The Subtle Landscape

Exercise is Stupid

June 15, 2012

Last Sunday at about 10:00 AM I was running hot and shirtless across a busy intersection near a bike path. Looking at me on the far side was a big dog with a vaguely disheveled woman, hungover maybe, in tow at the end of a steel collar and lead. Unfortunately that’s the best recollection I can muster.

As I veered left a bit, the dog snarled toward me and clenched my right forearm in its jaw. It was tall enough that it didn’t have to jump up. “It bit me!?” I exclaimed as he let go and lurched toward my groin. I leaned back as lady wrestled chain with both hands.

Bleeding not a river, but a decent crimson creek I told the pair that I love dogs and was not inclined to make a big deal of the incident. She said nothing and looked confused. “Thing have its rabies shots?” I asked? “Uh, ya” she finally mumbled stumbling away. Maybe was even still drunk.

That was it. Right side covered in blood, I ran the mile or so to meet my took a shortcut wife who was impressed, then on home to call Dr Brother. “Uh, I think I’d want proof” he said. “Make sure to wash it off well and check to see if your tetanus is up to date”. Hmm, I drove back to the scene then and several times later to try to cross paths and verify. No luck.

Did a bit of research and found that it has been a long time since anyone has contracted rabies from a dog bite in the USA – due to widespread and multifarious animal control measures as well as some 40,000 post incident inoculations annually. Uh, also learned that a horrible violent death follows an untreated case of that viral disease nearly 100% of the time.

Called the county health department to find if there is a record of canine rabies cases in the area. “Uhm let me see: none this year – yet, one in 2011, two in ten, five in ’09, why?” I explained. She took down the whole story, told me that by law dog bites must be reported and that there were more than enough rabid bats, skunks, and coons about for dog owners’ concern to be caused let alone mine.

She’d have animal control undertake a thorough series of patrols, talk to the MD County Health Director, and get back to me. Oh boy. The grim but vivid tales from childhood of torturous dog bite aftermaths overwhelmed my consciousness. Big Needles. In the Stomach. Twice a day for like a year.

“Mr. Dumbass?, this is the county health department calling”. “Hello”. “There’s been no sign of your assailant and our director says that you should begin the inoculation series as soon as possible. Supposed to start within seventy-two hours of the bite and you’re a bit past that. Where would you like to have them?” “Not in my stomach” I quickly responded. “No, I mean which emergency room.” “Oh”.

While typing up paperwork the ER receptionist told me that one receives multiple injections on the first visit. “Last guy took twelve”. I wondered how long the horrible violent death throes might last. “It is based on body weight and that guy was well over 200 pounds so he had several in each shoulder, thigh, and buttock.

That wasn’t bad news. I don’t have nearly 200 pounds and thus likely wouldn’t even have to pull down my shorts. Nurse was cute to boot. One shot in each thigh and shoulder. One at bite site. 0.5ml of Tdap (tetanus, diphtheria, and pertussis) to top it all off. Have to go back in three, seven, and fourteen days for more. Piece of cake. Oh ya, except for the thousand + bucks.

Shoulda stayed in bed. Exercise is stupid.

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kids in the middle dog at our feet

June 8, 2012

Ok, don’t ask me where this is, because I’m not going to tell you. And you’re gonna want to know. I guarantee it. Subtly supernatural it’d be the perfect haunt for a New World Merlin or Gandalf. Those who’ve passed through leave imbued with a sense of wonder not to be dimmed by triumph, trial, or TV.

Roommate and I stumbled upon it as kids which is why it came to mind when we had several of our own. We were graced with the recollection and thought that the spot would be a great place to camp with a young group because it offered a wilderness experience minutes from home. No foolin’. I took these photos this morning on my way to work!

Well, maybe I didn’t take the route a crow might, but uhm, my house is basically centre ville, yard abuts an interstate, and even so I was alone and nearly lost to the sound of water some five to ten minutes after pulling out of my driveway. Not a park or public land. Like I said, secret.

It’s a place the glaciers missed as you can see from the rugged limestone escarpment in the video below. There is thus flora and fauna not often seen elsewhere. I would have taken photos of the red columbine, but it’s not out yet. Bluebirds, orioles, crawdads, and deer – rare before the herd explosion of the last twenty years. We’d take plaster casts of their hoofmarks in the mud.

Many massive sycamore trees magnificent in their addition to the canopy. They in fact cover and hide this section of the creek and the cliffs from all but the most intrepid passers nearby. We’d be quiet until dusk and before a bit after the sun came up because uninitiated could pass that close and not notice our presence without an aural clue.

