Auditory Ques

Gorgeous weather; what I'm talkin' 'bout.

I was working in the garden yesterday morning when I heard something approach. I knew it was an animal, a four footed rhythm. Expecting a dog I saw a spotted faun.

My first thought was that it was coming to graze, but no, the poor thing seemed unaware of both the garden and me. It stopped just ten feet from where I sat and with its tail wrapped tight between it's legs sniffed the air, the grass, the woodpile. It wandered over and examined the opened shed where the lawnmower resides. For a moment it sensed me, looked right at me sniffing with its ears all akimbo, then moved on to the back yard.

I fear for it. It spent about twenty minutes within my gaze and not once did I hear the husky bark of its mother or see another deer at all. It will find its way home, whether that's within the fold or the belly of a coyote I don't know, but I was graced by its presence.

Later I had the chain saw out getting ready for next winter when I heard a motorcycle. Between cuts I turned to watch the road and didn't see anything so went back to work.

But wait, I could still hear it and looked again. Still the road was empty. I revved the engine then let it idle trying to determine if the sound was coming from me. Nothing; so I went back to work.

Soon back pipes were firing and a whole gaggle of motor bikes were passing me by, I could feel the vibration in my chest; I thought I'd heard something.

Summertime.

Honeysuckle On the Breeze

 

I got the inspiration for this post over a week ago, I'd better write it while it's still Springtime, the best time of the year in my book. The days are long and getting longer, the temperatures comfortable and the humidity low, for the most part. People are outdoors at barbeques and yard sales, going to baseball games and having parties in the back yard, the front lawn packed with cars. In other yards kids are playing sports. Why, when I came home just this evening my next door neighbor was playing tag with her two young sons whose laughter was music to rival the ever-present birdsong, except after the sun sets when the crickets and frogs take over.

Ah, and the vegetative world is growing with the exuberance of youth; the woods and meadows lush, the agricultural fields nascent with tender seedling. I crested a hill and beheld a valley so green that I couldn't believe it. I'm not sure what created that effect but that's what prompted me to write this post. I don't remember now where exactly it was, on some Southern Indiana back highway, but I do remember that view was of nothing but trees, no buildings or power lines of any kind. Strange; you'd think some contrast would further the sensation, but whatever the cause it was a beautiful experience.

Yet still people complain. There's always something wrong. It rains too much, or it's a trifle too hot. I've found myself doing it, it's almost obligatory in certain situations. Then again it hasn't been all sweetness and light either. We've had a few warm days with high humidity. I've been uncomfortable.

There was one day when the humidity was as thick as I believe I've ever seen it. Indiana 157 north of Bloomfield runs along the crest of the highest ridge in the area. It's a place where one can still see vistas across the "Little Smokies" even with the trees in leaf, on both sides of the road. On the day of hyper-humidity the atmospheric perspective was so pronounced that the receding hills looked like flat cardboard cutouts placed in front of each other, growing whiter with distance; not blue, white.

One last anecdote before I head to bed: I was caught in a downpour leaving the Club. The parking lot is ringed with locust trees, which had been in bloom for a couple of weeks, I guess. The rain was knocking the delicate little petals loose which then fluttered down like snow. The air was thick with their scent. I ran to the car, not so much to keep dry, but because it felt good to run, to be alive!

Shhh, This is the transition time. I just heard the conspicuous silence when the bird outside my window quit singing. No, not silence, the crickets are already chirping. After a bit there were a few birds doing their "Good night John-boys." Now the frogs have begun to join the chorus. The owls will be out later. I haven't heard any whippoorwills here since they cut the timber.

Enjoy it.

 

Rebirth

Springtime! Color returns to the landscape: "peachy" leaf buds, magenta redbuds trees, yellow forsythia, the white and pink of flowering ornamentals, with a light dusting of the delicate green of baby leaves settled on the hillsides, a darker green brimming the lawns and pastures. And it's just begun. The blades of the bulbs are up, but I haven't seen any blossoms yet. I'll probably see my first tommorrow.

It's not that there's no color to winter, it's that the color is so muted and somber. Winter has its own stark beauty, not even counting the snow clad wonderland. I surprised myself by being nostalgic for it even before it was gone. It was last week, or the week before. I was coming back from the quarry with a load of limestone on and as I rounded a curve the the bare branches of some red stemmed shrub were set against ocher fields. "This won't last much longer," I found myself saying. Not that I'll truly miss it, but at least the moment was appreciated.

There are some things I will miss about the winter landscape. The vistas across our karst topography here, our "Little Smokies," soon to be hidden by leaves. Along the same vein but more practical I'll definitely miss being able to see what's coming ahead around curves on these windy country lanes I have to drive with my big truck. I don't think I ever miss the beauty of the snow or its crunch underfoot, there's too much else filling my senses in the Spring, Summer and Autumn, but I do enjoy it when it's here (and hate it too, let me be clear).

Anyway, Happy Spring Everyone!

Negative Seven

 

Seven degrees below zero was the temperature that the local radio gave. It was 8:00 AM and the guys said, "We don't unload trucks in negative temperatures. Maybe by noon."

"Sweet," I thought but knew that they were only kidding. I was the one that had to go out there to unstrap and de-tarp the load. They waited till I had it mostly clear then shuttled out on their forklift and back again.

I did well; I kept moving and got the job done. I'd say about an hour and a half of constant exposure. All in a day's work.

The thing that I can't understand is that I share the story but get no sympathy. I can only imagine one or two of you who could have endured that task not only without complaining but, while struggling to fold the frozen tarps (forget getting them off the trailer in the first place) stepping up to transfer the chalks so that the fork lift driver in his ski mask doesn't have to move off his seat.

