Good night, chimney swifts

This evening my orchestra, the Arlington Philharmonic, performed at the annual Arlington Pops Concert in city hall.  It's actually kind of fun, despite my generally highfalutin' tastes in orchestral music.  The program is usually chock full of various medleys, of course.  Tonight we did five: Carousel, Guys and Dolls, Henry Mancini movie favorites, Leroy Anderson Favorites, and Armed Forces theme songs.  It's a very town hall, ice cream and old folks event, though there are plenty of kids too.  It's kind of noisy, as well, which takes the pressure off of attempting to give a stellar performance.  Everybody enjoys it, and as it's the last concert before the summer break, I enjoy finishing up with a couple months of empty, long summer evenings ahead of me to look forward to.  

My favorite tradition of the pops concert, however, is watching the chimney swift spectacle.  The orchestra performs first, starting around 7:45, and after a few pieces the chorus takes over for a while.  I always wander outside during the break, where the light is usually beginning to dim as the sun sets.  Across the street from the town hall is a tall chimney which holds, year after year, a large roost of chimney swifts.  

Watching a chimney swift colony return to its roost at dusk is a wonderful little intersection of man and nature and is always a pleasure to watch.  The swifts, sometimes hundreds of them, will start returning from their wide wandering around the local area as dusk approaches.  They will fly around and about their home chimney, diving and swirling about, moving off for a last few bugs, twittering and jousting with each other, playing at returning to the chimney but pulling off at the last moment, more and more of them as the evening moves on and the sky gets darker.  They gradually tighten their wandering, clustering closer and closer around their roost; if the colony is big enough it can look like a little tornado sitting above the chimney. Still they dive at the opening and pull back; I don't know what that is all about.  It just seems playful to me.  I shouldn't get too anthropomorphic, but I just can't resist trying to imagine what might be going through their heads at that moment.  

Finally, they start dropping in, slowing the beating of their wings just a bit to an awkward flutter, slowing down and floating, simply, head first, down into the opening of the chimney in a steady stream.  Most of them follow suit very quickly, though a few of them will sometimes hold out for a few minutes, the excited children who want to stay up just a little more.  None come back out.

When it's all done, it is dark, with just a dark band of blue on the western horizon to remind us of the day that has passed.  On cue, the audience applauds as the chorus finishes its set and I return to my violin and my seat to finish the performance.

Good night!

Walden, again

I keep returning again and again to Walden Pond.  Not just physically; it is a given that on hot summer days a few hours at Walden seem like paradise, an easy and bracing balm of clear water, green trees and, these days, humanity, splashing children and local curmudgeons, sitting and swimming.  But Walden returns to my thoughts again and again, memories of times there, anticipation of future visits, thoughtful meanderings in its history, from its glacial beginnings to Thoreau's sojourns to its current status as a jewel in the Massachusetts park system.

It has had a strong presence in my journaling; I started keeping a regular journal three and a half years ago after an October visit with my father.  I bought Robert Richardson's biography of Henry David Thoreau in the park's little bookstore, went home and wrote about watching an Osprey take a nice fish from the pond's northeast corner.  Now, after a succession of cooling visits during a heat wave, I find my journaling reinvigorated as I start working through another Richardson biography, of Ralph Waldo Emerson, another tireless journal keeper, and most likely the person who inspired Thoreau to keep one (Thoreau's journal famously starts off " 'Do you keep a journal?' he said..." and it is generally assumed that 'he' is Emerson).

Today I spent a few hours at Walden, and it was as replenishing and as interesting as ever.  Though the air temperature was beastly (mid 90's), I found a spot in the shade, and the mild breeze was cooled from passing over the water.  The water itself still had a bit of its spring chill, just enough to wake you up and provide some genuine refreshment from the summer doldrums that are quickly settling in.  I swam across the narrow end and back and then sat to read for a while.  Then I took a snorkel, the standout activity of the day.  Bass, both largemouth and smallmouth, were everywhere.  I came across five or six good-sized largemouths lurking by the rocks on the bottom, and at one point I swam right through a school of 40-50 more, first-years, just babies really, hanging in the top foot of water.  They barely noticed me at all and as I splashed through their iridescent green numbers I was taken briefly back to memories of colorful schools of fish in tropical waters.  

The best, though, was a lone smallmouth bass, a big one, that followed me up and down for the entire length of my swim, some one hundred yards at least in each direction.  He would let me approach within about a foot before calmly turning away and giving his tail a gentle swish to avoid my touch, but would then turn and watch me again.  As I would start moving away, he would follow, usually no more than five feet behind and often swimming directly below me.

I wonder why he did this?  What attraction did I offer?  Was I shelter?  I kept thinking of that book Adrift about the drifting life-raft, and the rich ecology that developed around the raft over the course of a couple of months - crabs, seaweed, barnacles, fish, birds, sharks.  Was I the beginning of something like that?  Did he consider me some kind of guide to a food supply?  I did notice a couple of times I dove down to look at something on the pond floor and he scampered in behind me to nose about in the muck and leaves that I had stirred up, but I never noticed him actually eat anything.  A couple of times we ran across a largemouth that was about as big as he was and I thought he might have been spooked off, but he held his ground and kept following (once he and the largemouth actually rubbed their sides together as they examined a patch of stirred up leaves).  Only when I finally re-entered the swimming beach area where many people were splashing around did he finally move off, and I was sad, but unfortunately I cannot swim around Walden all day long.  He was a beautiful fish, and very changeable in the light of the water, sometimes showing that classic bronze-brown color and other times a deeply-contrasting pattern of green and gold on his flanks.

This happened once before during an exercise swim across the lake, when one fish followed me all the way across and back.  I find it a curious and delightful event.  Next time I go back to Walden I will look for him again.  And I believe I have named him - Thoreau.

Spider's Web and other little things

I've got a nice, friendly little spider that lives amidst the potted herbs on my porch balcony.  He (or she) has been there for three days or so, and likes to build a new web every day!  Quite an industrious fellow, like most spiders. He's very small, has a yellow body with a little black patch on its rear and dark legs.  I wonder about the tiny bugs he must catch and eat - they must be almost beyond the reach of my eyes.  I'm sure that he would have no problem finding another spot to build his webs and catch his bugs, but I'm very happy to provide him with such a productive location where I can keep tabs on all the goings on.  

My own little mini-ecology; there are little weeds with thin green leaves and purple stems coming up amidst my basil plants and I've seen some ants as well.  I keep waiting for something to flower so I can keep a lookout for pollinators; that would be exciting.  All that plus spiders and the tiny bugs that they eat, like a miniature Amazonia.  Maybe I'll see a miniature jaguar prowling along through the chives.  

Sisters and Brothers

Here are a bunch of photographs from a visit from my sisters Esme and Meghan and brother-in-law Todd.  It was a great visit!  Unfortunately, I just don't have time to write right now, and so you'll have to try and figure out what we did from the photos.  Bye!