We all felt a subtle power, possessed of special knowledge as we’d silently watch folks chatter by unaware. It came as no surprise to learn that Native Americans considered such sycamore groves sacrosanct. After dark, we’d have a scrumptious repast and a huge roaring fire to complete our rite. Then into the tent kids in the middle and dog at our feet.

Posted in couch potato, Family | 1 Comment »

Surgeon General’s Warning

June 1, 2012

Sorry about last week, I was in New Orleans and am still trying to recover. Whew! The city was founded in 1718 by the French Mississippi Company and was named for the Duke of Orleans whose title came from the city of Orleans in central France. It became Spanish under terms of the Treaty of Paris in 1763.

During the American Revolution, it was an important port through which flowed aid to the rebels enabling the successful southwestern campaign against the British. New Orleans reverted to the French in 1801 and was sold by Napoleon to President Jefferson as part of the Louisiana Purchase in 1803. It’s been part of the states ever since.

Probably the most, uh, colorful part. Waves of immigration have included Acadians, Haitians, Germans, Irish, Africans, and more yielding an incredibly fertile and febrile mix. Leavened by multiple sources of mayhem, religion, and natural disaster, Jazz, Who Dat, and Cajun cuisine grew therefrom. And 24/7 party central.

The city tops many of the polls ranking tourist destinations by different criteria. Many, but not all. The place is the polar opposite of Disneyland. Great fun and food is there to be had, but it is not way family friendly. Makes Donkey Island look like recess.

Life in the French Quarter maybe epitomizes the ambience by the way it juxtaposes normality with sinful ravage. The swath Bourbon Street slices through that part of town opens all the way to the underworld. You swear you’ve seen it all before in a Bosch picture.

On top of this post you’re looking inside a fine refined one hundred year old Bourbon Street restaurant. Jackets are required for men. No one is allowed to sport jeans or shorts. Cuisine ranges from red fish to crawfish etouffe. Bring plenty of dough.

Wipe your mouth and step outside though and you realize that you’re living on borrowed time, break into a sweat, and hope to borrow more. Below you see the occupants of the doors on either side of that sparkling establishment.

There are intermittent impromptu jazz parades, cops on horseback, and folks doin’ all sorts of different things for tips. Very few of which would be tolerated, let alone legal, just about anywhere else on earth. Ought to be a surgeon general’s warning on trip tickets with a NOLA destination. I love it.

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“They Shall Take Up Serpents” Mark 16:17-18

May 18, 2012

Have you been wondering if global warming would make an encounter with rattlesnakes more likely in our neck of the woods? Me too! Wrong question turns out. There has long been a resident population – and bites and deaths – but they’ve all dwindled significantly due to loss of habitat. In fact they’re protected in many Iowa counties.

Timber, Prairie, and Massasauga rattlesnakes live in Iowa with the first by far the most prevalent, though still far from ubiquitous. Sylvan being the preferred nature of their environment, the fact that logging is here no longer a major industry provides a clue as to their demise.

Many of the trees harvested to make all of the paper we waste grow in the thick forests of the south and around them writhes a healthy population of crotalids. As you probably know, some of these find there way into church.

Snake handling as worship seems at first a wacky way to try to meet the Lord, but upon reflection one realizes it has sure thing potential. Anyway, the practice has an American past far older than the collieries of Appalachia. Snakes play a role in religious observances of most if not all Native American tribes.

The Snake-Antelope dance of ancient Hopi tradition for example, was undertaken to summon a divine rain. Once every two years, the head priest would initiate the proceedings by gathering snakes, purifying them in a bath of yucca suds, and then lead secret rituals as prologue.

Then, during a late summer public spectacle, with the snakes in their mouths, dancers would circle the central plaza four times before releasing them. Soon thereafter they’d be gathered up again by priests to be sprinkled upon with cornmeal by women of the snake clan. Serpents’d be then set free in the four directions on their mission to send back rain.

Think I’d rather go thirsty. Here in Iowa there have been more than seventy recorded deaths from snakebite with the last having occurred in Bellevue in 1944. Most victims seem to have been young, old, or infirm because most assailants were Timber Rattlers which are not among the most venomous of serpents. Bites survivable.

But painful, serious, and no joke though and likely accompanied by some tissue morbidity**. So, deep in a remote wood one warm summer day should you find a viper attached to your leg don’t try to cobble together an old fashioned snake bite kit, ie sharp blades and suction. They do more harm than good. And waste time.

Nope, get yourself to a hospital and anti-venom. Rattlesnake venom is largely comprised of digestive enzymes which will foment and seethe until neutralized. Dr Brother tells me that Fougera’s CroFab** is the only widely available efficacious treatment and that adequate dosage is probable not far away.