I don't know why. I start to tell the story and suddenly everybody's got their own story to tell. I know that it's nothing compared to what our ancestors endured throughout the Ice Ages, but I'd like a little respect.

What was it Rodney Dangerfield said?

 

Recurring Challenge

 

I don’t remember the details but I do recall that way back, in middle school perhaps, I made the decision to terminate a friendship when it became clear that the other party was racist. I remember even less about what it was that revealed to me that there were elements of racism, and later sexism within myself, hidden in my fundamental assumptions about the world, but it was probably around the same time. Then began the extended process of trying to recognize those assumptions and rid myself of them. It was a quest I’d thought long complete, yet all these years later I discover that prejudice still lurks within.

I was delivering to a construction site. I pulled up along the curb with my flashers on to seek directions. A gang of “Mexicans” conferred in Spanish, then their spokesman said to go around the block and enter from the far corner of the site. As I was returning to the truck a white guy came striding up asking me what I had. He then told me to enter from the first drive, rather than the last.

I had to “buttonhole” the turn, once traffic permitted, so it wan’t until I was committed that I noticed the sign that said, “No construction traffic.” Like I say, I was committed to the turn with a line of impatient cars behind me, and it was where I was told to go.

”Who told you that?”

I didn’t know, “Some White guy wearing a hard hat.”

I ended up having to back out onto the street and enter from the last drive where the Mexicans had originally directed me. I could easily say that whereas the Mexicans had to confer amongst themselves the White guy seemed sure of himself and full of authority, but to be honest, and without honesty the project is doomed beforehand, it was the country of origin that swayed me (actually I'm being harsh on myself here).

So there’s that, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Fifteen years ago I’d never have thought that one day I would count Conservatives amongst my friends. It’s not that politics is never a topic of discussion, it’s that we agree to disagree, and for my part my views have evolved. I still firmly believe that our strength is within the people, not the elite, and that austerity will kill. At the same time I can’t get with the Libertarians because neither the people nor the elite, especially the elite, will police themselves; while as much as they may be necessary I fundamentally distrust the Police. That leaves me with the pipe dream that someday we will understand dark energy and not need the police, and to vote Democratic, hoping for a viable Green.

Well that’s a mouthful, but still not what I wanted to talk about. I have some friends, a couple, who I love and for whom I would easily give up my comfort and possibly even risk my life. They are conservative. It’s even known that they’re racist; there was something about Obama’s middle name that I answered, “That’s not an opinion, that's a prejudice,” and then changed the subject. I have more than enough evidence to know that they are good people, and my friends, but something happened that troubled me enough to write this.

It was nothing that they did. It’s what they didn’t do. A guy came into the bar and settled back in our corner. I personally didn’t like him from the start, just something about him, but it became clear that he was a near neighbor of my Friends’ over in Ellettesville, and they shared common interests in cars, guns and smoked meat. Hoosiers, in a word.

So this new guy, one who I predict hasn’t a chance in hell of being accepted as a regular is telling a story about the enormous chickens he had smoking out back when of all things three “nigger” women showed up, searching for a hand out no doubt. I wasn’t in the conversation but I heard it and noticed that neither of my friends batted an eyelash.

I won’t terminate this relationship, like that earlier, nascent one. My views have evolved. But I must say something, which I certainly will, believing that it will only strengthen our bond. Does anybody have any ideas on what Dark Energy is? It sounds extra dimensional to me.

 

So what about Picasso?

 

The show was mostly prints; etchings, lithographs, and a few lino prints. There were some paintings and some sculptures, including a mock up for the Daley Center Plaza piece, which I liked a lot better than the actual sculpture.

It was organized chronologically. One thing that I noticed was how cubism was bursting at the seams before it happened.

But the real story were the prints.

I didn't see a mark, or an area of tint that seemed contrived, let alone labored. Everything seemed offhand, casual, yet nothing missed its target; its mark. Picasso had a graphic language exemplar; a mark for every occasion, regardless of the subject or the medium.

It's interesting; I attempted to take a picture of that famous etching of the little girl holding a candle to the Minotaur and a man escaping up a ladder. My camera has auto focus. It tried to focus on multiple parts of the picture but never achieved clarity. Was the camera confused by the flattened space? More likely it was operator error.

 

 

An Observation on the Train

 

I was up in Chicago visiting Shoshana last weekend. They no longer live in Wriggleyville, unfortunately, but way up north on the border between the City and Evanston. They still live near the Red Line though. In fact you can see the switching yards at the end of the Red Line from their apartment.

We went to see the Picasso show at the Art Institute on Friday. We took the train in. It was early mid-morning and rush hour was finished that far north. There were only a few other passengers in the car we boarded. One was a woman of early middle age seated diagonally across from me in a seat facing the opposite direction, so that I had a good view of her.

She was plain, but attractive. At some point I noticed that she had a compact in her hand and was fussing with her make up.

It was a seemingly interminable ride. I'm not sure what the difference is between public transport in New York and Chicago, but in the former city you feel like you're getting somewhere, even on the local, while in Chicago the ride just goes on and on. As we got closer to the city center the car began to fill; the woman across from me continued to do her makeup as we went.

By the time we went underground she was finished. She seemed well satisfied and it appeared to me that she'd done a good job in her compact mirror on a moving train. She wasn't plain anymore; only I thought she was more attractive without her mask. Armor, that's what it seemed to me; a defensive cosmetic barrier against sexism, jealousy and feelings of inadequacy.

But I was only a people watcher, unaware of whatever else...