Brian's Herb Garden Volume 2 and a picture of some turtles

Today I worked on my herb garden, which is nothing but a few small or medium-sized containers that I place on the railing of my rear entrance.  This is really the only spot that I can call mine that gets any sort of sun. And it still might be a bit shady for a couple of the choices I made, such as big-leaf Italian basil.  But who can resist basil?

I tried to vary the lineup from last year, though a couple favorites snuck back in.  As I said, I've got some basil going this year, to marry off to tomatoes later in the summer and to pair with the occasional piece of fish.  Next is the sole entry in the vegetable category, an habanero pepper plant, well-known as the 'hottest' chile pepper around, with a fruity zing.  Then a trailing bunch of creeping thyme, probably my favorite all-around herb after parsley.  This is a perennial, so if I can keep it going, I can use it next winter in roasts and soups.  Next, dill, a magical herb with fish and salads.  Eggs too.  Oregano, which I actually don't use that much but had an impulse to plant.  I'll find something to do with it.  Chives, for salads, eggs, spring pasta dishes and mushrooms on toast.  Flat-leaf parsley, for anything and everything.  Mint, for tea and tabbouleh.  Finally, a small bunch of sorrel to add a lemony bite to salads and creamy soups.  

If everything goes gangbusters, I just might make back my investment.  But it's nice to have a few living things to care for and a little kitchen garden to put a bit of earthy improvisation into my cooking habits during the summer.  

Death and the Maiden

My quartet performed last night in a small recital at my friend Joan's house.  We played Schubert's 'Death and the Maiden' string quartet, a piece he wrote near the end of his life, at a time that he probably knew that he was dying yet was still composing at a phenomenal rate, creating possibly the most beautiful and moving music of entire career.  It is a dark, turbulent piece, with short interludes of serene joy popping up here and there amidst the ongoing existential arguments of death and beauty.  It was a favorite of mine as a teenager, and I was greatly attracted to its melodramatic metaphors and almost gothic storytelling.  Later on, some of that sensibility tired on my ears, possibly through overfamiliarity, and it lost some of its attraction, but I fell in love with it again through working on it these past months.  As usual, working on a piece from the inside out gave newer, older, and deeper perspectives on this wonderful and one-of-a-kind piece of music. 

 I felt that we really gave the piece a good run for its money, in particular the frenzied last movement, in which we seemed to get caught in the cascading, out-of-control momentum perfectly, balancing just on the edge of falling apart in just the right way.  It was exhilarating.  Playing music like this, in this intimate, telepathic kind of arrangement with a small group of musicians and friends, provides...I don't know.  Something unique, important; I was going to say the greatest high of my life, but that's not quite right, and a little trite.  There's certainly nothing else quite like it, and it provides one of the few avenues to some kind of transcendent state of mind that I truly don't understand.

Unfortunately,  I have a something of a love/hate relationship with performing, and every time I get through a performance like this I wish it was more of a love/love relationship, but it's not.  Leading up to a performance, especially one of chamber music like this, difficult and exposed, I worry and fret and suffer large bouts of anxiety, yet also excitement and a visceral, unpredictable anticipation.  My stomach grumbles (shades of Charlie Brown) and I don't eat.  At performance time, my left hand shakes and my vibrato goes wild, my right hand shakes and my bow bounces, skittering across the strings of my violin.  Nonetheless, at the moment of performing, my heart leaps even as I continue to fret about my technical reaches, and I find myself giving more of myself to the music than I ever had during practice, almost effortlessly, yet with enormous expenditure of energy.  It's a strange state to be in.  And each piece, in its own different way, finds you a different zone to drift, swim, struggle and fall apart in.  Today, the day after, I was happy and relieved, still exhilarated yet tired, and sad that it was over and anticipating next season's music-making, projecting greater diligence than I showed this year (and probably more than I indeed will show next year).  

I love my quartet, and I think that the way we approach our repertoire, by working extensively on one piece at a time for a season, is very rewarding and important for the purposes of giving a good performance and really getting a good grasp of the music.  I do often wish, though, for another outlet where I could explore more music, more playing and exploring, and encounter more of those great masterpieces I've listened to and loved throughout my life.  I've still never played any of the late Beethoven quartets, I've done only one of Mozart's six that he dedicated to Haydn, none of Bartok's (though these might well be beyond me and any quartet I could ever join), only one of Shostakovich's, only a couple of Haydn's...there's such a big world of this music, so much I know and love as a listener but not a player.  I would like to get a reading quartet together, not worry about perfection, just go through music and enjoy it.  Maybe I'll work on that next year, or some year.  

The second law of thermodynamics and frustrated, abrupt endings

I just finished reading a biography of one of my favorite writers, James Tiptree Jr., called James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon by Julie Phillips.  As you can tell from the title, James Tiptree Jr. was in fact a woman, a fact she hid for several years in the seventies while writing her most important stories and carrying on a dizzying array of correspondence (as J.T.Jr.) with many other writers, editors and fans.  

A biography, of course, always tells the story of a life, and a good one places that life within the context of the subject's time and place.  A great biography lends unexpected insight and characterization into a particular milieu through the lens of the subject's life, work and thought. The John Adams biography I recently read framed the unusal opportunity that our founding fathers had to create a new government from scratch through the actions and ideas of a man who even more unusually fully undertood the unique position that he and his fellow patriots were in.  James Tiptree, Jr. explored the disquieting complexities of our modern century, from the horrors of war, the immense leaps of technology and the social battles over gender and ethnicity through the incredible, troubled life of Alice Sheldon, who was known in her youth as the first western child ever seen by the African Pygmies and grew up to be an artist, a photo-interpreter during WWII and later in the fledgling CIA, a doctor of psychology and eventually a writer of some of the most groundbreaking science fiction of the 70's.  

Her best work is all shorter works, short stories and novellas, and is exciting, confident, startling, shocking, empathetic, imaginative, detailed, fast-paced; superlatives abound.  And she provided the small science fiction community endless fodder for speculation as to who James Tiptree Jr. really was; most felt it was the pseudonym of some young stud in the intelligence field, though from her unusually insightful stories on gender there were some who suspected that he was a she (or that he was gay).  

I don't really know where I'm going with all this.  It's a great biography, read it.  Her fiction is even better, read it.  Most of her best work is collected in a collection called Her Smoke Rose Up Forever.  What I kind of wanted to talk about was the connection I felt with her while reading the book.  Ridiculous, I know.  She was so different.  From a different age and place entirely, she had a life full of travel, several wildly divergent and ambitious careers, two marriages,  a life as a woman, before modern feminism; she was brilliant, mercurial, with wild mood swings...no, I'm not like her at all. 

