uses men's skis for extra stability and speed, which takes a whole lot more strength and stamina than most women want to train into their legs.  An incredibly sore shin squashed into a hard and unforgiving ski boot is bad enough, but then ask it to handle the extra weight and torque of the bigger ski.  The "run" was a devilish course that the announcers were calling "incredibly icy, steep and difficult," and those announcers have seen a few mountains.  Her competitors were crashing left and right, launching into the blue vault of the sky and landing like beanbags at 70 mph.  The mountainside was littered with bashed-up skiers and their equipment. 

She blasts like a wild woman down that steep and crazy mountain, favoring the screamingly painful right leg, not taking no for an answer, throwing every bit of her desire into the moment, sometimes skiing on one ski when she needed to be solidly on two.  She was skiing almost literally by the seat of her pants at times.  She gave it everything she had and beat the second-place girl by half a second.  Then, she collapsed and commenced crying.  Just like she had lost something, not won.

Some wondered if she was happy or unhappy, what was she feeling?  I don't think anyone but she can really know.  She took her talent and vision to a level that we usually never stop to imagine as remotely possible.  Good for Lindsey and her blazing effort, her persistence and her incredible courage.  She inspired me. 

In my world, Lindsey Vonn got me out to the pool even though I was a little sore, a little creaky, and inspired me to get back at it once more.  Thank you, Lindsey Vonn, for giving me a new vision of inspiration and drive.  I need it every so often, even if it is ever so slight compared to what you have in spades.  

Quiet Sounds

We who are quiet admire a quiet world.  That's not to say a silent world -- although some silence is a balm -- but a quiet one.

Pacific Grove is a pretty low-key town as towns go in California, but truly natural peaceful quiet is hard to come by even so.  I've just listened to a Newsweek online magazine piece

http://www.newsweek.com/id/40211#?t=61743767001&l=1825927394

about a man named Gordon Hempton, a sound ecologist who listens with more than his ears, measuring the nature of quiet, especially in natural places, by recording it in stereo.  He states, to my sadness, that he has found only 12 places in the country where there is truly an absence of human noise.  I was thinking about my trip on the Rogue River last summer and how I listened for those few days almost solely to the sounds of nature woven through with the fabric of river noises.  It was a peaceful interlude of four days.

Four days.

In an entire year of 365 days, I had four to listen to a world without jets, cars, trains, buses, scooters, jackhammers, sirens, TV and car stereos.  Most wonderful of all, I heard no Harleys ramming my ears.  But, even with acoustic evidence of our motorized and mechanized occupation of the planet being absent, there were still human voices all around. 

Living in a quiet environment -- wherever it might be -- can be unnerving for some folks, although I have no idea why.  I don't even want to venture a guess.  Physiologically, tolerating incessant unnatural noise is, actually, sickening.  Some carefully designed studies have shown that our bodies show chronic signs of stress if we are exposed to loud noise over long periods of time.  We are more aware of sounds than we believe we are; all sound is perceived by our ears, but our brains pay attention to only certain ones consciously.  We have to work to tune out all the rest. That intrusive-sound-filtering work is stressful, even if to a small degree.  Ever wonder why you can't sleep at night or why you feel irritable "for no good reason"?  My hunch is that the noise level is so different at night compared to what you've been enduring all day that your nerves are jangling. 

The stress changes us over time.  In addition, because we are drowning out natural sounds, we are losing awareness of them and what they could be telling us.

There is a question:  If a tree falls in a forest and we are not there to hear it, did it make a sound?  To that, I say:  We seem to be at a point where we barely hear it even if we actually are there, so inured to natural sound are we by the blasting cacophony of daily life. 

Another study I read today says that a majority of adults over the age of 65 don't believe that global warming is affecting the earth.  I'd like those elders to ask their grandchildren or any small child if they have ever heard a cricket or a frog at night - common sounds years ago when those elders were kids themselves.  I'd guess that most kids here in PG -- definitely in large cities -- have no idea what a cricket sounds like because they've never heard one.  Both crickets and frogs are our favorite folk songsters.  Walt Disney became a wealthy man based on the simple charms of crickets and mice.  While we gaze at a night sky splashed with a zillion stars and sense infinity there, what night voices still sing?  Go listen. 

In the entire time I've taken to write this post, I have not had one second of natural quiet, and I won't if I stay at home for the rest of the afternoon.  I find that impossibly sad.

Alvarado Street Farmers Market Dash and a Smile

After all the errands and busyness of the day ended, the last fading image in my mind is a beautiful smile. 

Oftentimes we see other people and find them familiar in some mysterious way.  We see something in the shape of the nose, the tilt of the head, the lift of the brow.  The fleeting glance can arrest us and we think to ourselves, "Hmm, I've seen her before, but where?" Other times, we see a familiar person, a relative, and realize for the first time who they look exactly like.  It can be startling, and sometimes it's haunting if the similarity is with someone who has passed on.  There are unexpected moments when you see another's face unveiled in a brief instant before you and then it disappears just as quickly, ghost-like, teasing, beguiling. 

Today was a very busy, errand-filled day, and I never caught up, never felt finished.  One thing after another tripped me, turned me and kept me off balance.  None of them were bad; they simply swarmed me, outnumbered me and kept me in a defensive posture until I could break free. 

