Noticing vii - Mamma Mia

This song has been a damn ear worm for a few days now. Here are two reasons why. (The first starting at about 1:35. Thank goodness for Randy Rainbow.)

And less distressfully . . .

The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert is one of my desert island movies, for sure.

I wonder if this post will silence the worm in my ear.

Noticing vi - new restaurant

The Monterey Peninsula, being a top tourist destination, has umpteen top-notch restaurants. Not every ethnicity is represented, by a long shot (Ethiopian comes to mind, and Indonesian, and Brazilian—though there used to be one of the latter; while dim sum only recently appeared, but not on the Peninsula: in Salinas). We do have Swiss.

Until not that long ago, too, we had but one brewpub in the area, English Ales in nearby Marina—though in the last decade a couple more moved in, mostly in downtown Monterey. But just yesterday I was reading in a local food guide that several more have newly installed themselves. The area has finally discovered beer! Yay!

Tonight we decided to try one of the newest brewpubs, Yeast of Eden in Carmel. David sampled three of the on-site-brewed beers, Crisp (4.6%), a dry lager; Saboteur Saison (6.0%), dry hopped with New Zealand Motueka hops; and Laughing at Clouds (7.0%), an unfiltered IPA. I had Chardonnay. We dined on three small plates: raw oysters, "authentic" empanadas, and spicy Sichuan cauliflower.

It was a pleasant place with clean lines, light wood and a fireplace-in-the-wall, high tables and a long bar, large-format black-and-white photographs of local landscapes on the walls.

I was joking today with a friend that in my last couple of blogs, occasionally all I had was, "We ate pizza tonight." Today isn't quite that bad, since this was a new restaurant. With a beer theme.

I did actually take some photos this afternoon of a gorgeous cactus blooming in the next block over—but when I couldn't figure out anything more than that it is probably some species (among 33) of Cereus . . . I was stuck. It's not enough to post only a picture, with nothing substantive about it.

So: dinner it is.

(I will refrain from sharing the anecdote of David, at dinner, pumping his arms in the air as he celebrated the idea that 3 times 3 equals 5! "I could tell you how it works," he said, "but I'd have to kill you." Was it the beer? Or does he really get off on weird math?)

Some days will just be like this—i.e., a moment in my life. It's okay. I make the rules.

Noticing v - afternoon walk

Our dog, Milo, gets us out for an afternoon walk every day, rain or shine (though the walk is short if it's raining). Today was a glorious afternoon: warm, with rich light from the lowering sun. We decided to go to one of our favorite spots, a road in the neighboring city of Seaside that is closed to traffic. It leads into the former Fort Ord, shut down as an army base 25 years ago and now a vast playground of BLM and National Monument lands.

Lately, the water company has been putting in pipes where we usually park, so today we went to a new trailhead. It was nice to explore different territory, though we ended up coming back along our usual path through a scrubby oak forest. I took some photos. I love the shapes of the trees and the brilliance of the (yes) poison oak, though most of it has lost its leaves now and is cleverly camouflaged as bare sticks. The pine cones and bits of decayed dog toys mark the memorial spot of Lady, a golden retriever who used to gambol with her person, Becky, along this path; Lady was killed by a car, sadly; we still see Becky occasionally, clippers in hand, though we didn't run into her today. It's a peaceful place and always makes me feel calmer having walked through it.

Noticing iv - metamorphosis

I've been thinking about metamorphosis today. Not necessarily in a metaphorical way. The pondering was sparked by a photo posted by a Facebook friend, Piotr Naskrecki, of a Kalahari oblong-eyed katydid nymph (Eurycorypha cereris), which, as he explains, is an ant-mimicker:

The adult, he goes on to say, resembles an oval, light-green leaf—and of course I had to go find out just what that means:

Wow. What a difference!

Then just now I noticed a passage by Rebecca Solnit (also on FB) from her book A Field Guide to Getting Lost. The passage she quotes is long, but it ends like this (and yes, does invoke metaphor):

The changes in a butterfly’s life are not always . . . dramatic. The strange resonant word instar describes the stage between two successive molts, for as it grows, a caterpillar, like a snake,  . . . splits its skin again and again, each stage an instar. It remains a caterpillar as it goes through these molts, but no longer one in the same skin. There are rituals marking such splits, graduations, indoctrinations, ceremonies of change, though most changes proceed without such clear and encouraging recognition. Instar implies something both celestial and ingrown, something heavenly and disastrous, and perhaps change is commonly like that, a buried star, oscillating between near and far.