*cf posts of 1.15.10 and 8.7.09 for more about snakes. The latter has a photo of me holding a Timber Rattler

**Notice in the photo above, guy on the right is missing an arm. No way to tell, but…

***www.crofab.com – Watch the video

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Whoa Black Betty Bam-Ba-Lam

May 11, 2012

The look is almost passé now I guess, having first appeared in hip hopdom more than twenty years ago, but I finally got around to divining its genesis and evolution. They are surprisingly multifaceted and complex – sort of in the manner of a Freud portrait. In a single picture he was remarkably able to “include more than one expression”.

The provenance of a fashion statement that requires nearly continuous attention – the holding up of one’s trousers – must be profound I figured. Had to have entered and then pervaded the collective unconscious of a sizeable segment of society before going mainstream. (Ok tributary maybe.)

Some suggest that the look arose first as boys and young men wore clothing several sizes too large because of hand-me-down affordability. Or even more purposefully to denote the absence of a more senior male family member. The sign of a deliberate assumption of responsibility.

Unfortunately the assumption of a role for which one has had no model can lead to trouble. The broad swaths ofAmericalargely bereft of meaningful fatherhood are characterized by strife, violence, and dead ends. Many young men end up in detention of one sort or another.

Prison garb is not bespoke. No belts. Thus if jumpsuits aren’t the standard issue, pants will sag. Furthermore, exposed undergarments can be the analogue of a low cut dress. Advertising. Or even relate to some cultures’ particularly accoutered wives, though the tone of the message here a bit more harsh: “I’m someone’s bitch, touch me at your peril”.

Not what you get at first glance is it? Whole thing reminds me of the backstory of the folk song Black Betty one rendition of which you can listen to below. My initial encounter with Ms Betty was during the pregame warmup to youngest daughter’s college soccer matches*. More than rousing, it’s almost riotous.

The song was similarly employed in the pilot episode of the successful and award winning program Friday Night Lights; also the pilot of Eastbound and Down; the films Blow, Dukes of Hazzard, Miss Congeniality; many advertising campaigns, video games, and more.

Some believe that the name first was used to refer to a certain flint-lock musket with the “bam BA lam” being onomatopoetic gunfire. In his Drinker’s Dictionary Ben Franklin tells us that to have kissed Black Betty was to have had too much. Inmate transfer vehicles have been called by that name.

Father and son ethnomusicologists John and Alan Lomax found that Black Betty “was the whip that was and is used in some Southern prisons”:

Whoa, Black Betty (bam-BA-lam)

She’s fromBirmingham(bam-BA-lam)

Way down in Alabam’ (bam-BA-lam)

Boy she makes me sing (bam-BA-lam)

Whoa, Black Betty

BAM-BA-LAM

No question but that she’d make me sing and the problem then would be how to find a way to kiss her while holding my pants up – all the way up – with both hands.

*Pertinent lyric: “Black Betty had a child – The damn thing gone wild” Those girls would every time come up smiling after mixing it up so fiercely they’d fall to the ground legs atangle.

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Invisible Driving Force

May 4, 2012

Years ago on kids’ first trip to the beach I noticed that the shells in which they found great interest were not whole or colorful, but in fact the most sun bleached pieces – especially those with some intricacy. Furthermore, that observation reminded me that I’d been the same and even had some ‘originals’ in a dusty collection at my folks’ house.

It was the shape, not the color.

Thus it was interesting for me to read in the Science Times section of the 5/1/12 NYT that “Babies are born Euclideans” and that they “use geometric clues to orient themselves in three-dimensional space”. And not color. Isn’t that interesting given all of the information provided by our eyes?

The article was about a researcher at Harvard – Elizabeth Spelke – investigating the innate characteristics of our brains by means of close observation of infants. “…Identifying the inherent expectations of babies as young as a week or two by measuring how long they stare at a scene in which those presumptions are upended or unmet.”

Very young babies would notice if the room in which they were was triangular or rectangular in plan. They’d remember whether an object had been by a short or long wall. Much to the surprise to Prof Spelke it was not until the age of five or six that color provided much help in infant navigation.

Made me think. First, that the ability to discern even light and dark let alone how to read a map came long after, well, the ability to swim in the primordial soup. And that even earlier all that stuff moved (moves!) through the cosmos just fine without even being alive.

The design of our universe is all math. It is incredible to realize, in the words of architect and theorist Anne Tyng, how completely “we inhabit geometry”. She showed that “the building blocks of nature are demonstrated as geometry in pure motion”* and that the “power of geometry is the invisible driving force in natural forms”**.

