A Free Weekend!
A night of very little sleep gave me a reward for my insomnia. The moon shown here, from the morning of February 24, is three days short of New. Clouds cover Venus to the left.
Coming up for air in the middle of a large job....
No packages today. I'm caught up on transcribing for now, but that's likely to change on Monday. I'm enjoying the free time while it's here, especially since I caught up on sleep last night. Now a hefty breeze ruffles the leaves outside and bird song accompanies the Metropolitan Opera broadcast of Camille Saint-Saens' Samson and Delilah.
I'd opened up the blinds around 6 on Friday morning, then ran for camera and tripod. This was the scene at around 6:30. A stereoscopic view taken about 20 minutes later shows a bit of the cloud layers in 3D. By this time we were well-advanced into a fiery dawn.
We've been watching some domestic arachnid drama in our not-yet-working kitchen sink. (The sink is on our "to do" list but we've been working around it since the summer of 2004. Other home projects create enough disarray to keep plumbing on the back burner.) In the absence of pesky humans and their dishes, an American house spider (Achaearanea tepidariorum, Family Theridiidae) has taken up residence.
Here she's bagged a silverfish and earns her keep as "natural insecticide." Usually she rests out of sight inside a cloth draped around our nonworking faucet. Her species ranges throughout the US and Canada.
Our girl now seems to have a couple of suitors at her doorstep. At least, they look like potential mates, which might also make them potential food. We've been peeking into the sink now and then to check in on the trio.
These folks are cousins to black widows, who also belong to Theridiidae. This is not remarkable -- Theridiidae, also called Comb-Footed Spiders, form one of the largest spider families, with more than 200 species in North America. Comb-footed spiders spin irregular webs made of sticky strands (what we commonly call cobwebs) and use comblike bristles to fling those strands over their captives. The spider injects its prey with venom and stores it at a rest site on the web for later meals.
Outside an immature male black widow (Latrodectus mactans) has been hanging beneath the lip of our water storage bin. An older widow, likely an adult male by its shape and proportions, lived inside the container last year. Black widows range from Massachusetts to Florida, west to California, Texas, Oklahoma, and Kansas, and are most common in the South.
This one doesn't bite. The male black widow's abdomen is more elongated than the female's and its legs are longer in relation to its body. (For comparison, my shot of a female guarding egg sacs is here.) This male's abdomen has faint touches of red, though neither males nor immatures achieve the full hourglass shape seen in the adult female.
The brown coloration shows this one is immature. Black widow spiderlings are orange, brown, and white, gaining more black at each molt. Once this male is old enough to mate, he will likely be eaten by his partner afterwards. She will store his sperm, producing more egg sacs without the need to mate again. Potentially she can live longer than three years.
(Source: the Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Insects and Spiders.)
Mary had spotted this grub, likely dead or dying, hanging in midair inside spiderweb filaments. The round dark spot at left is its shadow thrown on the ground.
It's hard to tell at this stage what species of caterpillar this would have become, but already it shows signs of future markings. Evenly-spaced round spots dot the sides. I think the less-well-defined shape just behind the end closer to the camera marks the beginning of a large, fake "eye spot." What might have been.
I finally tried one of the Backpacker's Pantry meals Mary ordered from Campmor. This first order was to see what meals we prefer over others for hiking, and this past hurricane season it served as backup food in case of storm-related disruptions in, oh, everything. (We were lucky in 2005, limited only to some low tropical-force breezes and impressive clouds. In 2004 we experienced 6 days without power, 4 from Frances and 2 from Jeanne. All told, we were lucky in 2004, too.)
These are nifty products -- pricey for my hiking needs (I tend to rely on canned chicken and bagged gorp) but perfect for hunkering down during a storm, because at those times comfort food really makes a difference. Theoretically one adds boiling water to packets designed to stand upright so that cooking occurs inside the packet, but water straight from the tap works just as well for us. (Cooking instructions are designed for a 5,000-foot elevation, with cooking time doubling for each additional 5,000 feet. Not something we need to worry about in Florida.) The Spicy Thai Peanut Sauce I had today ("a savory sauce over rice and Asian vegetables") was very good.