On one of those occasions, I zoomed pell mell for the farmers market in Monterey on Alvarado Street, which starts at about 4 PM and runs until 7 PM.  Since I'm still unwinding from all the running today, here's the down and dirty on getting to and from the market with the least amount of wear and tear:  Go at 3:30 or so, before the crowds hit.  Park in the Tyler Street parking garage where you get one hour free; it's very close by.  Bring your own carry bag, plenty of cash, and go south on Alvarado to the end, turn around and work your way back to the garage, little by little.  You'll see vendors selling dates, raisins, seasonal fruits, eggs, baked goods, craft items, soaps, Asian vegetables, flowers, honey and condiments. You'll see hippies, soldiers, doctors, students, kids, dogs, surfers, and chefs from local restaurants dashing out for a few armfuls of fresh goods.  After all that, cross Franklin and wade through all the food vendors until you find just the right plate of food to satisfy your soul.  That's it.  That's the market.  It's quiet, noisy, fresh and ancient all in one. 

So, I did that and soaked it up, wished I could dive right into the flowers and embrace them.  I just stood there grinning like a fool.  Right along with everyone else.  You walk past the fruit vendors and they hand you a sample of their goods, and you're hooked.  Today, it was blood oranges, navel oranges, dried fruit, dates and one guy with early season strawberries.  I have to say, the oranges were so good I almost lit a candle and said a Hail Mary. 

After all that bliss, I went home and began the unwinding process - I hoped.  But, no.  One more errand to my dear aunt's house to return some borrowed chairs.  She is unique, is my aunt, in ways I cannot adequately describe here.  Suffice it to say she has a similar look to mine.  But she also looks like so many other people that with each inflection of her voice and every turn of her face, the light caught her in passing and gave me subtle glimpses of so many other relatives and people I've met. Mostly, I thought of her and her life and her experiences and my own.  If there is magic in humankind, it's found in the face of a beloved elder. 

Her smile and voice are with me, and it's a very sweetly specific groove to be in right now. 

Picnic Walk at Carmel Meadows Shore

With a small tasty snack (sliced pineapple, cheese, chocolate) and some water, we went south to Carmel River State Beach to walk.  There is an unnamed trail on State Park land that you can access by car, or by bike if you ride down there.  Look for a little red schoolhouse called Bay School -- a Montessori school -- that serves as a landmark about two miles south of Rio Rd along Highway 1.  It lies just north of Monastery Beach along the coast.  It's a sharp right turn.  You don't slow down, you end up in the sandbox upside down at the school.  So, easy does it.  

Park along the little road, lock up your car, and start walking west through a simple opening in the fence you'll see there.  Says dogs must be on leash and no forest fires and no camping and no to a couple of other things, too.  But, it's good, free, very pretty.  The trail is impossible to miss and mostly flat.  Generally, I would say the area is called Carmel Meadows Trails, named after a housing area that flanks it on the east side. 

You walk along on the gently curving trail through stretches of local chaparral like coyote brush, wild radish, alyssum gone wild and fragrant as honey perfume, sage, and California poppies.  Almost immediately, you get big stunning panoramic views of Monastery Beach, the Hudson Ranch and Pt Lobos to the south and west.  And the ocean of course. 

The storm surf that has been so heavy lately is still pounding the shore, roaring and rumbling.  As we walked along the trail heading north along the bluffs to Carmel River State Beach, the surf was tremendously distracting and beautiful in the winter light.  The stretch of trail has been punctuated through the years by thoughtful placement of viewing benches that face west.  At sunset, I'm sure all the benches are occupied as besotted happy people gaze at the hammered gold and amber art painted across the sky. 

It's very pleasant to find a spot on the wild shore to stretch out a towel, set up some beach chairs and enjoy a picnic.  Most areas are secluded with easy access and eye-popping beauty in every direction.  Today when we were on our walk, we saw a few groups setting up spots for the afternoon, steadying chairs and spreading blankets, easing themselves down with happy sighs of delight.   

When we'd reached our destination -- the Carmel River outflow -- we sat on a few boulders below the bluffs and watched the confluence of the river and sea.  Some waves were monsters and washed way up the river, around our rocks.  I felt as though we could have been set loose on the current and carried out to sea to sail away.  It was a fine day, an invigorating walk and spectacular waves.  Got a few good pictures, too.   

 

 

Where Is Love?

It's a soft sweet day today.  I remember Valentine's Days when the weather was just as gentle but felt much more prickly and odd, but it was all in my heart. 

Valentine's Day is a loaded day emotionally, equal to Christmas and birthdays.  If you let them, those love-weighted days can sneak up behind you and run you through with loneliness.

There were plenty of occasions when I was left to my own devices, forced to look in the mirror at myself and make a decision to choose something other than sadness and self-pity.  Sometimes, I yielded to that and didn't want anything more than that.  I had a few loops of conversation that would play over and over in my mind, that didn't take me anywhere but into deeper melancholy.  I kicked myself when I was down.  No one had to do it for me because I was so good at it. 

