I Sit Awake When June Stops

June just ended, and now it's July.  I am awake. It's dark outside, very quiet. Inside, the house is making its contented sounds:  A ticking clock, whirring refrigerator, a fly randomly crashing into the window pane with a quiet "tock." Fingertips on the keyboard are soft pats and clicks, contact of skin on plastic. My foot brushes the floor as I shift my weight on my chair. July is hushed so far, sidling in, awaiting its cue.

It seems the stage is set now that I'm aware of all these little things, but what's going to happen? My mind begins to wander...

Wouldn't it be strange if everything just collapsed like a soap bubble and disappeared? Only a little splash left behind? Or if a superhero flew through the window, smashing the glass, rolling onto the floor and then springing to his feet ready to save my life? The glass would turn to water drops and then diamonds everywhere. Conveniently. Glass shards are too much. Some other meander could accommodate them, not this one.

I wander further...

It might be possible that everything becomes edible: the walls caramel and the curtains crispy. Or that the lamps have voices and tell great stories while the chairs chuckle at the punchlines. The sofa sighs and stretches, reaching for its glass of brandy. I like the squeak of leather, so I'd add that in. It's clubby and rich with detail. Then, the doorknob turns and all is quiet again. Anticipation of something, but what? Let's see...

This is where stories start, you know. In the middle of the night when the town is quiet as one month stops and another starts. Between the lines of ordinary life.

Love Them

There is something about coincidence that you just cannot walk away from.  For instance, as I was sitting here reading my paper, someone else far away, unknown to me, killed themselves. At the very moment when I was eating a satisfying meal and getting ready to do my ordinary chores, a house caught on fire, bursting into flames that rose into the sky like a column of insanity.

Many things happen all at the same time. Some people believe that all of time is a single event of randomness to which we assign order so that we can begin to understand things, anything. I don't believe we do understand.

We have God and Allah and other names for the ultimate force of creation and goodness, the inexplicable, the things we cannot possibly take credit for. We always ask why. Why is there evil in the world? Why is this so wonderful and that so awful? Who is responsible? Who do we blame for bad luck and ill fate, for good luck and blessings?

If you are Zorba-esque, you embrace your brothers and dance on the beach, facing each other and listening to music while your heart beats and your feet move.  Alone, you are safe but only for the moment. Zorba-like, we shrug off the possibility of harm and ignore evil that lurks in the shadows beyond the fire's edge.

Turn off the damned TV and go say I love you to someone. And then dance with them, heart to heart.

Monterey's Aquarium

I was handed a free ticket to the Monterey Bay Aquarium this morning. As much as I love it, I don't go very often. Which is a shame. It's beautiful. Not simply beautiful, it's stunning. It's also just a mile away from my home. So, I took advantage of the gift and went on over to see the place again.

In the years preceding 1984 when the Aquarium was opened, Ocean View Boulevard (now renamed Cannery Row) was a boring, tired place, a remnant of a red-hot industry that had changed Monterey. Sardine factories and related businesses that had produced the odor of fish and money were in tatters or became tacky and unimaginative trinket shops. People visited out of curiosity after reading John Steinbeck's popular books, but that was it. They left without knowing anything about the deep ocean just steps away, a vast place miles deep invisible to all but the most determined members of science.

Meanwhile, Julie Packard, of Hewlett-Packard family fame, had become intensely interested in marine biology and looked around for something to do about it. She connected two simple dots:  Large empty industrial space and marine biology.  Hmmm, how about an aquarium? Indeed, the only aquariums ever maintained for visitors up to that point had been on the wharf and contained some glum and miserable-looking rock cod and other small local fish in 20-gallon tanks, displayed in shop windows for curious passers-by.

