Hodgepodge 294/365 - Black-headed Grosbeak

We're visiting a friend, Spencer, who is an amateur bird expert. We met him when he lived in Monterey for four years, and in those days he spent a bunch of time banding birds at the Big Sur Ornithology Lab (no longer operational). He has since moved to Corvallis—which happens to be in the band of totality for Monday's eclipse, hence our visit. We're sitting around talking about, among other things, birds! Spencer participates in the Christmas bird count and the 24-hour spring bird-a-thon, and he helps out censusing "hot spots" all over Oregon for a professor at Oregon State University in the Fisheries and Wildlife department.

I asked if he knows the bird calls, and he said that that's mostly what he uses to count birds; he rarely actually sees them.

Me, I'm really bad at recognizing bird calls: chickadees, sure; acorn woodpeckers, yeah; red-shouldered hawks; Anna's hummingbirds. (Okay, hummingbirds just do a raspy little trills, not songs per se, but still: I always know when there's a hummingbird around. It counts!) Also black oystercatchers, belted kingfishers, crows, mourning doves, willets.

I mentioned that earlier this spring I heard a really enchanting back-and-forth in our riparian greenbelt, and I wished I knew who it was. I wished, too, that I had a memory for sounds, so I might be able to call up the Sibley or Cornell Lab of Ornithology sound recordings and ID the bird. But no.

I asked what Spencer's favorite bird call is, and he immediately said, "The springtime song of the black-headed grosbeak." He summoned it up on his app. It sounds like this:

Wait—is that what I heard?????

Well, might be. In the meantime, Spencer has played the calls of the American robin, western tanager, and American goldfinch, and they all sound . . . chirpy! Happy! Cheery! Kinda like what I remember that original birdy conversation sounding like. (Meanwhile, Spencer parsed the "reedy" sound of the robin, the trilling intro of the tanager, and other specifics of each of those birds' songs. Where I just hear chirpy and happy, he hears individual species. It's impressive.)

We do get black-headed grosbeaks, and we're always delighted to see them. As for hearing them, I guess I'll keep my ears open.

Hodgepodge 293/365 - Poetry (Sherman Alexie)

I posted this yesterday, but then I continued to grow the lead-in, and the whole thing became too long. (Plus I'm lazy enough that I realized, aha! I can use this poem separately! a whole post taken care of!)

So here is a poem by Sherman Alexie, posted publickly two days ago, that expresses some of what I feel about the events in Charlottesville—and about upcoming events in cities all over: Portland, Boston, Phoenix, San Francisco—so I will let him speak for me. I pray that this country comes back to its senses and that we return to singing, being courageous with our love, and welcoming strangers.

Hymn

Why do we measure people's capacity
To love by how well they love their progeny?

That kind of love is easy. Encoded.
Any lion can be devoted

To its cubs. Any insect, be it prey
Or predator, worships its own DNA.

Like the wolf, elephant, bear, and bees,
We humans are programmed to love what we conceive.

That's why it's so shocking when a neighbor
Drives his car into a pond and slaughter–

Drowns his children. And that's why we curse
The mother who leaves her kids—her hearth—

And never returns. That kind of betrayal
Rattles our souls. That shit is biblical.

So, yes, we should grieve an ocean
When we encounter a caretaker so broken.

But I'm not going to send you a card
For being a decent parent. It ain't that hard

To love somebody who resembles you.
If you want an ode then join the endless queue

Of people who are good to their next of kin—
Who somehow love people with the same chin

And skin and religion and accent and eyes.
So you love your sibling? Big fucking surprise.

But how much do you love the strange and stranger?
Hey, Caveman, do you see only danger

When you peer into the night? Are you afraid
Of the country that exists outside of your cave?

Hey, Caveman, when are you going to evolve?
Are you still baffled by the way the earth revolves

Around the sun and not the other way around?
Are you terrified by the ever-shifting ground?

Hey, Trump, I know you weren't loved enough
By your sandpaper father, who roughed and roughed

And roughed the world. I have some empathy
For the boy you were. But, damn, your incivility,

Your volcanic hostility, your lists
Of enemies, your moral apocalypse—

All of it makes you dumb and dangerous.
You are the Antichrist we need to antitrust.

Or maybe you're only a minor league
Dictator—temporary, small, and weak.

You've wounded our country. It might heal.
And yet, I think of what you've revealed

About the millions and millions of people
Who worship beneath your tarnished steeple.

Those folks admire your lack of compassion.
They think it's honest and wonderfully old-fashioned.

They call you traditional and Christian.
LOL! You've given them permission

To be callous. They have been rewarded
For being heavily armed and heavily guarded.

You've convinced them that their deadly sins
(Envy, wrath, greed) have transformed into wins.

Of course, I'm also fragile and finite and flawed.
I have yet to fully atone for the pain I've caused.