Too bad I have to take off my shoes and socks to get past ten…

* ** The comments were from the catalogue for a retrospective exhibition of the work of Ms Tyng. The first was from an essay by Jenny Sabin: “Geometry in Transformation – Computing Mind and Matter”. The second from the essay “Dynamic Symmetries” by Alicia Imperiale.

Posted in architecture, consciousness/psychology | Leave a Comment »

Eye of the Beholder

April 27, 2012

OK, what do the picture above, The Investiture of St Ildefonso by Nicholas Rodriguez Juarez and the one below, Sultry Night by Grant Wood have in common? Give up? Well it’s the tormented sexuality of certain viewers of those works. Huh?

Top one first. You see it as Sr. Juarez painted it more or less. Sometime thereafter however it was on its way to a perch on the wall of a convent when head abbess perhaps, but I’ll wager a priest, decided that an image of a man in that milieu would serve naught but untoward arousal.

The painting was thus altered so that he became a she. When it arrived at a new home some centuries later it was sent to a conservation lab for inspection and cleaning. X-rays showed that what appeared to be a kneeling nun was actually a man saint in drag. Drag was undone and voila.

Sultry story even funnier. Looks weirdly lopsided, right? Well, didn’t start out that way. Look at Wood’s lithograph of the same scene below and you’ll see what I mean. An attempt to send the original (whole) painting to a show via the USPS was blocked by a repressed postal inspector and so Wood excised the self-showering farmer.

The resultant state of the painting is somehow perfectly obtuse and, with knowledge of the back story, homeopathically conveys a sense of the zeitgeist far more subtly than did, say, the film American Beauty much more recently…

cf post 8/21/09

Posted in Art, consciousness/psychology | Leave a Comment »

Results Below

April 20, 2012

This one is easy – you’re looking at our new friend Nellie. Born in a barn on the day after Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow, we took her home March 17. Wife visited the farm many times in between and once asked mom Lucy which of her five to chose. Owner was so impressed at the subsequent interaction that we got a discount.

Our little black pearl slept through the night right off and whimpered at the front door appropriately. We set up a baby monitor so as to hear her called to nature in the middle of the night. It’d been fifteen years* since we’d had a pup and Nellie fit right in.

She’s a morning person, uh dog, and is raring to go the moment she first hears or sees us in the AM. Throw something and she’ll roar into action – bouncing off kitchen walls and cabinets like a cue ball struck on an empty table. It’s hilarious to watch.

Or was. Few days ago while standing at the counter eating breakfast I accidently stepped on a squeaky toy. Dark flash, chomp, rip, and there went the most expensive pair of pants I’ve ever owned. I would never have bought them myself and had complained to she who’d brought them home when I saw the tag. “But it’s your daughter’s wedding” she said. Gone.

I was headed for an important meeting, so changed quickly and ran down the stairs. Dang if Nellie wasn’t around the corner waiting to grab hold again. Oh, no! Hadn’t even left the house, but I was a good way through next paycheck. “Don’t be a grump!” said guess who.

That evening we were both tired, but she (Nellie) was so happy to see me that she spun about several times before nuzzling up. I patted her a bit and onto her back she then rolled in hopes of a belly rub. That patch of bare skin is so soft! Oh well, we’re cool…

Woke next morning to find an impressive archipelago of soft brown mounds arrayed across the kitchen. She’d probably attempted to give notice, but the fact that she’d chewed through the intercom cord had short circuited her yelps. Took her to the vet to learn that she’s hosting three different sorts of worms probably ingested onboard a raccoon waste nugget.

None of this bothered wife in the least. Until yesterday. Sweet Nellie got in behind the computer during a precious Facebook session and chewed through the router, printer, and mouse cables. All that stupid I can’t believe that guy’s a billionaire ‘Friend’ stuff disappeared. Snarls were exchanged. Results below.

*cf December 2, 2011

Posted in Family | 2 Comments »

What Else Am I Gonna Do?

April 13, 2012

Ok. This is what happens when nearly sixty and attempting to switch gears. You’re no longer in charge at work, have a great idea about what to do next – one in which you’re fully invested, and for which would spare no effort – but gotta wait for pieces to fall into place.

Origami.

What else are you gonna do? Nobody wants your opinion and you can’t just sit there… Origami requires concentration, dexterity, three dimensional thinking, and is endlessly rewarding. No two of even the simplest forms end up exactly alike. Challenge and difficulty accrete with desire.

The word origami is Japanese and does mean fold paper. Japanis a resource poor country with trees being one of few in abundance. Wood thus came to be the focus of Japanese creativity as raw material for many things made very differently in other parts of the world.