But I just kept coming across little things that resonated so strongly.  I'll mention three.  She was obsessed with the idea of negentropy, which is the concept of a system or process that moves against the ongoing entropy that is slowly but surely pulling the universe apart into a cold, mostly empty shell of drifting bits of matter, as elucidated in the second law of thermodynamics.  From page 186: "She began to explore a theory that could reconcile her pleasure in learning and making things with doing good for others.  If her enemy was time, she argued, then it ws also the second law of thermodynamics.  That law, sometimes called 'time's arrow," states that the universe is entropic: it tends to lose energy, become disorganized, move toward death and decay.  But earth supports a local condition of negative entropy: its life has evolved from lower to higher states of organization.  Mathematician and cyberneticist Norbert Wiener, among others, had suggested that negentropy, and perhaps life itself, could be defined as everything that adds to information or organization."  

What a concept!  At the risk (in fact certainty) of being indulgent, I'll quote from a journal entry of mine, from a couple of years ago: 

Well, apparently, I can't figure out how to cut and paste text from a word document into a blog post!  When I do it, the text I wanted appears outside of the text block, and doesn't show up if I save it.  Frustrating.  I don't have the energy to re-type all that stuff from my journal.  It's probably just as well; I should save myself the embarrassment.  And now I'm just going to stop.  I shouldn't really post this at all, but I can't stand to have written all these words and not put them up here.  Maybe I'll fix it someday after I figure out how the cut and paste thing.

Have a good day!

Cyclone Nargis

If you haven't already, please go to my sister Meghan's blog at www.meghan5m.vox.com and see her first-hand account of Cyclone Nargis and its aftermath. It must have been an incredible experience, and of course is still not over as the country tries to get back on its feet and deal with the ongoing, catastrophic effects of the storm. Keep the people of Myanmar in your thoughts and prayers!

INFP - What, me worry?

Some of you may be familiar with the Myers-Briggs personality types, derived, I believe, from theories of Carl Jung. There are sixteen different types, based on four preferences that each individual's personality corresponds to - Extroverson/Introversion, Sensing/Intuition, Thinking/Feeling and Judging/Perceiving - and everybody ends up with a four-letter code for their personality type, such as INTP, ESFJ, etc.

I've always been curious about this system, if slightly skeptical, and have taken numerous tests out of books or through the internet over the years. I invariably end up coming out INFP: Introverted, intuitive, feeling, perceiving. Stated baldly like that, it seems odd and not that accurate, but most of the more lengthy descriptions of that type that I've read have had more than one grain of truth, as best that I can tell by looking at myself.

Anyway, I don't want to go into it at any real length, and you can easily read up on this stuff at wikipedia or any number of other sites if you wish. But I wanted to comment on one thing I read lately that I found interesting, which pertains to the extrovert/introvert dichotomy. I've spent a lot of thought on this over the years, wondering at how different people can be in this way and why, and how little, sometimes, the extrovert understands the introvert and vice versa. They're almost like two different species. Speaking as a serious introvert, I'm often struck by how extroverted friends of mine will see other introverts as cold, aloof and/or arrogant, while I just see them as shy. And sometimes I'll see an outgoing person as an almost pathological busybody, yet they're most likely just being friendly and inclusive.

What I read recently characterized this dichotomy in terms of energy gain and loss, which totally made sense to me and seemed true to my experience. To explain further, extroverts gain energy from action and interaction, whereas introverts expend energy during action and interaction. Speaking again as an introvert, this doesn't mean that there are no rewards or pleasures in social interaction, just that it always has a cost in energy: it is tiring, and if it involves a lot of heavy emotional lifting and decicion-making, can be nearly debilitating. From personal experience, I can say that I've rarely walked away from a social engagement at the end of an evening, even one that I enjoyed very much, without a sense of relief that I was finally going home and back to the space in my own head. And in extended stretches of activity, during holidays and such, I need regular breaks of down time with a book or a solitary walk to keep my sanity and recharge. I've often envied those who don't have such issues, who so easily embrace or look for whatever social interaction might come their way or be available, and have wondered that if I could just persuade myself to do more of it I could reap great rewards - girlfriends, career opportunities, etc. And it might be so. The energy expenditure either/or might be a little simplistic as an explanation, and indeed sometimes (despite my previous statements) I can go either way myself, but it also goes a long way towards explaining how people can be so different in this way, categorizing it as less of a simple preference or sliding range of attitudes and as more of a fundamental difference in how we process information and experience.

I'm not trying to make excuses (maybe I am just a little bit - I do feel guilty and defensive of my solitary nature from time to time, and I do think I hurt people on occasion with my inattention), and I do think people can change in very fundamental ways, through perseverence and mindfulness and experience, but, well, it's an interesting idea.

The Musical Chill

I've been reading Alex Ross' The Rest is Noise: Listening to the 20th Century, for the last week or so, and enjoying it very much. It's an engaging, well-written, well-researched survey of classical music and musicians of the 20th century, and it gives a lot of insight and perspective into a lot of thorny, forbidding music. Nobody, of course, composes in a vacuum, and everybody is coming from somewhere. I've been a pretty avid explorer of this stuff for a long time, and many of my favorite pieces of music are difficult works by fellows such as Ives, Bartok, Webern, Ligeti, Schoenberg, etc, though I will readily admit that Mozart and Beethoven have a stronger hold on my heart. I am not a scholar, and the structural logic of these works usually escapes me, and so it takes a lot of effort and repeated listenings to really get a hold on music of that density. But I enjoy it; I really do. And lately, in concert with my readings, I've been taking pieces and listening to them again, carefully, and getting a lot out of them, maybe more than I have in the past. Maybe it's just the slow process of my ears and my brain opening a little bit more every year, maybe it's the synergy between the music and my readings, maybe it's the slow accumulation of repeat hearings, maybe it's all of the above. For somebody who loves stories as I do, the perspective you get learning about the lives of the musicians and the genesis and development of the art is invaluable. And the stories mirror the stories of the century - Shostakovich's struggle with Stalinism, Strauss' conflicted complacency within Nazi Germany, Copland's populist front during the New Deal and WWII America, Schoenberg's revolutions at the dawn of the century. In case you're curious, some pieces I've revisited lately in this context: Schoenberg's String Trio, Berg's Lyric Suite, Shostakovich's 5th Symphony, Stravinsky's Les Noces and L'Histoire du Soldat, Ruggles Sun-Treader.

One thing that the author mentioned briefly in passing that has grabbed my attention is the subject of what he calls the musical chill, when you experience a physical tremor that runs down the spine and stands hair on end while listening to music. He references a scientist named Jaak Panskepp who has researched this phenomenon, trying to figure out what causes it, both in a physiological sense but also what kind of music starts it off. Here's a quote from Mr. Ross's excellent blog www.therestisnoise.com: "Panskepp says that music in which a solo instrument steps in front of a softer background is especially prone to cause this effect. He compares such moments to “the separation call of young animals, the primal cry of despair to signal caretakers to exhibit social care and attention.” I immediately thought of the Largo of Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony, in which solo winds sing out plaintive motifs over a backdrop of tremolando strings. An entire nation is crying for its mother in the night." To test this out, yesterday I put this piece of music on my stereo and paid particular attention to the largo; it is a wonderful piece of music but I didn't experience the chill.