Already I had been thinking about caterpillars and butterflies and moths, because their metamorphosis is so dramatic. Stumbling on Solnit's quote was coincidence enough, nudging me into pursuing this theme. Here are but four exemplars—of 12,000 moths (nocturnal) and 875 butterflies (diurnal) that flutter throughout North America, or 180,000 species of both worldwide. Because they're beautiful—in both phases of life—and because they go through so much, and yet survive such a short time for all that. (Quotations and information below are from Wikipedia, as well as Butterflies and Moths of North America.)

Anise swallowtail, Papilio zelicaon
Range (overlapping with the western tiger swallowtail,
P. rutulus) extends from British Columbia and Montana
south to Baja California, and usually no farther east than
New Mexico; its major food sources are members of the
carrot family (including fennel) and sometimes citrus
"In the first two instars, the caterpillar is dark brown,
almost black,with an irregular white band at its middle.
After that, it becomes more green at each successive
molt until, in the fifth (last) instar, it is predominantly
green, with markings in black, orange, and light blue.

Spun glass slug moth, Isochaetes beutenmuelleri
Found in the U.S. from New York to Florida and west
to Missouri and Mississippi; adults are on wing from
June to August; larvae feed on swamp oak

Hickory horned devil, Citheronia regalis
A common species in the American Deep South, this is the
"largest moth by mass" in North America, with wing
spans up to 6.25 inches; larvae feed largely on
sweet gum and persimmon, and sumac where those
are not available

Cecropia moth (female), Hyalophora cecropia
North America's largest native moth, in the silk moth family
(Saturnidae); found throughout North America,
including north into Canada; the larvae are commonly
found on maple trees, but also cherry and birch

Curve-lined owlet moth, Phyprosopus callitrichoides
Found from New Hampshire to Florida, west to Montana and Texas,
adults are on wing May–August; larvae feed on greenbriar (Smilax)

Just this little bit of research—all this talk of (multiple!) instars and imagos (the name for the adult form), of feeding as larvae but not feeding as adults in many cases (leading to perhaps a two-week span of existence on the wing)—is inspiring me to learn more about the fascinating creatures' life cycles. (Here's one source. And here's an article titled "What's Really Going On inside a Chrysalis"—fascinating.) And never mind the monarch butterfly's multiple generations in vastly different geographical locations. How do they know how to do it?
And . . . now I might consider the metaphorical aspects of metamorphosis. It's rich in so many ways.

Noticing iii - Wild & Scenic Film Festival

Every year a conservation group I belong to, the Ventana Wilder-ness Alliance (and which I volunteer with as a wilderness ranger), puts on a film festival and raffle as a fundraiser. Tonight was the night, and this evening I staffed a table, talking to people about the work we do, handing out VWA bumper stickers and copies of our quarterly newsletter (the most recent issue is here: I have a story on page 4—as I made sure to tell anyone who took that particu-lar issue), inviting people to join our mailing list. It was pleasant con-necting with people.

The films were varied, ranging from a fellow in Los Angeles traveling around and setting up his telescope, offering people a view of the moon, to much amazement and awe, to copulating newts (I kid you not: they do it underwater in great balls of twisting bodies—it is quite a sight)—the first and the last films of the evening. In between were short films about Native American individuals running or swimming to save their lands or their salmon; about a national grassroots organization, Great Old Broads for Wilderness (which I should join: I certainly qualify); about a turn-of-the-twentieth-century woman glaciologist, Mary Vaux.

I had three favorites. One was about a nature photographer, Clay Bolt—in this film, his work documenting native bees. Here are a few of his photos (and for more, as well as some description of his project, go here):

Long-horned bee (Svastra aegis)

Black-tailed bumblebee (Bomba melanopygus)

Pure green bee (Augochlora pura)

The other two you can watch right here in their entirety. The first is about the crusty grizzly lover Doug Peacock, whom I first "met" through his 1990 book Grizzly Years: In Search of the American Wilderness (which I am now thinking I should reread . . .). Hayduke Lives!

The second is an excellent documentary about the 2017 Eagle Creek Fire in the Columbia Gorge of Oregon. It explores culpability, com-munity, and recovery. The filmmakers were at our event tonight and spoke a few words, which only added to the meaningfulness—especially given that our area, too, experienced a devastating fire just the year before that of Eagle Creek.

All in all, an excellent evening. And the house was full, so I hope the VWA got a good purse from it all.

Noticing ii - Jenny Odell, artist

I am reading a book by artist Jenny Odell on the importance of "doing nothing"—which of course doesn't mean wasting time or simple leisure, but rather is a means of repair in this age of excess consumption, noise, and entities clamoring constantly for our attention. Hers is an anticapitalist view, in the sense that relentless productivity and "progress" are not the be-all and end-all (by a long shot) of why we're on the planet. Rather, we should be paying attention, listening more deeply and forging connections with the life (including people) around us. 

