Month: July 2016

I have done my share of traveling and no longer harbor the desire to take long trips. I still travel although these days it is mostly on foot. I used to walk our dog Kody around the neighborhood at night, both as a form of exercise and as part of the normal household chores. Put the dishes away, take out the trash, rake leaves, pay the bills, walk Kody. Last year Kody passed away, but I have continued to walk at night; first as a form of respect for my friend but also because I have begun to enjoy the experience itself. Walking at night is a private thing for the most part, a time to collect your thoughts as they swirl about, past and future dimly lit interchanges on the way to now. The moon and stars follow me but otherwise take little note of my passage.

I carry a small LED flashlight and will sometimes surprise a group of deer sampling the local flora. Caught in the beam of my lantern they seem ethereal; like creatures composed half of light and half of stone. Deer startled in this way normally leap away and bolt for cover, but in Spring the larger males will stand their ground or even advance upon you to measure the threat you represent. When this happens it’s my turn to leap away and bolt, although with me this takes the form of slightly faster walking accompanied by a desperate humming sound. I have expanded my route and will from time to time come across new paths and trails which connect the various neighborhoods in Chapel Hill.

I have begun to view these little voyages into the fading world as a form of inner exploration; pushing the boundaries of all I feel and remember. I write these words; leaving a dappled trace here and there surrounded by the crouching angels of memories past and those yet to be made. The angels rise as one poised to leap and fly, but instead we move off together into the vagabond night, the promise of time reclaimed.

We (ok, I) have long been fascinated with extremes. The biggest, smallest, fastest, rarest, highest – if the word ends in “est” I’m there. You can imagine my juvenile glee when I saw my very first capybara at the Honolulu Zoo. A rodent the size of a medium sized dog, the capybara positively *lumbers* its way across the savannah. Rodents should dart or scurry, not lumber. I mean this thing looks like it has *hooves* for feet. My research says the largest capybara captured weighed in at just over 200 pounds, which means either my earlier “medium sized dog” comparison was laughably inadequate, or capybara molecules are composed entirely of lead. I have also not ruled out the possibility that the capybara is an alien lifeform, but even then I’ll bet it’s the biggest rodent on Mars.

The word of the day is “Ruckus”. It is a word you don’t see in print that often, and so it is lodged deep down in the word part of the brain; The Fissure of Letters. It also sounds a little feisty and hints at self-reference. Don’t tease the ruckus and be sure to lock the gate behind you.

We call it our moon because it circles our planet, yet the notion of ownership is at once both misplaced and hopeful. Our species has visited and will walk its dusty surface once again, but for now it remains a source of wonder and pride. We can surely feel it there above us and from its presence derive a sense of our place; here and now and far away. We write poems of love and longing, pen songs of the past and future and mark our calendars against its phases. The tides themselves dance to her circadian song. Seeing an amber moon large and low in the evening sky allows us to dream in that way we do when something new appears, something outside the common geometry of our days. Look at me she says, out there beyond the sky.

The Earth rings like a bell when a major earthquake strikes.  The night sky is turned to sudden day by an electromagnetic storm.  Entire solar systems are but dots on some galactic arm whirling through the cosmos.  The big stuff commands our attention no doubt, but small things can wrought big change as well, much like a trickle of water can, given enough time, create a canyon deep and wide.  I have always looked at insect metamorphosis as one of those small things that show us how things work. It is a masterpiece of evolution, if you believe in evolution; and if you don’t then it is merely a masterpiece. That a caterpillar can seal itself inside a cocoon and emerge transformed into a wholly different being is a completely unexpected and remarkable outcome. We can watch a frog grow from a tadpole but that conversion takes place in plain sight so to speak, and while it remains amazing it is at least understandable. The caterpillar locks itself away, and like an insect version of Harry Houdini appears later changed utterly as if by magic. And this is not some cheap parlor trick done with ropes, pulleys and mirrors, but actual transformation — as if Houdini, placed shackled in his sealed box, were to spring forth as a ring-tailed lemur, the man forever replaced. In the world of insects this conversion is quite common and likely evolved as a highly practical survival strategy. Metamorphosis places the young and adult versions of the same creature into different worlds, worlds that do not compete with one another. Imagine the amazingly complex interplay of events necessary to create this process over the eons.  Some might be tempted to point to a higher being and say this proves the existence of God. But I find the science and the subsequent search for truth far more compelling than the guiding hand of a supreme being.  But that’s just me.