The musical chill has always fascinated me, and I have certainly experienced it many times. In a way it is an exagerrated demonstration of what is so mysterious and unexplainable about music, which is why it appeals to us at all. I know that theories abound, and I'm sure most of them have merit, but they all still seem light years from telling us why such an arcane art form that seems to have no practical contribution to our survival can take on such profound meaning and have such a deep emotional effect on so many people, to the point where we can experience a shivering moment almost akin to sexual release. This has gotten me thinking about what music causes this phenomenon in myself, and immediately two things spring immediately to mind: first, the passage in Mozart's Don Giovanni, presaged in the overture and then appearing with the Commendatore near the end, where the strings play the rustling, rising sequence of scales to accompany that ghostly, powerful presence. Second, the brassy apotheosis about two-thirds of the way through the first movement of Sibelius' second symphony. The thing that really amazes me about these examples is that they do it to me every time. I don't know if I've ever listened to either of those passages and not had a shiver run down my spine, as if the response has been etched in my DNA.

I'm going to keep thinking about this and try and remember other pieces of music that do this for me. And, actually, it's been spurring some other thoughts of how I might use this concept in some embrionic writing ideas I have, so if you can think of any pieces of music that produce this 'musical chill' on you, I'd love to hear about it, either in the comments or in an email to bckenney@hotmail.com. Fascinating stuff.

Eating and Reading

Last week I resolved to stop reading while eating. I had some kind of buried thought that it wouldn't be that easy to do, as it has been a lifelong habit of mine, but it's been much harder than I imagined.

Why do this at all? you might ask. No real reason beyond just trying to be more mindful in my daily life. I've done some basic mindfulness meditation here and there (of the vipassana tradition) and have found it to be very helpful, and have always wanted to use the practice a bit more in normal, habitual life outside of sitting down for a twenty-thirty minute session. And food and eating is very important to me, something I give a lot of thought and energy to.

One reason I thought it might not be too hard is that I often find myself, somewhat comically, struggling with my book, trying to keep it open with one hand while I try to eat with the other, putting it down a moment and losing my place, fumbling clumsily with my food, trying to saw through a piece of vegetable with a fork...it didn't seem like it would be hard to give that up. Plus, I would often realize that I'd been reading virtually the same paragraph the entire time, meanwhile barely noticing the food I was eating. I wasn't really aware of either the food I was eating or the book I was reading.

And I think it would be good to train myself not to obsessively keep my mind going with some sort of stimulation constantly. But there's the rub! It's agony. If I sit down to breakfast, alone, and I don't have a book at hand, my mind goes a little nutso. If I treat myself to a lunch out on my day off and forget to bring something to read, it seems like torture, and I feel naked. It's such a firmly ingrained habit that I've mostly forgotten about my resolution this last week, almost every time I sit down to eat, catching myself as I start cleaning up my dishes.

It's no big deal, I suppose, and thus far my lack of resolution has been mostly humorous, but I'm going to keep trying. Of course, my subconscious keeps bringing up one of my favorite little lessons I learned once, which goes something like this: At a meditation center, two students noticed that their teacher was sitting at breakfast and reading the paper. Remembering that he often instructed them "When eating, just eat! When reading, just read!", they went up to him and asked him why he was doing both at the same time. He looked at them and said "When eating and reading, just eat and read!" I suppose it's no surprise that I like that story, as it provides some justification for one of my favorite pastimes. But I think the deeper message is not to be dogmatic about these instructions, or anything else by extension, which is a very valuable lesson, I believe.

A palm-reading experience from my youth

When I was twenty-three years old, just a year out of college, I worked as a 'teacher/naturalist' for an overnight camp and school called Nature's Classroom northeast of Columbus, Ohio. Schools would come to our site and spend between three and five days doing all sorts of crunchy outdoor nature stuff: building rope bridges and shelters, hiking, learning about wild edibles and birds and turtles and the web of life.  There were always chaperones, teachers and parents who came along as well to help manage the kids.  

One time one of the parents told the staff that she was learning to read palms from a friend of hers and would like to practice on us if we were agreeable.  We were, though we were mostly skeptical, me included, though I'm sure we were polite enough not to be rude about it.  But I'm sure we were also all curious.  

The other day I was going through a few personal papers I had stashed away and came across a piece of paper where I had written down what I had been told during my reading.  I remember being quite surprised and impressed with what she had told me.  In fact, at the time I was almost unnerved.  There was nothing in it that was truly overwhelming, nothing where I thought 'there's no way she could possibly know that about me' or anything like that, but nonetheless I was startled at what she read in my character and person after having met me maybe five minutes before and taking a brief look at my hand.  Most of what she said was more in the nature of describing me and my personality than in making predictions of the future or advice, though there was a little bit of that.  I ultimately decided that she was simply a very perceptive person, and of course there are people like that in the world.  

In any case, I've never really let go of what she said that day, and I've never forgotten the experience.  But it was interesting to actually see what I scribbled down regarding the session right after I was done with it, and I'd like to share it now with you for your curiosity and amusement, with commentary from my current-day incarnation.

She told me that I was:

Very sensitive  [I think this is true, sometimes painfully so, especially to emotional conflict]

Very nurturing  [partly true, but I can also be very self-involved and selfish with my time]

Very idealistic [definitely true, though I am not quite the crusader I once was]

and a little bit clairvoyant [???  Doesn't everybody think they're a little clairvoyant?  We've all had moments when we know what somebody is about to say or are thinking the same things and think it's too much of a coincidence - still it was gratifying in some strange way to hear this stranger say it]

She told me that I would make a good father.  [For what it's worth, I think this is true, but it seems to be a very slow boat]

She said that I think very much, very often, in many different and unusual tangents. [This is also true, I think, sometimes distressingly so, as I can't quiet my mind or focus on what I want or need to, and am often kept awake from the restless cascade of thoughts]

My fate line is to find my center, who I am, as my life and soul line are linked.  [Not sure what this means, but if it means that I would spend a lot of time thinking about who I am, what I want from life, what things are important to me, without much in the way of productive results, spot on]

Regarding my Love line,  I was told very matter-of-factly that I was in love.  [And I very much was so at the time. I was amazed that she said this.  Now I think it must have been obvious in everything about me and how I carried myself at that time, and an easy call]

 I was also told that I would have an intense, very strong, compatible marriage, passionate and perfect, until death do us part, and that it would take much time and thought and decision before I got there.  [This of course, was a prediction, and has not come true yet, but if it does, the part about it taking a long time and being a sometimes difficult process is a grand slam]

She said that I prefer to be a worker to a leader.  [True: I am not comfortable in leadership roles.  However, I also very much dislike abandoning my freedom and self-will to anybody else, and can get surprising defensive when I am asked to do things that I am not comfortable doing.  Ideally, I like to work in small groups of creative equals, or alone on personal projects]

Power is not of much concern to me.  [Absolutely true.  Otherwise I'd be president]

That's all she said, or at least all I wrote down.  

Still not sure what to make of the whole thing after all these years (15 years ago!!!)