But I'm not here to write about the book: I'm only in chapter two and will write a book report when I'm done. What I am interested in is Odell's role as an artist. As her bio on the flyleaf tells us, she teaches art at Stanford and has been an artist-in-residence at such places as Recology SF (i.e., the San Francisco dump), the Internet Archive, and the San Francisco Planning Department. As she puts it, she makes "digital art of the physical world."

Here's a statement from her book, and then some images to illustrate.

As a visual artist, I've long had an appreciation of doing nothing—or, more properly, making nothing. I had been known to do things like collect hundreds of screenshots of farms or chemical-waste ponds from Google Earth, cutting them out and arranging them in mandala-like compositions. In The Bureau of Suspended Objects, a project I did while in residence at Recology SF, I spent three months photographing, cataloging, and researching the origins of two hundred discarded objects. I presented them as a browsable archive in which people could scan a handmade tag next to each object and learn about its manufacturing, material, and corporate history. At the opening, a confused and somewhat indignant woman turned to me and said, "Wait . . . so did you actually make anything? Or did you just put things on shelves?" I often say that my medium is context, so the answer was yes to both.
 Part of the reason I work this way is because I find existing things infinitely more interesting than anything I could possibly make. The Bureau of Suspended Objects was really an excuse for me to stare at the amazing things in the dump—a Nintendo Power Glove, a jumble of bicentennial-edition 7UP cans, a bank ledger from 1906—and to give each object the attention it was due. This near-paralyzing fascination with one's subject is something I've termed the "observational eros." 

The following images are from her project Satellite Collections (2009–11). In her artist statement she says, "The view from a satellite is not a human one, nor is it one we were ever really meant to see. But it is precisely from this inhuman point of view that we are able to read our own humanity, in all of its tiny, repetitive marks upon the face of the earth. From this view, the lines that make up basketball courts and the scattered blue rectangles of swimming pools become like hieroglyphs that say: people were here." (As always, click on the images to view large and on black.)

206 Circular Farms

100 Shipping Containers

681 Observatory Domes, Telescopes, and Other Structures
for Long Range Observation

137 Landmarks

10 Waterslide Configurations

And here are some photos from her installation The Bureau of Suspended Objects (2015–). These have no title, but the website has a good explanation of what Odell was aiming to accomplish. 

And here, finally, is Garbage Selfie, "a self portrait composed of everything I threw away, recycled or composted between February 10 and March 1, 2014."

How does this inform this possible new daily blog project of mine? What am I trying to accomplish? As I said yesterday, one of my goals is to remain open and curious. (Did I say that? If not, I meant to.) I want to learn about what's out in the world, and so does Jenny Odell, clearly. I am very interested in context—where things belong, where things end up. I am viewing her work with great sympathy. I like knowing that she's doing these projects, that her creative energy is in the world. Her work, in a very real way, is instructive on how to pay better attention.

Noticing i - a photo and a new word

Yesterday I was reminiscing about the various one-a-day "365" projects I've done, whether photography on Flickr (three or four of them) or blogging here (two). When I signed off on the last one, I swore I'd never do that again. But . . . I'm thinking about it. Because I do like—perhaps even need—the discipline. One thing I know I'm going to do each day.

I did not number this one (well, okay, a tiny little "i"), so this isn't necessarily the start of such a new project. But . . . well, let's see. If I just start paying attention, maybe something will come to me. Tomorrow, say.

The imagined theme is "you learn something new every day," or a photo of something that caught my eye that day—a sort of melding of my two former projects. Not necessarily both together, but one or the other. Hence the possible title "Noticing."

So here is a photo I took yesterday—of my drawing-table desk—which I posted on Facebook with the following description: I love the low sun of this time of year—or rather the long shadows it casts. And that purple flash in the midst of all that monochrome.

And here is a new something I learned:

The other day at dinner at the Indian restaurant in New Monterey, we noticed a word written (backwards to us) on the front window near our table—LANTASNES. Clearly, a couple of letters were missing, covered up by the . . . what’s that part of the window called? Some Googling brought me the word: muntin. A new one! It's the term for the vertical and horizontal pieces of wood holding the panes of glass in an old-fashioned window (which itself is called a sash, a term I know—my childhood bedroom had double-sashed windows—but that I'd never given any thought to before). So really, two new words: sash and, especially, muntin. Here's a picture (and don't get me started on stile and rail):

I'm not yet convinced this is fascinating enough to warrant a daily blog post. And I realize that if I do undertake this project, my "learn something new" revelations may well just be new words (new to me, anyway)—and that is something I'd want to navigate around, and include new knowledge or facts or fascinations as well. So, yeah: consider this a test run. One week. Let's see what happens tomorrow.

Oh, and as for LANTASNES: an I and an O were missing. The word was SENSATIONAL.