Most other times, though, I did round up some resolve and chose the alternative, which was to get the heck out of my rut and go look for something to do.  I kind of took myself by the scruff of the neck and shoved myself out the door and, almost every time, forgot about being alone or sad and glum.  And I found what I was looking for.  It was in the mirror, in my eyes, within my self. 

We say, "It's all in your head."  But, I also say, "It's all in your heart."  The heart, where courage and inspiration reside, is an infinite wellspring of love.  When I couldn''t turn to another person that I called lover or husband, there was my chance to face myself and say gently, "You have all the love you need right here inside you.  Give it away, and it will never be gone at all." 

If you are alone today, maybe feeling undone by unfulfilled expectations, I say give away all the love, in every way possible at every moment, to every thing and in every place that you go.  Beam it out there.  Blaze with it. 

Sweet baby James Taylor's song says, "Shower the people you love with love."  It's not a bad thing, is it? 

Storm Surf and Berry Cheese Danish

Now that I've lived here for a few decades, my ears are tuned in to the lowest register of sounds:  Storm surf.  The power and immensity of a zillion tons of salt water punching granite crags in an endless conflict never ceases to stun me. 

We staggered around collecting a few things this morning, picked up a berry cheese danish (eat one, pass GO and say hello to the angels) and began to scan the shore for the best viewing spots.  You know, it was just pig heaven, pure and simple.  Yet simple it was not.  The flavor of the berries and cheese, good Valve Job coffee just brewed at home (from Acme Coffee), and the astonishing power and gorgeous beauty of stampeding surf sent us into a wild multi-layered sensory overload, kind of a weird orgasmic experience I guess.  My heavens, it was glorious, we grinned.

After shooting pictures at the parking lot retaining wall splash zone, Pt Pinos's booming monsters promised to be impressive because of the swell coming from due west.  Towering arcs of spray were shooting left and right as the 20-foot waves smacked the ragged granite. The ground shook. 

After the Pavels Bakerei treats, we had to move and took off on a long walk along the boardwalk that skirts the Asilomar shore all the way to Spanish Bay, uphill to Asilomar Conference grounds and then back along the shore to the car.  I saw the MetLife blimp buzzing overhead in the distance.  The golf fans watching action on the three courses in play for the AT&T had paid lots of money for that privilege, but our show was intensely spectacular and, best of all, it was free. 

A Flying Dog and the Little Captain

Everything in the world looked like something else today.  Water looked like melted silver.  The early morning sky looked like hammered metal.  Spraying crests of waves looked like a cloud of diamonds thrown to the wind.  Mushrooms looked like the knees of the devil pushing up through the sod. A leaping dog looked like Hermes with a red, flying tongue. 

I slipped through the bewitching world with many sideward glances. 

Then I thought about: 

A little boy riding astride the hip of his father, a small and tender captain on the prow of his ship, figurehead of a kingdom to come.  The silky strands of his blond hair lifted and settled on the light air.  One arm rested lightly, righting him as his ship swayed, and he looked ahead to the horizon, brow furrowed and mouth pursed.  It was serious business, but his balance was good and his eyes keen.  The boy and the man moved forward, linked at the arms, in quiet command of their business, out together in the city. 

A slow turning ballet of clouds swirled a thousand or two feet above me in the winter sky.  Gracefully, slowly twisting and tumbling softly through space and time, they moved on and on and on.  The boy riding, the clouds slowly spinning, the water glimmering silver in the distance, and a jumping dog who launched his body in an ecstatic salute to weightlessness:  Joy, limitless joy.  And love. 

Love is the source of my imaginings, fear the source of my inhibitions.  Gravity and dark heaviness counterbalanced each and every thing I saw today, every movement, every little breath.  I left the darkness where it lay and saw beauty and tenderness and a flying dog above a wet breadth of sand.  I chose love. 

Mixmaster Disaster

My mom had a Sunbeam Mixmaster 10-speed mixer with two beaters and two bowls.  I knew every inch of its motorized body and the nuances of its extremities, admired it for what it could produce for me.  Afternoons, I'd come home from school, do homework and then head to the kitchen to concoct a blazingly glorious cake for dessert, a cake so richly appointed with frosting and fussiness that I seemed destined for fame, perhaps as Betty Crocker II.  

The actual Betty Crocker, neatly coiffed domestic goddess of baking products, smiled at me from the outlines of a little spoon on her cake mixes.  I smiled back, winked at her sometimes.  I read the boxes like a novel, gleaned hints of baking technique, carefully read the subtleties of adding egg, water and oil, critically imagined the final product.  The thin cardboard containers of mix held cleverly designed plastic bags that you could zip open with an economy of motion and ease that I just loved.  Betty Crocker herself, cake master in an apron, surely approved the exacting standards of all her products.  She looked so unruffled and fine in her little spoon picture.  I imagined myself there, and it was wonderful.

I would pour the mix into the larger of the two stainless steel bowls, check for lumps, crack my knuckles, and set the oven to 350 degrees.  I'd fit the two beaters into their receptacles on the mixer and lock them into place.  You had to pay attention to the shape of the two beaters; one had rounded tines and the other squared off tines.  If you got them reversed, the squared-off beater would whack the side of the mixing bowl and make an embarrassing racket, and you'd feel like a nincompoop cake baker in there in the kitchen.  None of that for me.  I was in my domain, set for glory.