I have a story set to mail out on Monday, and am still learning how much the industry has changed in my absence. Simultaneous submissions are much more common and accepted than they used to be. This story has been held at an anthology since June of 2004 -- a stasis paralleling that of our kitchen sink, come to think of it -- and a call to the editor revealed that, yes, they are still considering it; they're just rather overwhelmed at this point. Likely they'll expand from one anthology to two.
But the person I spoke with had automatically assumed I was submitting elsewhere! I laughed and told her, "That's good to know," when she said she had no problem with simultaneous submissions.
In a way, this part of me needs to "grow up." I was an adolescent when I started submitting stories. I treasured my first rejection slip (from Galaxy magazine, now defunct) because to me it meant I had become a "real writer." I mailed my manuscripts via Fourth Class (now Media) mail because that was all I could afford out of my allowance, and I got used to waiting through long review periods -- not just for magazines but for the Postal Service. (A mail carrier in Brooklyn who delivered one rejected manuscript turned out to belong to a science fiction fandom group that I subsequently joined.) I never treated the industry as an industry and in many respects I still don't, but that is what it is.
And whatever anyone else might say, to me it is still Magic.
My business sense is more finely honed for the work I do that supports the writing. I know I need to take some of those sensibilities and apply them to my more creative endeavors.
As in long writing jags, my long transcription jags keep me indoors in various states of quasi-dress. During breaks I've added to my photo documentation of household objects.
By the time I was born my father had become an atheist, and remained so for the rest of his life. After he died I found relics of his earlier life in the bottom drawer of his dresser. (Other items stored there included a tallit (prayer shawl) and tefillin (phylacteries).) These books likely traveled with him through Europe during World War II.
The Jewish Holy Scriptures, Presented by the Army of the United States on the left is hardcover, contains only English text, and was printed by the U.S. Government Printing Office in 1942. It also bears a 1917 copyright by the Jewish Publication Society of America, so was likely also used by Jews fighting in World War I. It contains excerpts from the Tanakh (known more commonly as the "Old Testament"). Photographed in slightly smaller scale, it measures 5-1/4 x 3-1/4 inches.
The Prayer Book Abridged for Jews in the Armed Forces of the United States on the right is paperback, with its spine on the right rather than the left and with its pages numbered from right to left. It contains specific prayers rather than Biblical passages (although it does contain some of the Psalms). These include prayers for the Sabbath and High Holy Days, the Mourner's Kaddish, and others that include a memorial prayer for those fallen in battle, prayer on being delivered from danger, prayers for the sick and wounded, prayer during a sea voyage, prayer for the U.S., prayer for moral strength, prayer for home, etc. Right-hand pages are in Hebrew, left-hand pages in English. This book was published not by the U.S. government but by the National Jewish Welfare Board (printed by the Jewish Publication Society), copyright 1941 and 1943. Its original edition of 250,000 copies had been printed in 1917. The two editions printed during World War II number 400,000 and 800,000 copies, respectively. It measures 5 x 3-1/4 inches.
I was fascinated to find these, since I grew up largely non-observant. My own spirituality is not tied to any one religion, though Judaism (and my interpretation of it) is where my roots lie. Many items in the Brooklyn house of my childhood moved here in 1980, including those of which I was never aware. It's been an ongoing voyage of discovery.
"Drink Your Teeeeeeeeeeee!"
Male rufous-sided towhee, white-eyed race.
So I am. Now that I've emptied the coffee pot.
I first heard the towhee's call in 2001, when Mary and I spent two weeks in Blue Hills Reservation in eastern Massachusetts. We were hiking the Skyline Trail, traversing the ridge, but we hadn't seen the bird itself. Up there the towhees are red-eyed; their white-eyed cousins hail from the south Atlantic coast and Florida. We saw this one and a female poking around our neighbor's yard as we headed home from the post office.