I'm an atheist who believes in grace if not in God.
I'm a humanist who thinks that we’re all not

Humane enough. I think of someone who loves me—
A friend I love back—and how he didn't believe

How much I grieved the death of Prince and his paisley.
My friend doubted that anyone could grieve so deeply

The death of any stranger, especially a star.
"It doesn't feel real," he said. If I could play guitar

And sing, I would have turned purple and roared
One hundred Prince songs—every lick and chord—

But I think my friend would have still doubted me.
And now, in the context of this poem, I can see

That my friend’s love was the kind that only burns
In expectation of a fire in return.

He’s no longer my friend. I mourn that loss.
But, in the Trump aftermath, I've measured the costs

And benefits of loving those who don't love
Strangers. After all, I'm often the odd one—

The strangest stranger—in any field or room.
"He was weird" will be carved into my tomb.

But it’s wrong to measure my family and friends
By where their love for me begins or ends.

It’s too easy to keep a domestic score.
This world demands more love than that. More.

So let me ask demanding questions: Will you be
Eyes for the blind? Will you become the feet

For the wounded? Will you protect the poor?
Will you welcome the lost to your shore?

Will you battle the blood-thieves
And rescue the powerless from their teeth?

Who will you be? Who will I become
As we gather in this terrible kingdom?

My friends, I'm not quite sure what I should do.
I'm as angry and afraid and disillusioned as you.

But I do know this: I will resist hate. I will resist.
I will stand and sing my love. I will use my fist

To drum and drum my love. I will write and read poems
That offer the warmth and shelter of any good home.

I will sing for people who might not sing for me.
I will sing for people who are not my family.

I will sing honor songs for the unfamilar and new.
I will visit a different church and pray in a different pew.

I will silently sit and carefully listen to new stories
About other people’s tragedies and glories.

I will not assume my pain and joy are better.
I will not claim my people invented gravity or weather.

And, oh, I know I will still feel my rage and rage and rage
But I won’t act like I’m the only person onstage.

I am one more citizen marching against hatred.
Alone, we are defenseless. Collected, we are sacred.

We will march by the millions. We will tremble and grieve.
We will praise and weep and laugh. We will believe.

We will be courageous with our love. We will risk danger
As we sing and sing and sing to welcome strangers.

Hodgepodge 292/365 - Charlottesville

I have not written about the events in Charlottesville, Virginia, the past weekend, but I have been following them, reading the eye-witness accounts and the commentary. I live in a crucible of moderation here in California, though I do have conservative friends who no doubt would disagree with me (they might call it a crucible of liberalism, or libtardism, or something). But no, I can't fathom what it's like to live in the South and watch white supremacists swagger into town waving weapons, brandishing torches, throwing Nazi salutes, and yelling hateful rhetoric.

[here is where I would post an image of same:
but there's already too much ugliness in the world,
so I won't]

I also can't truly understand what it's like to be black in this country, or an immigrant (legal or undocumented), or Native American, or Muslim, or Jewish, or LGBTQ, or poor, or sick, or disabled, or uneducated. I don't know what it's like to be you, any of you out there. But I can try to understand. And to speak up for the truths I perceive.

I am better at reading than at acting. Here is a list I found of 18 books "white allies" should read. I could start there, to cultivate understanding. (I have read two of the eighteen. I've got a ways to go.) And here are 17 books on race "that every white person needs to read" (many are on both lists).

That said, I am trying to become more activist, though it's not in my quiet, retiring nature. But I think action is the most important avenue we can take. So . . . I'm trying. I'll never be good at it.

I am also privileged: white, well enough off, not much to worry about at least for now, not until my health starts to fail, and then, the way things are going, I'll have plenty to worry about. But so will we all. Well, 99 percent of us.

In any event, I recognize that that privileged status makes my "activism" problematic. I recall the dismissals of the Women's March in January; the critics made valid points, and yet, there was passion on the streets of Washington that day, directed toward the good that this country can be, which should not be discounted. I cannot and do not pretend to speak for anyone other than me. Being me, I do know that injustice, intolerance, prejudice, bigotry, hatred exist, even if I've been fortunate enough never to have experienced those things profoundly. I have never been raped or physically abused, but I know women who have (something that even privilege doesn't shield one from). And I can condemn those things.

Charlottesville candlelight vigil, 8/16/17

I do believe that we are all in this together, as Americans, as participants in this big messy culture, and as human beings. At root, I believe we all want similar things: safety, a decent place to live, enough to eat, health, love and connection—at the very least. But some of us are afraid and angry—some quite justifiably, some not so much. It's all complicated, but there is never a reason for hate.

Our humanity makes us one.

Hodgepodge 291/365 - Avocados

I heard today that the International Space Station is about to get a resupply, including 20 pounds of fresh food. A special treat that is being tucked in this time is some fresh avocados.

That reminded me of my trip to the USSR back in the early 90s. We entered and exited the country via Helsinki, where I happened to have a friend from boarding school days in Germany, Raili: she went on to become a principal soprano with the Finnish national opera. We arranged to meet up on my return, and she welcomed me with a bottle of wine and, even better, fresh avocados! It was such a treat to savor that yummy food after a few weeks of Soviet food. (Though granted, we also did quite a bit of camping in Russia, where we foraged for mushrooms and berries and caught fish, so it wasn't all dismal.)

