Swans eat fish.
And little girls wave to birds who look at them.
In England, in the north of Yorkshire, is the city of Barnard Castle. It takes its name from the castle built there centuries ago by Bernard. And in that city is the Bowes Collection, a museum once the residence of the wealthy Bowes family.
A chief exhibit of the Bowes Collection is the Silver Swan, a marvellous clockwork mechanism, built in the 1770s that still operates today.
Let's hope the video plays.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Flat Bassets and Hot Piano
One of the joys of visiting Southern California is the hospitality shown by my bassett hosts.
Apparently, in the bassett community, there is a condition known as "flat bassett." This is when a bassett hound decides that evolution has given him legs too short for walking, at which point he just flops and goes nowhere without being carried.
Here, shortly before heading to the barn at 6am, I looked over to see Rocky demonstrating the classic "flat bassett" position. Rocky likes being part of things, as long as those "things" do not require leaving the house before 6am.
Rocky is fairly calming influence. But when you are in the mood for hot piano jazz, just put some Jerry Lee Lewis on the turntable and watch Maddie get in the groove. I wish I had a picture of her in dark glasses, accompanying Ray Charles.
You may be thinking that such attitudes are disrespectful.
But that is, after all, the point of honky-tonk piano--some things are better when we set respect aside.
Apparently, in the bassett community, there is a condition known as "flat bassett." This is when a bassett hound decides that evolution has given him legs too short for walking, at which point he just flops and goes nowhere without being carried.
Here, shortly before heading to the barn at 6am, I looked over to see Rocky demonstrating the classic "flat bassett" position. Rocky likes being part of things, as long as those "things" do not require leaving the house before 6am.
Rocky is fairly calming influence. But when you are in the mood for hot piano jazz, just put some Jerry Lee Lewis on the turntable and watch Maddie get in the groove. I wish I had a picture of her in dark glasses, accompanying Ray Charles.
You may be thinking that such attitudes are disrespectful.
But that is, after all, the point of honky-tonk piano--some things are better when we set respect aside.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Wish I were here
It is beautiful where I am now, perhaps the most beautiful September since I have lived here.
Nonetheless, it is hard not to remember how beautiful it was where I was last month and think longingly of being there again.
From time to time, as I try to keep up with blogging while doing other things, I will post an image or two that keeps those memories vivid.
And I'll try to keep animals in the blog, as I do so.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
The Face at the Window
The day before yesterday, I was typing at the computer.
It's a pretty common event. I was trying to cram into one long day my final edits of an overdue essay--one that I am very much looking forward to seeing in print, and one whose final revisions were causing more than usual stress.
I decided that the entire day would be devoted to completing this project, and that everything else would have to wait. I began serious changes at about 9:30 in the morning, and by mid-afternoon, I was definitely making progress . . . and definitely a long way from done.
Next to my computer screen is a second-storey Window. Not a Microsoft Window, but a real window.
A screen that I can look through and see a real world, instead of a virtual one. Sometimes, a real world with animals. Through this window, I have at times, seen deer. And turkeys. And a fox. And cats. And assorted bugs and birds.
Toward mid-afternoon, from the corner of my eye, I caught a motion at the window. I looked up, refocused, stared into the leaves of the woods beyond, seeking out the movement that had caught my eye.
For a second there was nothing. And then, in the corner of the window, much closer than I anticipated--right up against the glass, in fact--a motion again; a small face peering in my second-storey window, then ducking down again.
I am at an age where such changes in focal distance leave a doubt in the mind. But I had an expectation. In the past, small perching birds--goldfinch and nuthatch--have clung to that window ledge briefly, scrabbling for a foothold, tempting my cats, before giving up and flying away.
I looked again where the face had been, thinking "but he is too small, his feet made no noise." And then he was back.
More than a year ago, stuck while writing another essay, I had gone out into the garden. There I met a fellow creature, and over the next few days, we met with regularity and his presence helped me through that bit of the essay:
" The honeysuckle arches over the stone path that leads through the garden. The serpent coils there, among the leaves and blossoms, the patterns of his scales blending with the shade and dappled light of the late afternoon sun. In “The Name of a Dog,” Levinas insisted on the specificity of his dog: “But enough of allegories! . . . The dog is a dog. Literally a dog!” (48). Certainly, Derrida is responding to Levinas when he insists on asserting a complementary specificity: “I must immediately make it clear, the cat I am talking about is a real cat, truly, believe me, a little cat” (6). So, too, must I now insist on the specificity of my serpent: the snake is a snake; literally a snake. And not a little snake, either, for as he dozed on the honeysuckle, I measured him with a tape measure at just over three feet. Writing this essay, in late spring, as I took a break to do some gardening, I stumbled upon him one afternoon. He was sunning himself on the very branch for which I was reaching with clippers in hand. As the essay dragged on over the next week, we began meeting regularly every sunny afternoon, a little after three. The fox who stepped lightly out of the woods one afternoon, and climbed the steps leading up from the overgrown lane, only to work his way along the edge of the side yard, before disappearing into bushes that lead to the open field beyond was only a visitor. As was the deer who nibbled the tender new leaves at the very edge of the wood. These came and went. But the snake in the garden remains. And with each of his near-daily visits, something like a face more clearly emerged. One afternoon, his eye was clouded, milky, a sign that he was about to shed his skin. The next day, bright-eyed and seeking warmth, he was back on his familiar perch."