Have a great day!

Global warming - a moot point?

Okay, here's my rant of the moment. As a card-carrying member of the left-leaning environmental movement, I believe in global warming. I believe that it is happening. I believe that it will have a profound effect on the way of life of many, if not most, people around the globe. These will often be difficult, if not disastrous, changes. I believe that the practices of human beings over the last couple of hundred years have contributed to global warming. I also believe that the Earth has climate cycles of its own as well, and we are probably in one of those, and so I think global warming has many factors and variables which will be completely impossible to fully parse. I believe that trying to figure out who's to blame, us or the planet, is probably a pointless exercise.

Most likely, whoever's to blame, we are well into the cycle and would spend our time much better trying to figure out what actually is going to happen and how we can best deal with it. You may wonder if this means that I don't care about reducing our carbon emissions. In answer, I think reducing our carbon emissions and our use of oil is probably the most important thing we need to do right now. I just think that global warming is not the most important reason. Our planet is starting to run out of oil, and we need to start using less of it because eventually we will need to learn how to get by without using it at all. It would be well worth our while to try and figure this out now while we still have oil to fall back upon, than to consume the rest of it in great big gulps over the next few decades and then go cold turkey. Barring a miraculous technological development, that would mean catastrophe. And if we cut back now, the oil will be there for us longer.

Counting on a new energy technology coming through in the clutch is very risky, and I personally don't think it's going to happen, at least not on any level that will replace the type of growth our civilization has been capable of the last century because of our exploitation of cheap, abundant oil. I think that within five years we'll be paying three times as much as we are right now for oil. Than in itself would mean huge shock waves for every economy on Earth. And almost all of our potential other energy sources depend heavily on oil for their entire infrastructure, development and construction. We use fertilizers and pesticides derived from petroleum products in order to grow corn for bio-fuels.

We need to use less oil, to learn how to do things without it. This will mean a lowering of our standards of living as we currently understand them. But if we consciously choose to take these things upon us, thoughtfully and with good intentions, we may find silver linings here and there. I'm in the lucky position of living only three miles from where I work. However, until recently I have rarely walked or biked, choosing instead to drive, which takes less than fifteen minutes. But a month ago I started walking regularly. It takes me fifty minutes unless I really hustle. I listen to music or birdwatch or just think about things, and I get a decent piece of exercise. Sometimes I walk part of the way with friends I work with who don't own cars and have enjoyable conversations with them. I feel good when I get home and sleep better in the evening. Biking only takes about five minutes longer than driving, and is also good exercise.

I'm no saint, and I don't expect to walk every day, maybe not most days. But two or three days a week is something, and all in all, more enjoyable than being in my car. I'm glad I live somewhere that this is possible.

Okay, I'll stop now. I apologize for getting up on the soapbox and preaching, but I really think this is something we're all going to have to deal with, sooner than we think. Hopefully not sooner than I think, because I think it's coming soon.

John Adams and the Future of Civilizations

I've been reading David McCullough's biography John Adams, and I'm enjoying it very much.  Biographies are probably my favorite way to explore history.  I'm especially partial to biographies of musicians, but every once in a while I take the time to explore some of the larger trends and happenings that occur away from the piano.  And well-written biographies that put the person in context within their culture and the place that they lived give such a personal, visceral flavor to the historical or private events depicted.  Every person's life is a story, of course, with its own dramatic arc, of temptations and failures and success and change, and often much more exciting to me than more general or scholarly compendiums of events and issues.

Anyway, yesterday I was particularly struck by something that was going on in Adam's head during the 1776 meetings of the Continental Congress, when they were debating whether to declare independence or not and planning the flegdling war in New England and New York.  Adams was clearly a man inclined and capable of seeing the big picture, and he was very aware of the uniqueness of his and his fellow patriots' position, not so much as being swept up in the midst of war and revolution, but in being in the very rare circumstance of being given a chance to build their government from scratch.    McCullough quotes Adams as pointing out how many great thinkers of the past would have wished to live in "a period when a coincidence of circumstances without example has afforded to thirteen colonies at once an opportunity of beginning government anew from the foundation and building as they choose.  How few of the human race have ever had an opportunity of choosing a system of government for themselves and their children?  How few have ever had anything more of choice in government than in climate?"

And how few, even amongst thoughtful, intelligent people, would truly recognize the uncommon situation they were in?  It is clear, from McCullough's view at least, that very few really saw the longer view apart from their desire to break from tyranny and get on with their lives, but Adams was very aware of the potential, and the danger, that would be ushered in even with resounding victory.  All cynical views aside, I am finding myself grateful that our founding fathers had the foresight to think about these issues, deeply and convincingly, and to set up structures that protect me even to this day in a far from perfect world and government.  

Our last century has had its share of trials and times when it seemed the trajectory of civilization rested delicately on a wobbling fulcrum, mostly stemming from the synergistic combination of advancing technology and social philosophy.  It seemed that every generation had its own world-shaking battles.  It is frightening to realize that they are not over and that technology has not slowed down, and that our lives, our governments and our planet are at considerable risk.  We are again living, I think, in a crucial time, but it is also a much bigger world.  How many of us can truly say we are there at the balance point, like John Adams was, recognize it and have the vision to act accordingly and honorably?  Or maybe that's not the point at all; certainly even in the much smaller world of the thirteen colonies there would have been no revolution were it not for the anger and vocal support of a large portion of the population.  Or maybe the biggest battles will not be on the political front, but in the millions of little decisions we all make trying to make the world a better place.  Maybe that was always the driving force behind political will, anyway, the little things that made Adams into the person of strength, honesty and foresight that he seemed to be.  The non-political grassroots of education, family and compassion.  

Or maybe I'm just trying to find a place for myself, feeling somewhat powerless within the machinations of world politics and giant elections.  When threatened with global climate change, loss of natural resources (including what I think is our biggest long-term challenge, looming shortages of oil), international war, terrorism, over-population, loss of traditional skills and knowledge, expanding class tensions, concentration of power and resources in a few corporations and powerful people...

Now I'm ranting.  And sometimes frightened!  But not hopelessly discouraged, while there's still a place for us to drag a guitar over to a friend's house to share music and a meal together and to think about others compassionately and thoughtfully.  And then to go on and do our part, whatever that may be.

A Taste of Briar

Words can be such magical things, so strangely compelling and beautiful, subversive, manipulative, entrancing, and of course practical and descriptive as well. And so many other things. I think all of us are probably more affected and influenced by the words we encounter than we fully realize, even those of us like myself who are admittedly very verbal people. Sometimes I notice it happening; many more times, I'm sure, the affect that a certain string of words pulls out of me flies well below the radar, pushing me and directing me in any number of ways.