The beaters would settle down into the mix and you'd turn the dial to its slowest setting:  Level 1.  At that low speed, the electric motor of the Mixmaster would be growling lightly as if it were hoping for more to do, maybe hoping to really strut its stuff.  I'd turn the dial on the mixer up to 2 or 3 and then add my cup and a half of water, steadily.  I'd gaze down into the mix as the beaters got down to business and blended it, scraping the sides of the bowl deftly with my spatula.  I'd pour in my half cup of oil with a steady masterful drizzle, evenness of pour being the ultimate mark of a sure cake baker.  Then in would go two whole eggs.  The mix would get gooey for a minute and a little revolting, kind of slimy, but the Mixmaster would whisk it into a glossy batter before I could have second thoughts.  I would apply the spatula to errant bits of unmixed ingredients clinging to the bowl that looked like they were attempting to escape the tines of the beaters.  Confidence was everything.

I imagined myself smiling, professional and capable, waving to my throngs of admirers, signing autographs on cake mix boxes, posing for photographs, taste testing my way through a gigantic gleaming kitchen manned with serious-looking chemists, all working at my direction.  

Medium speed was next:  6.  Yes, that's right.  I'd bypass 5 and go right to 6.  Medium Speed for me and my Mixmaster.  Then, it was time for cleaning the spatula on the beaters while they were whizzing around in a blur of flashing stainless steel.  The electric motor of the Sunbeam would be at optimum speed, but poised for more.  This was not a maneuver for amateurs or someone using less than full attention.  I'd mastered this, and I felt this was an achievement of true Cake Makers Hall of Fame proportions.  I also sensed it was important to keep my mixer tidy and clean -- exemplary of a master at work -- during the mixing of batter.  I would attend to the needs of the machine, giving it plenty of elbow room and a sturdy stance on the countertop, and I was attuned to its many pitches of sound as it worked.  We were symbiotic; together we always produced a light, fluffy and delicious cake with a perfect "crumb," a term we cake mix masters used to describe cake texture.  The crumb of my cakes was elevated, sublime, nuanced.

In our house, there were five kids, a few cats, a ringing phone, friends over, homework projects to do, and at mealtimes an urgency to get dinner on the table because bellies were growling.

Having drifted into my Betty Crocker reverie, imagining rising fame as a Master Cake Baker with legions of admiring fans, I was poised to scrape my spatula with the Sunbeam in full roar at Medium Speed, Level 6.  I lowered the spatula, taking care to position it neatly toward the spinning beaters.  Steady, steady... All of a sudden, the phone was ringing, sisters were shouting, doors slammed and someone burst into the kitchen being chased by another.  I lost focus and looked up in alarm for just a split second, the split second it takes for a hand to press a red button and an atomic bomb to blast everything into oblivion.

The beaters grabbed the spatula in a startling grip. The Mixmaster bucked on the countertop with an angry snarl, throwing batter at me, the floor, the walls, the ceiling and God in heaven for all I knew.  I frantically grabbed the mixer and fended off the bowl with what was left of the batter as it jumped off the turntable.  The spatula was chopped and mangled, the beaters were still exerting pressure against it and the motor was still powering stupidly.  Once I gripped the dial, I turned it off, but I smelled that telltale odor of scorched electrical parts.  Cake baking heaven was gone in an instant.  I was left standing dumbly, alone in the kitchen, the house quiet once again.

I looked around and took stock of the batter splats and ruin.  I think the Mixmaster was panting; it looked ragged.  I took the beaters off and stood there holding them.  They were misshapen, bent.  My little sister wandered in.  I offered her a beater to lick - the real prize for bystanders.  I sat and licked the other one in silence.  We looked at each other and at the mess there.  "It's good.  You're a good cake maker," she said.  I noticed Betty Crocker over on the cake mix box, still looking tidy and trim.  Her eyes seemed to follow me, but they had a new glint.  I, too, have killed a Mixmaster on my road to cake baking glory, ruined a few German Chocolate cakes along the way, she seemed to say.  It's part of the game.

Yeah, me and you, Betty.  Here's to kitchen disasters!  I saluted her with a tip of my beater, a nod of my head, and licked my bent beater.  Best batter I ever ate, mixed with humility as it was, yes indeed.

Golf in the Groove

Today is the first of four days of golf tournament hijinks here in The Groove.  Those wacky golfers have begun to arrive in all their thousands.  The real estate business is getting its hopes up, as evidenced by a plethora of ads in our local paper depicting the most lavish and extravagant homes for sale around Pebble Beach, Carmel, Big Sur and Carmel Valley.  Golf promoters here are holding their collective breath and praying the weather will be mild and conducive to full rounds of golf every day.  Locals laugh, "When is the AT&T coming?  Must be soon; the weather is horrible." 

While I was swimming today, the MetLife blimp buzzed overhead, making its way from the local airport to begin circling over the three courses hosting play.  I waved.  We locals are friendly and have all had our shots.  We get excited when the private jets roar overhead.  We don't mind; it reminds us that money is coming and business will be good.  Besides, they'll all go away again in a few days and we can get back in the groove. 