Today bird song comes in through our opened windows, which had previously been shut against the chill. Last night our county seat registered a low of 21 degrees F -- closer to Boston's highs this time of year, but nippy for central Florida.
I have been dealing mainly in words rather than pictures for the past couple of weeks. When not transcribing I've been drafting fiction or writing notes on the characters, plot points, motivations. My current task is to paint a word-picture of a group, composed of minor and largely unnamed characters, seen through the eyes of a woman who becomes more and more acclimated to a life far different from what she had known before. She is about to change further, thanks to a variable I hadn't seen coming until I had "seen" it, but which makes sense to me in retrospect....
Female rufous-sided towhee. The sexes look similar, except that the female is brown where the male is black.
Actually, the pictures that currently draw me come from the TV more than the camera. I had done without a TV for two years in the 1980s, but then broke down and bought one so that I could watch the Olympics. The Games have captivated me since 1968, when I was enthralled by the then-Soviet pair skater Irina Rodnina and her extraordinary power. For lyricism in skating the first person to wow me was Canadian men's skater Toller Cranston.
When the characters in my childhood fantasies were not saving the universe, they were letting off steam on the "dance ice" (years before ice dancing was introduced as a sport), not for programs lasting a few minutes but for entire symphonies. It took more than a decade before I could bring those qualities out in myself. As a child I had been locked painfully inside my body, feeling far too vulnerable to move in any way that might be construed as sensual. Inside my head was another story -- and once I freed those visions there was no turning back.
Only later did I learn this was called "creative visualization" -- what many athletes and others use to rehearse their routines, retain kinesthetic memory, build confidence.
I am a total sucker for the Olympics. For athletes coming back against the odds, for the struggles past physical and mental pain. Having experienced my "cycling year" in 1995 and my "running year" in 2001-2 -- about as far below "elite" as you can get but watershed times for me -- I now know the feel of that adrenalin high, the focus, the determination to come back from injury. Six weeks before I did the Boston-New York AIDS Ride I had suffered a pulled lumbar ligament that left me reeling in pain whenever I bent down. Immediately I began chiropractic and ultrasound therapy, rehabilitative exercises, and new ways to train:
"My sense of paralysis was followed by one of anger and determination," I wrote the day before the Ride. "If I couldn't bike I could walk. I could swim. I could cross-train. I told myself: if Carl Lewis can train with a hamstring injury, I can put up with pain and discomfort. People with AIDS are doing this ride, so my minor mishap was small potatoes. Another rider crashed the weekend before the Ride and needed to have emergency dental work done; for a day she couldn't lift her arms. But only for a day; then she was back on her bike and telling me she was fine, but I'd recognize her because she'd look like she was punched in the mouth."
The process of writing is vastly different, yet in some ways very similar. Both require continual practice and training. Some days I am "in the zone" -- when the words seem to flow from outside myself and I am merely a channel for the characters. Other days bring one frustration after another, when I feel as though I am deaf, dumb, and blind to the visions, merely pushing my characters around on the page. Nothing holds together. Often I've got to work through the crap, through prose that makes me groan, taking one metaphorical fall after another until what needs to snap in place finally does. Then the reward -- the sheer joy of that channeling, that communion -- is worth it.
Like the day, after continual false starts and copious note-taking, when I sat at my computer and a character began dictating a letter, a follow-up to the previous scene. And I watched his heart open, but I also saw how strong he was. I saw the items left on his kitchen table, felt the dryness of a cool desert night. Subsequent scenes gained clarity as I wrote, petals unfolding from a tightly-clenched bud. And the line of heart extended from him to his wife -- the woman who now travels with the group of unnamed characters, fully conscious of the physical dangers that surround them. Sharing the burden of risk.
Male (left) and female towhees, together.