Today, I was doing a spot of shopping before work, as I'm leaving this afternoon for a weekend ski trip and wanted to be able to get an early start and not get mired at the market later on. As St. Patrick's Day is coming up, my friends and I had decided to make an Irish lamb stew Saturday evening. I dropped into the wine store and asked the clerk there if he could help me pick a nice wine to match a simple lamb stew. First he suggested a Napa Cabernet, describing it, I think, as ripe and juicy and a good value. Then he went on to a French Cotes Du Rhone, calling it "a little feistier, tart, with a tast of briars". He went on to show another couple of bottles but I was already sold, and barely paid attention to his further suggestions. Walking out of the store I realized what captured me was his use of the word "briar".

Now I have no idea how that word would translate into the taste of wine, or indeed if it would translate into something that I would even appreciate as a flavor, but it's a favorite word of mine, mixing folklore and nature and personal experience and symbolism (thorns, flower, love) into such a heady brew that I couldn't get it out of my mind. Vistas of castles hidden by brambles and thorns, memories of wading through wild rose looking for nesting birds; any number of connections and images arose from the use of this simple word. And I don't doubt that it will somehow affect the way I perceive the quality and taste of the wine when we finally get around to opening it.

Anyway, I just thought it was interesting.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

-Brian

ps The picture, by the way, is "The Legend of the Briar Rose", by Sir Edmund Burne-Jones, 1870-90, that I culled from the internet. It appears to me that in the upper right hand corner of the painting Darth Vader is walking around in the briar patch.

Braised Endives

Chicories! I love them. Endive, radicchio, frisee, escarole, I've really learned to enjoy these crunchy greens (or purples or creamy whites) with the bitter bite. As I've been trying to keep my diet closer to some kind of 'seasonal' ideal, I've been eating these guys a lot lately, as many of them come into their own during the colder months. I love salads, and they are often the only real salad greens that are in season this time of year without greenhouses or long routes of transportation (of course, I'm not really talking about New England; nothing's in season here anymore).

I enjoy them raw, in salads, where they stand up well to strong, acidic dressings with lots of citrus or vinegar and the sharp flavors of blue cheese. But I especially love them browned and braised, which is the perfect way to cut the bitterness and open up their flavor to their wonderful, smoky, mysterious potential. The best vegetable for this, in my opinion, is endive. Here is my perfected, scrumptious recipe for braised endive.

Heat your oven to 425 degrees. Melt a bit of butter and olive oil in a black-iron pan over medium-high heat. Cut the endive in half, length-wise. When the butter is frothing and just beginning to turn darker, put the endive halves in cut side down, and sprinkle generously with salt and freshly ground pepper. Once the endives have browned nicely to a rich, crusty hue, pour some stock in the pan, enough to cover the bottom and come up the sides of the endive just a bit, a half-centimeter or so. Cover the pan with foil and throw it in the oven for a half-hour to an hour or so, until the vegetables are soft and melting. The endives will have absorbed most of the stock. Remove from the oven and place on a plate, cut side up or down as you see fit (both sides are attractive, in my opinion).

You could just eat them now and they would be very good indeed. But to get to the next level, throw another small pat of butter in the pan and a nice squirt of lemon juice (not too much lemon, it is easy to overwhelm the more delicate flavors of the braising), and scrape up all the browned juices with the lemon and butter and drizzle this sauce on the finished endives. Finished!

This basic formula works very well with many other vegetables, with minor alterations for cooking time and absorbtion, etc. For a perfect mid-winter's meal, match these with a simple pasta, spaghetti or an egg noodle tagliatelle, of softened butter, grated parmesan and lots of coarsely ground black pepper.

-Brian

What the Heck Have I been doing with myself?

Those of you who know me, (and I think that very few people are reading this who don't know me personally), understand that I have a number of hobbies that I dabble in, and that I tend to fall into one or two for a time, then burn out a bit and turn to something else, then fall out of that and back to the other, or to something new for a time, eventually getting a little bored or antsy and on and on... It's something I kind of both like and dislike about myself, sometimes fighting against it, sometimes just letting myself drift with my fancies. I like exploring many different interests, but I also regret not accomplishing more by really devoting myself to one (or even just two or three!). I'm in the midst of a somewhat successful campaign to rectify this with some consistent efforts at writing fiction over the last three years, but even there I've had long down periods, uninspired, unmotivated, or just occupied with other things. Birding, cooking, music are other wide-ranging hobbies that I spend time jumping around in.

Currently, I'm absorbed in music-making. I just bought a new guitar, and have been trying to put together a set of favorite songs, sort of, with the chords and words memorized and an enjoyable performance worked out so that I can have fun with it, by myself or with singalongs, etc. A few choice Beatles numbers, of course, with Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt, Lucinda Williams, Roy Orbison, Beach Boys, The Band, etc in there as well. I'm also trying to learn some fingerstyle guitar, a hard boat to row for me. The ring finger on my right hand is incredibly weak and uncoordinated, but I'm trying to stick with it for now, as I see it slowly coming along (practice really does work, if you stick with it). If I could someday just work myself up to a few of the gentler John Fahey pieces (like Sligo River Blues) I would be ecstatic, though a smooth performance of Freight Train would make me happy right now.

I'm also falling again into a semi-obsessive exploration of Irish music, after not paying too much attention to it since the summer. There is really a lot of exciting music out there. Some favorites: The early Chieftains, for their gentle vibe and eerie echoes of ancient Ireland; Planxty, for their diverse, creative arrangements and virtuosic playing; Liz Carroll for the utterly infectious joy of her playing; Tommy Peoples, for his rustic, dense and uniquely percussive style; Paul Brady, for his spine-tingling voice... I've been learning a few new tunes as well, and have finally started to get the feel of jigs, I think. My favorite tune at the moment is a jig called Old Hag You Have Killed Me, which I've learned off of the Bothy Band's second album (titled Old Hag You Have Killed Me). I think I like the names of the tunes as much as the tunes themselves - The Banshee, the Rakes of Kildare, the Monahan Twig, Jennie's Welcome to Charlie, The Maid Behind the Bar, Junior Crehan's Favorite, Merrily Kissed the Quaker - so humorous, absurd or prosaic, simple, evocative, a symbolic little slice of life. I'm trying to motivate myself to start going to a few sessions here and there, which I know I would enjoy, but I'm just such a homebody.

I've also been going through some tutorials for GarageBand with my new MacBook, and hope to do some recording again soon, after not doing any for five or six years. Maybe even do some writing again (music, that is), though I'll probably start by just exploring a few favorite tunes (and maybe a song or two). I have a hankering to record Roy Orbison's Blue Bayou, for some reason, as if I could ever hope to even be a distant shadow of his voice (or Linda Ronstadt's, whose version of that song for the Muppet Show is an all-time favorite for me).

Writing-wise, I'm working on a short-story, a ghost-story of sorts, about a boy who encounters a barn owl in an old abandoned house, and is followed by it and begins to suspect... well it's a work in progress I guess.

Back to school, now...sorry for the rambling, self-involved post. What else are blogs for?

Love,
Brian

Some photos to share, new guitar and painting.