Many of us are volunteering as marshalls on the courses, doing our best to keep the bewildered fans herded nicely away from private homes, sand traps and cliffs.  An item in the local paper today stated that a Giant Surf contest at Mavericks (Half Moon Bay's Pillar Point) north of here is set to go on Saturday.  "We're 99% sure we can have a contest." was the quote, indicating that 40-foot waves were almost guaranteed for Saturday.  Sure, it's north of here by 100 miles, but I'm thinking a pretty good surge is going to show up on our coast, too, which could add a few gray hairs to the heads of course marshalls during the tournament.  A lot of Pebble Beach is played right alongside the ocean, which acts as a major "hazard."  So, golf fans, watch out for a little extra sea foam during play.  It will be very picturesque.  We just don't want any visitors to be swept away unexpectedly. 

In addition to the golf event, this weekend also includes Valentines Day and Chinese New Year.  I would think this might be a real challenge for chefs:  Chinese Golfing Valentines Day celebration fare.  Dim Sum shaped like pink golf balls?  Fore! 

Dewy Walk

Up at the crack of midday today, or what seemed like it to me, with a sigh. 

On another day, at the crack of dawn, as I did often, I went outside very early to feel the morning air, view the evidence of a long cool night just passed.  Crystalline droplets of dew were still freshly pearled on the slender curving blades of summer grass and foxtails.  I waded through it and saw that each footstep left a story in matted grass and damp earth and I felt as one who is baptised, and God was somehow closer to me then.

On such mornings,  a sheening coat of glistening moisture on every tendril and hair transforms the tiniest details of texture as if they were symbols of the whisperings and sounds of darkness.  It was quiet, always, at that early hour, but the quiet swelled with relief and then renewal. 

The middle kingdom of dawn was one of dew evaporating slowly and quietly, and it faded mysteriously into the unseen realm of vapor and air.  I felt I was walking through a portal from one world to another with heightened senses and a hope that the dew would speak to me, allow me to exist the way it did.  I wanted remants of it to stay with me all day, but all I could do was seek it again in the tiny hours of the next dawn, before the birds sang.  

Hastings Natural History Reservation and Art

After exploring Hastings Natural History Reservation in upper Carmel Valley on Saturday morning and meeting Dr. Mark Stromberg, zoologist, resident director, and man with an endless supply of wacky science stories, an idea has begun to hatch.

Hastings is part of the University of California Nature Reserve system, consisting of about 33 properties in many areas of the Golden State.  In each of them, grad students help scientists conduct studies of everything from geological history of California (now that's a really longitudinal study) to the mating habits of black widow spiders (really big ewww factor).  Hastings alone has generated something on the order of 600 papers over its lifetime as one of the reservations.  It's generally closed to the public in order to preserve the pristine nature of the land and so that studies can be conducted without "contaminated" data.  In other words, if mountain bikers and horseback riders were tromping through regularly, resident species would be trashed, trampled and scared off, not to mention the introduction of further non-native species.  Groups of local K-12 students are welcomed now and again in an outreach effort to connect the kids to science and local native history. 

You get the image as you listen to Dr. Stromberg that the scientists who have taken up residence on the property through the past several decades are a rather quirky lot.  Probing minds have figured out the social structure of acorn woodpeckers, the symbiotic nature of spanish moss and blue oak trees and the effect of gophers on native grasses.  And about a zillion other things that you get curious about if you spend a little time in our coastal wood- and grasslands.  But, the persistence of the scientists over time as they study the minutiae of nearly invisible things has been impressive to a spectacular degree.  Some studies have been ongoing for over 20 years, something the Reservation is famous for being able to provide.  

Now, in the dreary broken days of California's bankrupt economy, the UC system is suffering from an alarming lack of funding.  Thus, Stromberg and his colleagues hope to find other sources of money in order to continue their work, arcane though it may seem to us.  There is benefit to all of humankind, and this one little item is a good example:  One Hastings study found that crickets have little cups inside their "ears" that direct sound to their nearest ear, acting as a funnel of sound in a way.  The idea has been adapted to the newest generation of hearing aids.  The ability of a person who wore hearing aids in the past to differentiate between one sound and another was pretty dismal until the cricket study revealed this tiny mechanical adaptation that the insects have made.  Pretty amazing, huh?

I've begun to think that the science that is revealing amazing things about Hastings and its 1500 species resident there is not the only thing that the beautiful coastal hills and valleys can teach us.  Artists and writers can be equally influenced and productive when allowed to nourish their minds there, too.  With respect and attention to the needs of the land and studies being conducted there, perhaps the artistic community can be welcomed and, in turn, present a different interpretation of the natural world than pure data can.  Through interpretive photography, art and/or writing, Hastings might pique some interest in the local and state-wide community, and consequently - I would hope - more financial support.  Hmmm....I'll keep you posted.

Flying Dreams

Seems to me, it's not my choice to be alive.  I am.  All at once, I was alive and my heart was beating and it's beating still.  When I was old enough to notice, I saw that I couldn't fly, and that mystified me because in my dreams I could fly and I did.  I just lifted up my arms and took a deep breath and lifted right up off the ground and kept going up.  I looked down on everything and hovered up there and kept watching things. 