Ms. Packard, blessed with access to large sums of money and a very grand vision, put together an idea and a team. She built what instantly became an industry leader in the world of public aquariums, the first of its kind anywhere. I recall hearing rumors as they began to emerge, talk about an incredible space with huge tanks that would show thousands of fish never before seen or exhibited on a large scale. It would be world class and meant to be here for a very long time. Everyone felt a new energy and sense of possibility, that businesses had better get ready because people were going to come in large numbers. Entrepreneurs went into high gear. Restaurants, parks, hotels, museums, more hotels and more restaurants as well as related sight-seeing businesses were built and have been viable ever since the opening of the Aquarium. It has been and continues to be a very important influence on the communities all the way around Monterey Bay in innumerable ways.

More importantly, scientists of all stripes have been happily discovering new species and features of the ocean, using the Monterey Bay Marine Sanctuary as their main focus. It's huge and even though the Aquarium has been in existence for 28 years new species are being discovered constantly. Young interns and science geeks pray to be associated with or be hired by MBARI (Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute). Youngsters who visit during open house dates see Remotely Operated Vehicles (ROV) and bizarre creatures that are being studied and underwater features that are being mapped.

Education efforts by the Aquarium and MBARI have reached people all over the world. Seafood Watch is the most obvious public information effort. Small cards are handed out, showing common seafood items you'll find on menus and in stores. There you can see information about what seafood, if any, you should buy. Wild-caught salmon, for instance, is preferable to farm-raised. Farm-raised species of certain shellfish are sometimes preferable, so to keep it all straight you just check the card while you shop or order from a menu.

When I visited today, the Aquarium was as beautiful as ever. The beauty of each exhibit is clearly apparent, but what I enjoy the most about the place is that the ocean out there that I see every day is not distorted or made silly. Nor are the sciences inaccessible. Simply put, the life of the ocean does its dance right before your eyes, and you use every one of your senses to appreciate it.

And guess what? I finally joined.

Looking At Things

To see differently, BE differently.  See the flower, sit on its petals, wander its satin length, sip its nectar. How else will you know what it is, how it holds the light, and what it means to you? Let your eyes caress its length, penetrate its densities, and reveals untold worlds to you. You lucky traveler.

Unspoken Messages

"Are you ready to order, or shall I come back."

I think so. Yes, I am ready to order. Myself, order myself, reorder my molecules and begin again. Ha, I laugh at the odd approach to the simple word. I imagine a game of chinese checkers with the marbles rolling around until they hit their little circles and stay put, all in order.

"I'd like a mocha, please."

There is a swirl of air currents after the young man as he leaves. He is in such a hurry, but he has nice eyes that look kind. He is not impatient. I see he is moving from table to table, looking for missing forks, unfilled glasses, and guests who need more coffee. He is attentive and quick, and his eyes are warm.

I twiddle my iPhone and look at yesterday's images, taken when I was sitting in a different diner, sitting across from red leather and gleaming chrome, polished steel, a room without life but colorful nonetheless. I look around this room and listen to it.  There are voices nearby, but I cannot hear words. I look at the walls, the pictures hanging askew on the wall, and hear the distant bustle and clang of the kitchen workers.

The flowers in the vase on my table are bright and cheerful, dying to get my attention. Ah, dying. Yes, unfortunately dying little bit by little bit, small degrees of loss of their vitality. I look at them very carefully. It used to be that the colors of flowers and the blossoms themselves spoke messages from a person who gave them to the one who received them. Red always represented love and passion. Roses, daisies, irises and chrysanthemums all had their implicit meaning, conveying something far beyond mere words.

I lean in and wonder what this bouquet of bright life means, what message I would have known if I had lived a hundred years ago.  I fiddle with the flowers, touching their soft petals and delicate coolness. I pull out a few withered and spent pieces. Ah, they are dying to tell me something? A small feeling of their desperate signaling overcomes me. I lean in and detect - fragrance? No. Just beauty, simply beauty standing silently in a vase, quietly perfect.

The young man brings the cup of mocha and sets it before me. His eyes again. I see the warm life in his eyes and the room around him, hear the murmuring people who are eating their food and sipping their coffee. I am glad that it's not quiet.