This is just a quick upload of some pictures.  One is a painting of my sister Esme done a few years ago by my then-roomate Matt Weinberg, who is quite a talented painter.  He has a knack for telling stories with his paintings and drawings, even within straightforward portraits and landscapes.  This was painted from a photograph.

The other pictures are of my new guitar, which I just got today.  Some of you may know that I was considering getting a new guitar.  There wasn't any problem with my old guitar, really, but I was looking for something smaller and a little easier to play, as my Martin J-40 was a big, loud guitar with a stiff action.  But a wonderful guitar nonetheless with a great, ringing bottom end, almost a piano-like sound.  For those interested, this is a Huss and Dalton CM Model guitar, made in Staunton, Virginia.  It's a 12 fret model (the body is built out to the twelfth fret instead of the more standard 14th) with a short scale length, and somewhere in between a 00 and dreadnaught depth.  Adirondack spruce top and Indian rosewood sides and back.  It's got a nicely balanced tone, quite crisp and punchy; I like it a lot, and it's definitely easier to play.  I've lost some of my finger strength now that I play more violin than guitar, and I wanted something a bit quieter for my voice, which is not very strong and had a hard time competing with the J-40.   Not too expensive either, especially given that I was trading in something of more or less equivalent value.  Anyway, it's a lot of fun.  Now I have to get out my violin and practice for my quartet rehearsal this evening.

Pictures of my apartment and New England day of weather

A corner of my cluttered kitchen; assorted cereals, herbs and aloe, chili pepper poster and paella pan.
My bed and bookshelves, with musical print and assorted gurus (Edgar the raven puppet, Spencer the bear, and buddha bear).
My computer station in my bedroom, with chinese moon guitar up in the corner.
My bedroom dresser (exciting!) with a nice print of the "Arkansas Traveler" above it.
A corner of my living room, with a painting of my sister Esme and a chinese print of some ducks from the Ho Toy Noodle Company calendar.
Another view of my living room, with plants and entertainment central.
This is a view of my living room, with my new couch front and center, and two nice pieces of fabric with chickens stitched into them.  I think they come from Thailand.

Today is one of those days that literally reflects that old New England aphorism (which is also applied to many other places as well) that goes something like "If you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes".  I woke up this morning to a beautiful day, if still soggy from last night's snow.  I took advantage of the nice weather to move a couch, and as soon as I finished getting it up into my apartment it started to rain.  Then it stopped, and the sun came out.  Out I went to do some more chores.  Pulling into the library the skies started turning a roiling gray and as I approached the library doors there was a crack of lightning and a loud roar of thunder that rumbled on for nearly half a minute.  By the time I reached the second floor (maybe a minute later) there was a thick, blowing snow, almost a blizzard, obscuring the streets and the skies.  I watched it for a few minutes and then went to get my books and my movies.  As I was leaving, the snow had stopped and it was starting to brighten.  Leaving the supermarket a half-hour later it was sunny and still, and I thought maybe I would put on my cold-weather action suit and go for a run.  By the time I got home it was raining again.  Now, an hour later, it is snowing lightly but blowing something fierce, pulling leaves from the trees and sending the house sparrows for shelter in the eaves and gutters.  But wait, now it has stopped and just a light breeze tugs at the tips of the trees, I kid you not.  

Regarding the pictures, I know they're not the most exciting, but my dad wanted to see what my apartment looks like and what I've done with some of the fabrics and prints he and Lisa sent me in the fall.  I'm happy to post them, though; I'm really enjoying my apartment right now. I did a major clean and straighten last weekend, and have been rearranging some furniture and artwork.  It's a pleasant, roomy place, though a little drafty in winter and swarming with bats in the summer.  Enjoy!!!  

What I've Been Listening To

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I thought maybe I'd try to fill some space on my blog by writing about some music I've been listening to lately. I don't feel too inspired right now to write about much else that might be going on in my personal life. Suffice it to say that I've been doing a bit of birding, some writing, and playing a spot of music here or there, along with eating a hearty pan of roasted root vegetables that I cooked up the other evening.

In that traditional folk world, the dominant genre of my attention the last few weeks, one particular album comes to mind. With some assistance (I won't name names) I was able to find a download of a long out of print album from the late '70's from Irish instrumental and singing wizards Andy Irvine and Paul Brady. The opening track is a stunner called "The Plains of Kildare", a rousing narrative about a racing pony named Stewball sung by Andy Irvine in his lively tenor voice. The instrumental arrangement, though, is the real star, constantly turning about with unexpected harmonic voicings, tempo changes, converging and diverging lines of guitar, mandolin and fiddle, and exciting stop/start rhythmic figures. The instrumental break near the end through into the final entry of the vocals is incredibly exciting. The next standout track is Paul Brady's version of "Arthur MacBride", a traditional Irish ballad that I'd previously known only from the first Planxty album. Planxty's version is livelier and more humorous, possibly more fitting with what I see to be the essential comedy of the lyric, but Brady brings his incredible voice and a ghostly, shimmering solo guitar accompaniment to his version that makes it simply a spellbinding, beautiful piece of music, complete with shivers down your spine and echoes of ancient Irish troubadours. The rest of the album is very worthwhile as well, and as luck would have it it has just been relreleased in a legal, commericial format with probably much better sound quality than the copy I have, which I may well replace with this legally-purchased version.

Of the little bit of rock and roll that I've been hearing, aside from my endless repetitions of the Beatles, I've been enjoying Joe Strummer's last album with the Mescalero's, Streetcore. It opens with a song called "Coma Girl", a rousing rock and roll number, exciting and well-crafted, that mixes driving guitars with interludes of ska beats and clever vocal harmonies. The track, and the album as a whole, lacks the anarchic noise of the Clash at their best (and worse), but that's not a criticism; this is a mature, assured album that keeps turning up surprises as I give it repeated listens. Joe Strummer was also just about the only artist out there that I would truly trust doing a cover of Bob Marley's "Redemption Song", which he does here in a simple, convincing and direct version.

That's all I'll mention for now. (The picture, by the way, is of Andy Irvine playing a bazouki).

Family Travels

I've got too much to do today to write here, but I thought I'd post some pictures from my recent sojourns to Cincinnati and Whidbey Island.  This was family visit time, though I'm sorry to say I didn't see everybody I would have liked to (my apologies, Beth, Peg, Dave) and didn't bring a camera on some trips (sorry Brad, Jim and Sue), but here are some representative shots of myself, my mom and Terry, my Dad and Lisa, Esme, Franny, Gabby, Sonja and Nick, and one unnamed Peregrine Falcon.  I haven't figured out yet to label individual pictures with their own comments on blogspot.  Of course, I haven't really tried to figure it out.

Cincinnati Birds

I'm on vacation now in Cincinnati, visiting with my folks and my sister Esme.  I tend to spend a lot of down time when visiting with family, reading and eating and chatting and strumming a guitar or two, maybe a movie as well.  I have gotten out once or twice, however; once to the Newport Aquarium where the highlight was a Pacific Giant Octopus.  These are truly amazing creatures, and no words could do them justice.  I hope someday I can see one in the wild. There is a great sequence in the book Island of the Blue Dolphins where the girl has a long battle of wills with an octopus in the shallows and tidepools of her island (one of the channel islands of California).  