Now and then, I have these slow-moving dreams where I can fly and off I go.  All my life I've had them.  I fly like superman does, arms out in front and horizontal to the ground, but I look down on the stuff down there below me and it feels far away, passing below me like a movie.  I've always flown in a way that you might call mysterious.  And that doesn't mean it's because I'm human and I don't have wings.  No.  It's the feeling of lifting up and taking that deep breath that does it, makes it mysterious and lot like hope rising up. 

Sometimes I know I'm going to have a flying dream and I just settle down and try to be patient for it, because you know what they say.  You notice a dream and it goes away.  So, if I'm kind of nonchalant about it - meaning I try to look like I don't care one way or the other - I can let the dream sneak into my bed and curl up with me and then it's mine. 

I have had times when I wished I really was in a flying dream and could lift up, like a bubble in water, up to the clouds and then stretch out my arms and decide which way to go away and then just go.  But, like being alive, lifting up above my troubles is not really my choice - at least by flying.  It's not my choice to have the troubles I do.  I have them.  They're there, like a mean dog.

Contrast of Countries

Yahoo America!  Time to watch the Super Bowl!  And all those wacky commercials! "Spots" run during the game are the most expensive of all TV ads, costing millions of dollars per minute.  Seems to me there was no shortage of takers bellying up to the window to pay the man.  Talking babies, screaming chickens, green police, and the arm-punching game (for naming a color of a new VW car - Passat?), and crazed Dorito nerds populated the commercials.  Cha-ching! 

Many thousands of screaming Americans were paying hundreds of dollars, thousands probably, to attend the Super Bowl, and millions more watched from their living rooms, noshing on chips, drinks, snacks, who knows what.  It's fun, it's exciting, but oh my does it present a horribly ugly contrast to poverty-stricken and death-benumbed Haiti, a geographically close neighbor of ours.   I don't think there is any more magnificently incomprehensible picture of the luck of birth than represents itself in the comparison of the USA and Haiti, especially on Super Bowl Sunday.  And I'll bet people everywhere in our country complained about their food today, the temperature of their homes, the inconvenience of waiting for someone else to get out of the way at the supermarket. 

Next time you start to whine about something messing up your American life in some way, just stop.  Then, donate to the Red Cross or Doctors Without Borders or a bona fide relief group.  You'll either stop complaining or you'll help out; I hope you do both.  I have.  Go Saints!  (they won)

Message From the Outpost

Cloud had a snit and threw hail at us for 15 seconds.  Gone now. 

Day went by so fast, calendar is smoking. 

Maybe the hail storm actually lasted hours.  Time warp or something.  All's quiet. 

Awaiting further instructions.  Over and out.

Wisp of Imagination

Overnight rain had come down from somewhere up there - where exactly? - and soaked the planks of douglas fir that form the fence, darkening it as the fibers of the wood absorbed moisture.  Wood, very heavy and wet, stood in place without sagging, even though it might have wanted to, stolid and determined, static. 

When the sun met the fence, it became a dark stage for an ethereal and magical performance, played by the most basic elements we know:  Air and water.  Up wisped the strands of new clouds, twisting and turning slowly to their own song.  They looked young and fresh, breezy in their movements, swirling slowly, prettily.  The backlit moving vapor was enchanting; it danced, visible very briefly and then invisible, elusive, almost nothing at all. 

They were wisps that embodied the invisible, the unseen world of thought and memory.  As lightly and softly as they played above the fence, our imaginations turn and shift, barely noticed sometimes, formless but constantly moving and shifting, ungovernable but desired and prized.  We can no more live without our imagination than we can live without water.  Lost to water, parched thirst and death overcome us.  Absent imagination, we are lost as human beings. 

That the fence as stage, and vapor as unbound dancer, were not seen by anyone save one sleepy person peering from a bedroom window did not diminish their place in the whole fabric of the day, nor their right to simply exist and play.  An imagination that plays without observation or qualification still influences the rest of the universe, as it has been born of those influences and joins them as the wisps joined the passing clouds above. 

Stepping up on the Tomato Box

As mentioned in a past post, more than a week ago, I've been tracking where my food comes from.  I thought it would be relatively straightforward, but I've had a hard time with this project.  Food labeling is rather vague in most cases and nonexistent in certain others. 

As a child of the 60s - at least that's when I can begin to remember what was in the news - I read Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, a landmark book that was actually written back in the 30s, I believe, about the meat-packing industry.  I also read Rachel Carson's Silent Spring and Diet For a New America (I've forgotten the author, regrettably).  Those books and a few others at the same time were very impressive to me.  I became passionate about recycling, the population explosion, pollution and the Back to the Earth Movement, which was very popular at the time.  I became a vegetarian eventually, to the horror of my grandmother who was certain I would become malnourished and fizzle away.  I learned about growing things, the ecosystem, biology, ecology, oceanography and any other ologies that I could.  It mattered to me very much and made more sense than anything else that I was learning or seeing in the world of adults.  I wanted to recycle everything and was very frustrated by the absence of interest in the community around me, save for a few equally concerned individuals. 