I still have many knots to unravel, but for now I'll take what I can get. Keep writing, keep falling, keep getting up, keep wrestling with the notes. Keep massaging the translation from what I want to present into what I think reads well.
Keep drawing inspiration from the toughness I see on the television. The spontaneous judgment calls, the perseverance, the comebacks. For I am marketing the predecessor to this story as well as writing, with another pitch package out, keeping my fingers crossed as before but needing to emotionally detach until the time comes to do more. Then throw myself, once again, into the task at hand.
I am less ego-involved in my "take-home assignment" for tomorrow's free-writing group: a story combining the elements of a beach ball, a needle, and a lamp. I had dashed that off last night, 2,167 words, before turning in. Those are stretches, warmups -- just as important as the stuff that consumes me, but my equivalent of doodling. And one never knows what doodles can turn into somewhere down the road.
More tapes arrive next week, turning me into a different kind of channel as I transcribe. One more sedate, the visions those of other people. For me that truly constitutes a "working vacation."
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.5 License.
Surfacing, Briefly -- Reconstituted
My original entry seems to have disappeared, though it's still in Blogger's system, accessible here.
Close-up of an audiocassette tape, converted to b&w.
I've begun a hefty freelance job so will be here sporadically over the next three months. Tape transcription is part of my communications business. I picked up my first transcribing machine about 20 years ago, inspired by a project done in the course of office work. A colleague with whom I still keep in touch had conducted interviews, each lasting several hours, with people being profiled in a book. They'd spilled their life stories to him.
I was hooked.
Since then I've transcribed interviews, speeches, conferences, roundtables, focus groups, book dictation, radio programs, and other varieties of speech covering a broad range of disciplines. It's better than a free education. It's an education I get paid for....
Below is a piece I did for the free-writing group I facilitate, based on the walk I took with Mary several days ago. In addition to writing on the spot, we take a prompt home each week and begin each meeting reading from those. This was a take-home, using the prompt word "Light".
Mary and I turn from the post office and a flock of robins soars overhead, dozens of them winging toward the west. The males' red breasts are glowing; crimson light seems to come from within. I had not known their feathers could do that - could pick up the setting sun and carry it with them, cherry bright.
They are too swift to photograph in the air but I catch one in a tree, partly in shadow but his right side gleams. The limbs catch the sun, too, become their own unburning hearth, wood not consumed by but reflecting flame. Not far away sycamore seed balls hang, riotously orange against crystal blue.
The moon shines, sickle-thin and barely visible in a still-bright sky. Every cloud has fled. Heading toward it a jetliner reflects the sun, contrails double-underlining its path.
The light stuns. This morning reflections from a puddle danced on the ceiling, frenzied intersecting planes on stucco. Except for polarized interference patterns that some movie theaters showed in the 1960s before the feature, that shimmering is the closest thing I've seen to the aura I get during a migraine. Luckily my migraines occur only once or twice a year and are not painful. But I cannot see past the aura, which grows if I don't dim the light, take ibuprofen, and preferably lie down. In that sense my migraines make me partially blind.
(Watercolorized and color-enhanced. A QuickTime video in true color (approx. 10 seconds) is posted here.)
The first time it happened in the mid 1980s I was fascinated. I didn't know what I was experiencing but I had written in my journal how I was unable to see the letters I had just put down unless I moved my head to the side.
Now I aimed my camera at the ceiling. Still shots told part of the story but a brief video showed the effects of fluidity gone awry. For I have captured manic sparkles dancing against the stucco's rough, random gouges. Taken a piece of my brain and put it into phosphor.
Elizabeth Hay's character Lucinda in her novel A Student of Weather is hit with a migraine while driving. "Had she been thinking more clearly, she would have turned back," Hay writes, "but she wasn't thinking clearly, and soon she wouldn't be seeing clearly, either. Scintillating, pulsing light always made it happen faster, the darkening on either side as her peripheral vision grew dim and the pain took over."
My aura has never appeared on the road, but I know to pull over, and quickly, if it ever does.