There was also a requisite trip for Cincinnati Chili, and this year instead of Skyline we made the trek to Camp Washington Chili.  The basic template was the same, but the sauce was just a tad spicier and richer, I think, and the little oyster crackers were smaller (but of course you could have as many as you want).  Frank's Hot Sauce at the tables.  Now I can go a couple more months without cravings for this distinctive american treat.  

I've also discovered a very productive spot to go birding, a newish park called Armleder Park, along the west bank of the Little Miami River just a bit above its confluence with the Ohio. Near Lunken Airport.  It's a mix of recreational fields, dog park, bike trail, riverbank and fields managed for wildlife and nesting birds.  I discovered the website www.cincinnatibirds.com which has a log of local sightings and noticed that short-eared owls were dependably seen there.  These are amongst my favorite birds (as are most owls, and I am not alone in this) and so I made sure to make it down there.  I've gone twice now, and both times were very enjoyable and productive, with the focus on raptors.  5 species - short-eared owl, red-tailed hawk, american kestrel, northern harrier, and cooper's hawk.  In particular, the owls and harriers provided considerable drama.  The first day, we watched the owl snag a nice vole or mouse only to have the harrier attack and snatch the prize away in mid-air.  Today, the harrier was cruising along and suddenly dove into the grasses, rousting an owl into the air.  The owl was then mobbed by a large group of crows, twenty or so, for several minutes as the owl flew higher and higher in tight circles.  Finally the crows drifted away, one by one, and the owl stayed up in the air at considerable height for some time before descending.  I was thinking about how I'd never really heard of or seen owls fly so high in the air, and then I was wondering if the crows are likely to abandon their attack as the owl goes higher and higher, or what exactly was going on...mobbing behavior is so interesting and mysterious.  

Anyway, a great show (and apparently quite dependable) for such a smallish park on the outskirts of Cincinnati.  If only I could find the fox sparrows, merlin and red-headed woodpecker at Spring Grove Cemetery.  Next week, on to Whidbey Island in Puget Sound.  More birds await, as well as my two nieces, Gabriella and Sonja.  

Hawks, Shrikes, and Razorbills, Oh My!

These are pictures of a Rough-legged hawk and a razorbill. The hawk is one of three 'winter specialties' of Plum Island. The other two are the Northern Shrike and the Snowy Owl (I will discuss the razorbill later). All three of these are uncommon or rare winter visitors around here, but found dependably and regularly on Plum Island. By the way, I did not take these pictures, I wish I had. I did try to take a picture of a rough-legged this morning, with my phone camera through my spotting scope, but that was quite the exercise in futility.

I was lucky enough to catch all three winter specialties this morning, in droves. Three shrikes, two snowy owls - well, probably the same one in two different spots - and at least four Rough-legged hawks. I went out with a group outing sponsored by the Brookline Bird Club. As I've said before a lot of good eyes can make for some great birding.

Despite our luck with the shrike, owl and hawk, the highlight was certainly the seawatch at the north end of the refuge. It was calm this morning, with very little wind. The water was still, not as glass, but a gentle, even ripple that spread out to the horizon. Landward the sky was overcast but over the sea it was bright with warm, yellow highlights bordering the low clouds.

The must have been a lot, I mean a lot, of fish in the water. As we walked over the last dune we could see large, roiling masses of gulls and seabirds spread here and there, and other scattered individuals or small groups everywhere else. Best of all, for me, was the presence of probably one - one hundred and fifty razorbills, a stout black-and-white diving bird with a highly distinctive thick, curved wedge of a beak. I've only seen these before either on the far horizon (where I can barely make a reliable identification) or a very quick flyby. These were actively foraging in tight groups, pretty close to shore (one hundred yards?) where I could easily make out their markings and the shape of their bill. They swam and dove right amids big groups of gulls and red-breasted mergansers, usually moving in a thick line, steadily moving forward until they found an exceptionally rich spot. Neat birds. Also scattered around were Common Loons, Red-necked Loons, Horned Grebes, Red-necked Grebes, White-winged scoters, Black Scoters...I watched one Horned grebe just a few yards out from shore wrestling with a long, thin, silver fish.

Other highlights? Nothing in particular. Eventually, I got cold and hungry. Time marches on. Several others remained to continue prowling the marsh, thickets and beaches. I know I've said this before, but the range of devotion and fanaticism that people take to their hobbies always fascinates me. Many of my friends and family would consider me to be an unusually passionate, devoted and knowledgable birder. And to the average person, I am. But I often run into people who far surpass me, people who are out almost every day, or at least every weekend, virtually all day. Who obsessively follow what's being spotted around the state and will make sure to travel anywhere something unusual is being seen.

Anyway, it's fun.

Goodbye, Grandma

Here in Boston we've just gone through a mini-deep freeze; I think it was 10 degrees fahrenheit or less all day yesterday and colder than that the night before. Last night was the same. I tossed and turned all evening because my street kept losing power, and the streetlights would go on and off and my apartments furnace would stop blowing, then kick in, then stop...you get the picture. So I tried to grab a little more sleep but finally gave it up to take a walk and do a little birding. I thought it would be okay because I heard the radio say that it would be much warmer (in the high 20's) today but I was too sleepy to think it through, and it was around 12 degrees. It was cold, cold, cold. I just went to a local park in Newton, Nahanton Park, and really saw nothing but a few unhappy mockingbirds and blue jays. Maybe a few crows and gulls as well, and something I half-persuaded myself was a juvenile northern shrike but now am fairly sure that it was just a robin. The things your mind can persuade you into believing! Anyway, after a half-hour my chin was numb and my feet were also coming along quite nicely and I went in to work. I should have stayed in to work on my book, but I was so bleary from the lack of sleep that I just couldn't face it.

I just got back a few days ago from South Bend, Indiana, where my Grandmother Mary Breden passed away on December 26th. I don't really know what to say; I would like to write something special, but I keep hearing the tribute my sister Meghan wrote when I start thinking about it. Please visit her blog at www.meghan5m.blogspot.com to read it. For myself, a lot of different things have been going through my head. Grief that she's passed on, sadness that I didn't really get to say goodbye, a wish that I'd seen more of her the last few years, but also a stream of wonderful memories and the presence of her love, which I still feel. And in visiting with my mom, my aunt and my cousins, and in talking with my sisters, I've also found myself, happily, still learning new things about her; its amazing to find someone who has passed on still growing as a person before your eyes. She was 92 years old and had a full life, rich in experience, giving, and love. In particular, I'm so pleased (and thankful) that she spent her last years with so many wonderful and attentive daughters, grandchildren and greatgrandchildren.

I love you, Grandma! (And I miss you.)

Love to all,
-Brian

ps A special message for Seth: See you later, Fishbulb! (you're the fishbulb!)