My thought when I saw An Inconvenient Truth presented by Al Gore was:  What has taken so darned long for this idea to be taken seriously?  Well, the sad truth is that it has been suppressed and jeered at by people who stood to lose their shirts if their brand of "ethics" were held up for public scrutiny. 

The whole subject is enormous and multifaceted.  I am sad to say that some of my most beloved family members and friends are those I know to persist stubbornly in denying these problems exist; at best, they ignore the issues. 

Well, back to my original thought:  The origin of the food in my cupboard and refrigerator.  I see that companies are listed as being the producers, but where the actual ingredients come from is often totally obscure.  So, this has refocused me on the practice of thinking globally but buying locally, seasonally.  That is:  If the product is not grown within 100 miles of my home, it is not meant to be eaten at this time of year.  I can wait for the season to arrive.  I don't really need to eat tomatoes year round.  Instead, I can turn my attention to winter squash and other vegetables that do grow normally in winter.  The good news is, the vegetables that are truly in season are most beneficial for me to eat now.  I am more likely to do well as the flu season invades because the nutrients found in winter vegetables boost my immune system that way.  When summer comes, and I am perspiring more (oh wait, it's Pacific Grove), I'll need the vitamin C in summer season fruits like tomatoes and strawberries. 

I am doing what I can to reduce my so-called carbon footprint and I love supporting my local farmers, who are hard-working entrepreneurs of the finest stripe.  Like one local coffee company's slogan says, "Resist Corporate Coffee!"  I'd extend that to:  Resist the entire corporate megalithic farming industry; support biodiversity.  It's critical. 

Note:  I suggest you read the above books, although there are zillions of others now to read; they were landmark works of the day.  Also - and brace yourself - see Food, Inc.  It, combined with my personal lifelong interest in local foods and ethnic cuisines, has reinforced my beliefs and convictions. 

Mysterious Blonde

I don't know.  Was it just me?

I was out walking down by the waterfront one day, and the waves were rockin' and rollin', kicking and screaming,  causing a real mess.  PG residents and visiting drivers swerved around, excited that something big was happening.  They crowded in on the shore road, causing near misses with other cars, runners, guardrails and dogs.  When a big wave - a really giant, sinister, big bruiser of a wave - would begin to rumble in, cars slowed and swerved, the drivers' eyes peering way off to the right, riveted, seeing something exciting for a change.  It was like the waves were big magnets and the cars were being pulled to them by their front grills.

I paused to watch the waves smash up against a retaining wall and listen to the foomping thud of impact.  Towering geysers of spray shot high in the air, reaching for seagulls and the moon, settling back with a littering splash.  It was like an asylum of insane chaotic beasts roaring and snorting.  Which is why cars were careening around the street and why the parking area right there was blocked off, like it was a crime scene. 

As I stood there with my cheap point-and-shoot camera - glad I'd at least remembered it - I noticed a pretty blonde woman who was getting buffeted by the wind.  She was holding a camera on a tripod, a large Nikon digital SLR with a pretty good-sized lens.  Expensive setup, in other words.  She was carrying it here and there, holding the rig by two of the tripod legs, one in each hand, at shoulder height, the way a person holds a little kid away from them who has just pooped their pants.   She looked up at the sky, to the left and back, out across the bay, and down the embankment below her feet.  I was curious and watched her.  She got nearer, staggering and shuffling, wrestling with the strap, squinting at it.  She looked so unfamiliar with the whole idea of photographing anything at all, but here she was near pounding winter surf.

I was too near her not to say anything after I'd been studying her, so I said hello and how was the picture taking going.  It clearly was going nowhere.

"Oh, I suck at this!" she said, laughing without smiling. 

Yeah, I know, I thought. 

In the universe I inhabit, you learn skills on beginner equipment and earn the right to use finer pieces once you've mastered the skills and developed an appreciation for the art form in which you are immersing yourself.  It seemed unjust, perverse, just plain wrong, a camera like that going to waste on her. I growled to myself about overprivileged rich people who don't deserve what they have, that they don't appreciate or deserve things they have because they haven't been vetted in some way, haven't clawed their way to a pinnacle of accomplishment, that they bypass GO and collect kudos based solely on the fact that they can afford something and not because they have actual talent or skill.  I grumped about not being able to afford a zillion-dollar fancy camera, that if I could, I sure would be taking a hell of a lot better pictures than she was probably getting, aiming at the sun and the dirt and not focusing, and didn't she know how to use the damn thing at all?  I went off; yes I did.  But, then I calmed down and took another look. Maybe it wasn't her fault. 

I watched her out of the corner of my eye.  She looked distracted, unhappy and awkward. I glanced around, thinking, and that little voice inside spoke up.

Maybe there was a car idling nearby, some gangster with shifty eyes, up to no good, who had shoved her out into the bluster to get rid of her while he arranged a murder on his cell phone.  "Here, take this, baby, and look busy.  Don't come back unless I give you the signal."