Meanwhile I breathe in the crisp sunset air and capture other offspring of light. I download the shots, try to immortalize transience, like gluing a sand painting into a solid mass. Sand paintings were traditionally meant to wash away, revealing a truth we cannot ignore no matter how solid our footing. I would like to think I am not stealing the soul of Nature, only pretending that I can hold her in my hand, carry her in my pocket. Save her rays even as the Earth tilts into dusk.
Tomorrow I teach. The rest of the weekend belongs to the tapes.
Close-up of an audiocassette tape, converted to b&w.
I've begun a hefty freelance job so will be here sporadically over the next three months. Tape transcription is part of my communications business. I picked up my first transcribing machine about 20 years ago, inspired by a project done in the course of office work. A colleague with whom I still keep in touch had conducted interviews, each lasting several hours, with people being profiled in a book. They'd spilled their life stories to him.
I was hooked.
Since then I've transcribed interviews, speeches, conferences, roundtables, focus groups, book dictation, radio programs, and other varieties of speech covering a broad range of disciplines. It's better than a free education. It's an education I get paid for....
Below is a piece I did for the free-writing group I facilitate, based on the walk I took with Mary several days ago. In addition to writing on the spot, we take a prompt home each week and begin each meeting reading from those. This was a take-home, using the prompt word "Light".
_______________
Mary and I turn from the post office and a flock of robins soars overhead, dozens of them winging toward the west. The males' red breasts are glowing; crimson light seems to come from within. I had not known their feathers could do that - could pick up the setting sun and carry it with them, cherry bright.
They are too swift to photograph in the air but I catch one in a tree, partly in shadow but his right side gleams. The limbs catch the sun, too, become their own unburning hearth, wood not consumed by but reflecting flame. Not far away sycamore seed balls hang, riotously orange against crystal blue.
The moon shines, sickle-thin and barely visible in a still-bright sky. Every cloud has fled. Heading toward it a jetliner reflects the sun, contrails double-underlining its path.
The light stuns. This morning reflections from a puddle danced on the ceiling, frenzied intersecting planes on stucco. Except for polarized interference patterns that some movie theaters showed in the 1960s before the feature, that shimmering is the closest thing I've seen to the aura I get during a migraine. Luckily my migraines occur only once or twice a year and are not painful. But I cannot see past the aura, which grows if I don't dim the light, take ibuprofen, and preferably lie down. In that sense my migraines make me partially blind.
(Watercolorized and color-enhanced. A QuickTime video in true color (approx. 10 seconds) is posted here.)
The first time it happened in the mid 1980s I was fascinated. I didn't know what I was experiencing but I had written in my journal how I was unable to see the letters I had just put down unless I moved my head to the side.
Now I aimed my camera at the ceiling. Still shots told part of the story but a brief video showed the effects of fluidity gone awry. For I have captured manic sparkles dancing against the stucco's rough, random gouges. Taken a piece of my brain and put it into phosphor.
Elizabeth Hay's character Lucinda in her novel A Student of Weather is hit with a migraine while driving. "Had she been thinking more clearly, she would have turned back," Hay writes, "but she wasn't thinking clearly, and soon she wouldn't be seeing clearly, either. Scintillating, pulsing light always made it happen faster, the darkening on either side as her peripheral vision grew dim and the pain took over."
My aura has never appeared on the road, but I know to pull over, and quickly, if it ever does.
Meanwhile I breathe in the crisp sunset air and capture other offspring of light. I download the shots, try to immortalize transience, like gluing a sand painting into a solid mass. Sand paintings were traditionally meant to wash away, revealing a truth we cannot ignore no matter how solid our footing. I would like to think I am not stealing the soul of Nature, only pretending that I can hold her in my hand, carry her in my pocket. Save her rays even as the Earth tilts into dusk.
_______________
Tomorrow I teach. The rest of the weekend belongs to the tapes.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.5 License.
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