Paper came to be regarded as sacred and an important element of the national religion – Shinto. Secular folded objects evolved therefrom. The first known set of origami objects available for sale appeared in 1728. The first book of techniques was written in 1797.

I prefer projects not requisite of tools beyond one’s digits, but might make an exception for one I just found. It’s a replica* of Japanese architect Toyo Ito’s Architecture Museum on the island of Omishima which opened last fall.

The building is “built to resemble a ship’s deck carrying a cargo of dreams of architecture for the future”. Some find a formal resemblance of it to Louis Kahn and Anne Tyng’s City Tower project. Their influence can certainly be seen in other Ito buildings.

No surprise then that several years ago Ito visited UPENN to meet with Dept Chair Detlef Mertins who later initiated a retrospective of Ms Tyngs oeuvre entitled Inhabiting Geometry and to whom the catalogue is dedicated. Have the catalogue and wish I’d seen the show.

*http://www.tima-imabari.jp/en/blog/113

**More on Ito at post of February 10, 2010

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It’s Your Move Antonius Block

April 6, 2012

Know how your best ideas, your strokes of genius, never come when hailed, but when you’re doing something else? Well there’s an interesting new book about that phenomenon titled Imagine – How Creativity Works by Jonah Leher. And no surprise, to me anyway, that it brought to mind something, uh, weird.

In the book Leher recounts the random events that led to the coining of the Nike slogan “Just Do It” and you’ll not find it surprising that the story hasn’t joined waffle irons in the annals of Nike lore. It has more to do with a scythe than a swoosh.

Turns out that the dude tasked with the development of a crisp and pithy turn of phrase had earlier in the day been discussing a new book by Norman Mailer – The Executioner’s Song – about the tortured and torturing life of Gary Gilmore which ended with death by firing squad. Gilmore’s last words were: “Let’s do it.” See?

OK. Not long ago, but long enough, wife and I were in the throes of a heated unpleasant argument. Can’t remember what it concerned, but do that it had been protracted and had accompanied us through the evening news and into bed. We’d not yet perfected that don’t go to bed mad thing.

Anyway, we paused for a moment as our eyes adjusted to the moonlight beaming in through a window. At the exact moment we reengaged, a bat that had somehow found its way in and flown up the steps rounded the corner into our room. Gave the phrase “sound of wings” a whole new meaning.

We both went silent and looked at each other for a moment. There was no question in either of our minds that rectification of that sort of situation was more part of my job description than hers, but we both got up. Not though without considerable trepidation.

It flew back down the stairs and we followed. I located a couple tennis racquets while wife kept track of the creepy creature. It flew into oldest daughter’s empty bedroom. I followed and wife closed the door behind us. Thing hung upside down from short curtains at the top of the window.

After a quick flick to the floor, I trapped it on the carpet. Wife slid a piece of construction paper underneath which I hoped wouldn’t tear as I applied pressure with my hand. Hard against the strings, it writhed an awful dance macabre while squealing just within the range of perception. Released at the front door it disappeared into the night.

Shaken by what we’d conjured up, we looked at each other and spoke not one word more that night. Tossed and turned for quite a while before falling off and into an incredible dream with a Bergman flic – The Seventh Seal – as the setting. Max Von Sydow playing knight Antonius Block challenges Death to a game of chess and a chance at a reprieve. Block jostles the chessboard prompting death to say “You won’t get off that easily”.

Death replaced the pieces as they’d been and they played on to his victory, but Block’s real purpose had been to distract Death and prevent him from spotting husband Jof (me) who had seen Death and wife Mia (my roommate) who thinks Jof is nuts. At the film’s end Jof watches Death lead Block and others away.

                               JOF 
               I see them, Mia! I see them! Over there against 
               the dark, stormy sky. They are all there. The 
               smith and Lisa and the knight and Raval and 
               Jons and Skat. And Death, the severe master, 
               invites them to dance. He tells them to hold 
               each other's hands and then they must tread the 
               dance in a long row. And first goes the master 
               with his scythe and hourglass, but Skat dangles 
               at the end with his lyre. They dance away from 
               the dawn and it's a solemn dance towards the 
               dark lands, while the rain washes their faces 
               and cleans the salt of the tears from their 
               cheeks. 

He is silent. He lowers his hand. His son, MIKAEL 
(played by our dog Sauger), has listened to his words.  
Now, he crawls up to MIA and sits down in her lap. 

                               MIA 
                       (smiling) 
               You with your visions and dreams.

How could I make this up?

Posted in Family, Film | 2 Comments »