I don't know.  She was pretty, she was blonde and she didn't know diddly about that nice camera.  It didn't add up.
Or maybe she was a decoy, diverting attention from a break-in or a drug deal going down.  Yeah, that was it.  Maybe I'd need to duck flying bullets, report a crime scene, run for my life.  Jeez, maybe the camera was really a gun.  She might be a spy.  Or a double agent.  The surfers were probably smuggling dope on their surfboards, and she was trying to catch them, but the equipment was more than she'd bargained for.  She was in over her head.  Shots would ring out, the body would fall over the embankment, tumbling like a ragdoll to the rocks below, and she'd lie there in the cold surf, arms akimbo. 

The cops would have to be summoned, witnesses interviewed, the crime scene dusted for, well, something, anything.  Just dust the whole place, men, don't miss anything.  Be sure to photograph the body.  Then, meet me at the bakery.  No, that part doesn't seem likely.  Nah, not in the Groove.  The PG police never get to sit and write crime reports and munch on doughnuts.  They're banished from the world of doughnuts entirely.  Hell, none of the bakeries in the whole city even make doughnuts, for God's sake.  That's how quiet it is here.    

So, Mrs. Nikon Super Camera just staggered back and forth on the rock-strewn parking lot, scaring the gulls, pushing buttons randomly, hoping Johnny would give her the signal to get back in the car and stop wrecking her expensive hairdo.  I walked on my way, whistling tunelessly, hand twitching on my little camera, ready to whirl back around and snap photos if and when the gig or job or something went down.

Oh, yeah, we are all ready for mayhem.  Yessir, we are.  Unfortunately, the nearest we seem to get to it is the ocean tearing it up out there.  But, there's something fishy about that, you know?

Evening Image

The interloper comes:
Dusk stands brooding
at the doorway.

Twilight, wrapped in blue vapors,
envelops the shivering sun,
a smudge, a faltering step,
bidden to the darkening gyre
of night.

Pale tarnished stars tumble across
the sheets of obsidion sky, 
ghostly flecks of amber in
eternal glissade. 

Magic Garden Nursery

I leaped into the chill pool water today and felt like a carrot stick.  Crisped and curled at the ends.

After my near-carrot experience, I thought to myself:  "I need fertilizer!"  

In the general vicinity of El Estero Lake, across busy Fremont Street and behind El Estero Car Wash, lies a serene urban oasis called Cypress Garden Nursery.  It's an island of sorts, a small parallel universe, existing - thriving actually - amidst the din and clatter of street noise and industry all around.  Situating the nursery gardens in a busy commercial district gives them an immense appeal:  They feel much like a protected sanctuary where elfin magic has a much greater probability of existing.  The nursery has been there since 1952 or so and is run by a Japanese family whose charming and delightful aesthetic extends throughout the grounds. 

The appeal of gardening is that it lends itself to the creation of sanctuaries, nooks, walkways and organic beauty.  Almost all nurseries have some appeal, but this particular one really is something special.  So, take a walk with me and I'll show you around.

The Gardens lie in a microclimate "banana belt" formed by sheltering low hills and a bluff that shields cold winds from the bay.  (At the top of the bluff just to the east of the gardens are two of Monterey's oldest historic adobes, worth a walk up into the neighborhood on a sunny day.)  The even-tempered and mild climate is very easy on the plants, so everything looks vigorous and good. 

The grounds feel intimate yet occupy at least two acres, but all areas are easy to access, with outdoor areas arranged to the left of the parking area.  The shed, seedling beds and water fountains are to the right. Flowering plants are everywhere and are grouped according to drought tolerance and predominant colors. 

To the right of the parking area, you approach what looks like a low ranch-style wooden building that houses supplies of organic and ordinary chemical fertilizers, weed control products, tools, potting benches, seed packet displays and serendipitous odds and ends.  You can enter the main building or continue through a breezeway to wander throughout the greenhouse area, explore the furthest reaches of the potting sheds, or take a look at gurgling water features and wind chimes. 

Returning to the main building, you get to the heart of the place.  Chewey, the resident dog, pads around nudging wandering shoppers, hope filling her eyes, keen for morsels of food, quietly licking extended hands. 

The room is meant to display gardening implements.  I like to say it stocks imagination and play.  On table tops and benches are the oddest things, ranging from tiny, plump, winged Japanese angels; mechanical, wind-up toy shrimp; beeswax candles; earrings and jewelry with tiny organza bags; hats, hat racks and scarves; books; seeds; uniquely varied gift cards; sea glass, marbles and parlor games.  The emphasis is on light-hearted, hands-on living.  Here's what they say on their website:

"...we are a place where you can buy a really good sack of dirt, a pruning shear or just ask what could have possibly made that many holes in your coreopsis."

After a good, long, lazy doodling walk around, I assembled a pile of treasures near the checkout register:  Fertilizer (of course), crocs (had to join the nationwide craze sometime, right?), cards, a gardening book, and shears.  Also, a collection of interviews of great writers on CD (Terri Gross from Fresh Air, NPR).  Chewey gazed at my fingers with the look only dogs give, intensely wishing a treat might materialize out of thin air.  I'll try to remember to bring her a little something next time - my excuse to go back again.

I've been to Cypress Garden many times.  I've never felt sour, disappointed or out of sorts once I've crossed the portal there.  Not even close.  Matter of fact, I always feel uplifted, soothed and content after having gone. Definitely, my garden does better after each trip.  It's magic, true and certain.