The avocado, or Persea americana, is in the laurel family and is thought to have originated in southern Mexico about 12,000 years ago. The name avocado comes from the Nahuatl word āhuacatl (also meaning "testicle"), which became aguacate in Spanish. Avocado is the state fruit of California, where 90 percent of the domestic crop is grown on some 59,000 acres of land, much of it in San Diego County. We also import from Mexico, Chile, and Peru. The fruit is rich in B vitamins and vitamin K, as well as C, E, and potassium.

Those astronauts are going to be happy campers.

Hodgepodge 290/365 - Poetry (Khadijah Queen)

Like several others I've featured here, Khadijah was a fellow student at Antioch University, in the Creative Nonfiction thread. I vividly remember her pieces about being a sailor—young, female, black—on the U.S.S. Cole (before it was bombed by Al-Qaeda), about her grandmother. Her prose was enriched by the fact that she is also a poet.

For a few years, we took part in a little writing group together with a couple of other Antioch friends. We called ourselves the Red Threads. Reading her work was always challenging—in a good way. She pushes boundaries, finds edges then transcends them.

Since I met her she has published several books of poetry, a play, and most recently a work of what I would call prose poetry, I'm So Fine: A List of Famous Men & What I Had On, which was a finalist for the 2015 National Poetry Series prize. Here are a few from that book (which you can read more about in this review).

The same year I found out who Audie Murphy was I got stretch marks I was 12 & living in a battered women’s shelter in Long Beach with my mother & sister & I filled out too fast from eating too much junk food & noticed the light striations after my first shower there I put on sandals & a loose pale blue summer dress that tied at the shoulders & saw the woman in the bunk across the room organizing pictures in a raggedy green photo album she lay there propped up on a thin elbow & I asked who is that & she didn’t reply just turned to a page that had his name & stared at Audie Murphy so hard her inch-thick glasses fogged up & I think it bothered her son who was my age & very smart but he didn’t complain he took really good care of her she would kiss the pictures & say in a clear voice I might be tall & you might be short Audie Murphy but you’d better tell those Western girls you’re all mine

I don’t remember how old I was when I saw Lou Rawls but we were on Wilshire somewhere with my mom & he drove a Rolls the color of rich cream every finger had gold & diamonds on it & the woman passenger wore a white fur coat & her bouffant stretched high enough to almost brush the inside roof of the car she also had on a lot of jewelry but not as much as Lou & we knew who he was because he had just performed on Solid Gold or Soul Train & I am pretty sure it was nighttime in the spring because I remember his lights were on & my legs were cold so I must have had on a dress or shorts my mom said for us to wave so we waved & he smiled & tapped the horn & glided on down the street in sparse traffic

A guy I met on Tinder took me to see Lionel Richie at Red Rocks Amphitheater I had on 3-inch gold heels stupidly because you have to climb approximately 8,901 steps which slope at a 45 degree angle but redeemed myself by keeping a pair of flats in the car also gold luckily matching my black slacks & ecru shell & light sweater I was glad I brought the sweater even though it was June since when the sun went down it still wasn’t warm enough & my date also let me wear his jacket & wrapped an arm around my shoulders & we had just met but it wasn’t weird at all just a moment that made me love dating in my late 30s & our whole row sang along to all the songs & on that outdoor screen Lionel Richie looked like he hadn’t aged a day since 1988

Hodgepodge 289/365 - Naked Ladies

Today's Facebook reminder of how long I've been sinking time into "social media" was a photo from three years ago, of a "naked lady," a.k.a. Amaryllis belladonna.

Here are some fun facts: this flower, variously known as Jersey lily, belladonna lily, March lily, and naked lady, is native to Cape Province in South Africa but is widely cultivated as an ornamental and has naturalized all over the world, especially in places characterized by a Mediterranean climate (cool rainy winter, hot dry summer). In Portugal one name is meninas para escola (girls going to school), referring to the flowers blooming when the girls in their pink uniforms are starting the new school year. Here in central California it blooms reliably for a few short weeks in August, on utterly naked stems (hence their more bawdy name). After the blossom, the narrow strap-shaped leaves appear.

It is one of only two species in the genus Amaryllis (the other being the rare paradisicola, known from a population of only about a thousand individuals in Richtersveld National Park, South Africa). What we commonly refer to as "amaryllis"—the kind you can buy in grow-from-a-bulb kits—is also in the family Amaryllidaceae (along with daffodils, agapanthus, and onions and chives), but in the genus Hippeastrum. The name Amaryllis comes from a shepherdess in Virgil's pastoral Eclogues, from the Greek ἀμαρύσσω (amarysso), meaning "to sparkle." Belladonna, of course, means beautiful woman.

Here are a few more photos I've take in Augusts past. Click on them to view large on black.

Hodgepodge 288/365 - Poetry (Issa)

Kobayashi Issa (1763–1828) was a Japanese poet and lay Buddhist priest of the Jōdo Shinshū sect known for his haiku poems and journals. He is better known as simply Issa, a pen name meaning Cup-of-Tea.

The man pulling radishes

  The man pulling radishes
pointed my way
  with a radish.