The face at my window came clearly into focus. By the time I got my camera, he was leaving again.
I went downstairs and photographed his departure.
He is the one who is NOT the cable that snakes through my outer wall into my computer.
He travelled up, transverse, across the bricks, in dappled light, then down beneath the dry already-fallen leaves into the gutter trough along the garage's roofline. He is not his father (or grandfather's--Faulkner would say "grandfather") size, but it seems likely that he lives in his father's house.
When the weather turns cold, and the ground gets hard, the field mice will come looking for warmth. And he will be waiting. In the Keweenaw this summer, people spoke of how dry it was last winter, and how warm the water was this summer; that pattern promises heavy snow in the north this year, they tell me.
Does my tenant have a face?
It's a pretty common event. I was trying to cram into one long day my final edits of an overdue essay--one that I am very much looking forward to seeing in print, and one whose final revisions were causing more than usual stress.
I decided that the entire day would be devoted to completing this project, and that everything else would have to wait. I began serious changes at about 9:30 in the morning, and by mid-afternoon, I was definitely making progress . . . and definitely a long way from done.
Next to my computer screen is a second-storey Window. Not a Microsoft Window, but a real window.
A screen that I can look through and see a real world, instead of a virtual one. Sometimes, a real world with animals. Through this window, I have at times, seen deer. And turkeys. And a fox. And cats. And assorted bugs and birds.
Toward mid-afternoon, from the corner of my eye, I caught a motion at the window. I looked up, refocused, stared into the leaves of the woods beyond, seeking out the movement that had caught my eye.
For a second there was nothing. And then, in the corner of the window, much closer than I anticipated--right up against the glass, in fact--a motion again; a small face peering in my second-storey window, then ducking down again.
I am at an age where such changes in focal distance leave a doubt in the mind. But I had an expectation. In the past, small perching birds--goldfinch and nuthatch--have clung to that window ledge briefly, scrabbling for a foothold, tempting my cats, before giving up and flying away.
I looked again where the face had been, thinking "but he is too small, his feet made no noise." And then he was back.
More than a year ago, stuck while writing another essay, I had gone out into the garden. There I met a fellow creature, and over the next few days, we met with regularity and his presence helped me through that bit of the essay:
" The honeysuckle arches over the stone path that leads through the garden. The serpent coils there, among the leaves and blossoms, the patterns of his scales blending with the shade and dappled light of the late afternoon sun. In “The Name of a Dog,” Levinas insisted on the specificity of his dog: “But enough of allegories! . . . The dog is a dog. Literally a dog!” (48). Certainly, Derrida is responding to Levinas when he insists on asserting a complementary specificity: “I must immediately make it clear, the cat I am talking about is a real cat, truly, believe me, a little cat” (6). So, too, must I now insist on the specificity of my serpent: the snake is a snake; literally a snake. And not a little snake, either, for as he dozed on the honeysuckle, I measured him with a tape measure at just over three feet. Writing this essay, in late spring, as I took a break to do some gardening, I stumbled upon him one afternoon. He was sunning himself on the very branch for which I was reaching with clippers in hand. As the essay dragged on over the next week, we began meeting regularly every sunny afternoon, a little after three. The fox who stepped lightly out of the woods one afternoon, and climbed the steps leading up from the overgrown lane, only to work his way along the edge of the side yard, before disappearing into bushes that lead to the open field beyond was only a visitor. As was the deer who nibbled the tender new leaves at the very edge of the wood. These came and went. But the snake in the garden remains. And with each of his near-daily visits, something like a face more clearly emerged. One afternoon, his eye was clouded, milky, a sign that he was about to shed his skin. The next day, bright-eyed and seeking warmth, he was back on his familiar perch."
The face at my window came clearly into focus. By the time I got my camera, he was leaving again.
I went downstairs and photographed his departure.
He is the one who is NOT the cable that snakes through my outer wall into my computer.
He travelled up, transverse, across the bricks, in dappled light, then down beneath the dry already-fallen leaves into the gutter trough along the garage's roofline. He is not his father (or grandfather's--Faulkner would say "grandfather") size, but it seems likely that he lives in his father's house.
When the weather turns cold, and the ground gets hard, the field mice will come looking for warmth. And he will be waiting. In the Keweenaw this summer, people spoke of how dry it was last winter, and how warm the water was this summer; that pattern promises heavy snow in the north this year, they tell me.
Does my tenant have a face?
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Labor Day Weekend
Labor Day Weekend marks the end of the Del Mar meet.
So before they load the horses on the vans and ship back up to Los Angeles, let's get in one more blog post on the sweetest summer spot in Southern California.
They don't just have hats at Del Mar, they have horses.
But not all the beauty, or all the beautiful horses are at the track. Some are still getting ready, back at the farm. This one is one of my favorites.
She's incredible.
Let's hope everything goes well, she encounters no problems, and we all get to hear a lot about her.
Horse racing is largely about the hope that what might be special has a chance to flower.
So before they load the horses on the vans and ship back up to Los Angeles, let's get in one more blog post on the sweetest summer spot in Southern California.
They don't just have hats at Del Mar, they have horses.
But not all the beauty, or all the beautiful horses are at the track. Some are still getting ready, back at the farm. This one is one of my favorites.
She's incredible.
Let's hope everything goes well, she encounters no problems, and we all get to hear a lot about her.
Horse racing is largely about the hope that what might be special has a chance to flower.
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