October 2009 Archives

My hosting service retired the server on which Jephnol existed. The migration to the new server left the 'counter' in the sidebar throwing an error. Not a problem. I just got around to fixing it. I like to keep track of the web-crawlers comings and goings!

The woodpile is stacked in the garage near the closest window to the house. It rises to the middle of the window, held at a safe distance from the panes of glass by a piece of plywood spanning the width of the window frame and rising to the top of the pile. The space between the window and the plywood is no more than three inches.

A sparrow trapped in the garage seeing the window as a way out of the structure flew into the glass and fell into the gap between the wood and the window. It tried over and over to crest the log pile but the limited space kept it from flying. It must have been an epic struggle in the fast beating heart of the creature; slapping its wings against glass and wood, leaping in vain to conquer the height of its trap, the bird would rest on the window sill looking out at the fading daylight before it would try again to escape.

The window frame was painted shut with a succession of paint layers. Using a bar intended for chopping thick ice as a lever to raise the window I pried at the unlikely trap. One side of the sash budged, breaking the layers of paint locking it shut and a gap opened but it was still too narrow for the bird's escape. I chopped at the remaining paint holding the window closed. The bird, exhausted but undeterred from its struggle, continued its vain efforts.

Prying the sash again the window opened suddenly creating a passage of nearly two inches. I pushed my hand into the gap and captured the bird's legs between my fingers, pulling the animal toward the outside. The sparrow slipped through the crack more easily than I expected calmly allowing me to convey it into the remaining light of day. I lifted my hand from the sill and the little bird, aware of its freedom, pressed its wings against the air and flew into the twilight towards the safety of the woods.

Walking on the beach I saw a Jack Russell Terrier and a Boston Terrier playing on the sands of low tide. The Jack saw me walking and ran up to say hello, unabashedly sharing boundless energy and heart melting enthusiasm. The little dog's display earned immediate cartoon-voice praise and hand-clapping encouragement. My enthusiasm in turn earned the easy smiles of the two young women who walked the dogs. I looked to the woman tending my new friend and remarked that her dog had made my day. She smiled again and waved as we went our separate ways.

My favorite charity: UpReach Therapeutic Riding Center

Summer is gone. It seems October has left us as well as the chills of November have come early. The shore is local territory again. The beaches are the playgrounds of dogs off-leash for a walk and hardy types who brave the cold ocean breezes to walk the sands of low tide.

Seagulls traffic the wet sands squabbling among themselves over bits of food harvested from the sea. They stand brazenly before the walkers and their dogs, flying just a few yards away from any who venture too close. One in particular stood defiantly, pecking at an object while warily watching to be certain other gulls stayed away. The prize it guarded came into focus. Beneath its feet lay a sand shark. There was a flicker of movement. Perhaps the pecking had lifted the tail of the fish. Again there was movement. The shark was alive. The bird glared at passers-by. Another gull came too close and drew cries of warning from the feeding bird. The dominance of the bird must have already been established as the interloper fled quickly to a safe distance to watch as its better continued the gruesome repast.

Waves rolled into the shore with wind swept white-caps. Clouds of varying types, painted with hues of red, orange, white, steel gray and black hung above the scene. Three black dogs met on the sand and began a ritual of greeting with gestures of playfulness. In the dimming light it looked as though they were in silhouette. The Summer season folded into Fall and the failing light of day slowly withdrew from the muted colors of the world as the scene slipped away from the sun. Walkers went their way, taking their blithe pets with them. The night set in and the world was dark.

It was another 2 AM I'm-awake-now-what moment. Insomnia has no respect for convenience or comfort. I was awake and cold...too cold for the heroics of some out-of-bed endeavor. I clicked the remote to see what was on TV. PBS was airing Latin Music USA. If you love music check it out online.

From the PBS website:

"The series features the stories of an extraordinary range of artists, including Salsa greats Willie Colón and Marc Anthony; the Latin-inflected sounds found in much of sixties Rock and Roll, from the Drifters to Motown to the Rolling Stones; Jazz fused with Cuban rhythms from Mario Bauzá and Chano Pozo, the genius of Texas accordion player Flaco Jiménez; Carlos Santana; Linda Ronstadt; the legendary Chicano Rock band Los Lobos; megastars Gloria and Emilio Estefan; Ricky Martin and Juanes; Miami rapper Pitbull; Reggaetón performers Daddy Yankee and Tego Calderón; and Lin-Manuel Miranda from the Tony Award-winning musical In the Heights. The life experiences of these and many other unforgettable artists will reveal how Latinos have reinvented their music in the United States, while never losing sight of their own rich traditions."

Interracial couple denied marriage license in La.

Via Instapundit

In Louisiana a Tangipahoa Parish "justice of the peace" denied a mixed race couple a marriage license based on his belief that any children from the marriage would suffer for their mixed heritage. I'm sorry...what year is it? The only strife the child of a mixed marriage would suffer is from people like this who give heft to the term cracker.

Addendum: I found the link through Instapundit just before I was about to write a post about a PBS show called Latin Music USA. The PBS website devoted to the show has a notable video featuring Rubén Blades, in which he explains his relationship as an immigrant with the city of New York. Shifting from Blades' wonderful and profound sense of belonging to the enforcement of individual discrimination by a backwards thinking justice of the peace was too much for me to bear without comment. Ergo, this post.

Arthur Miller's The Crucible: Fact & Fiction via 17th Century Colonial New England

17th Century Colonial New England is a gem.

The downstairs bathroom is being shut down for the winter to save heating costs. This means Findik the Snapping Turtle has to find new accommodations. I've given Fin a couple of days in a plastic tub as a temporary home and today he escaped while I was watching football. When I realized he was on the lamb I went turtle hunting. The guy can travel. He was all the way across the kitchen in my office and when I found him he seemed pretty happy with himself. He was under my desk staring at me as though this was just another day. He wasn't as happy when I picked him up and the party was over though. He hissed like he meant it, but Fin's a kitten. His tub has a hardware cloth covering now. Get out of that Harry Houdini!

The Sox and the Pats lost today. That sucks.

I posted Promises Promises three days ago. Since then I've thought of what I said on several occasions. Most notable among my thoughts was the synchronicity between the Jimmy Cliff Busts Me Open post and Promises Promises, from Cliff's answered prayer in the form of a rainbow and blue skies to my own rainbow painted sky. The suggestion of divine intervention in my affairs is limited only by the imagination.

I have wonderful stories of 'meaningful coincidences' with no greater purpose than revealing the elegance of chaos, still I wonder. As Hamlet declared: "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Staying true to Hamlet's lack of decisiveness though I read Kenzaburo Oe's A Healing Family and found his experience with synchronicity to mirror my own; Oe declares meaningful coincidences to be mere coincidences.

Could I be so bold as to declare God's existence? Or could I be so certain as to utterly disregard the notion of the deity? Would God deign to intervene in the affairs of men? Who am I to say. I'm merely a witness to wonders well beyond my ken. What is certain is I am still in possession of a sense of wonder, and some days I find it's more than enough to carry me through the travails of this life.

While out on an errand I encountered a sudden wind-storm and a barrage of thick, cold, gust-propelled rain drops. The weather changed from calm to stormy in the instant I was set to enter an establishment and an older woman exiting the building stood in the doorway, seemingly stunned by the deluge she blocked my entry. The bottleneck cleared within a minute as the lady mustered her senses and ran for her car. One minute was long enough in the heavy rain. I entered the building with a soaked left side.

After I had attended to my affairs I thought I might drive to the beach and see if the ocean was on a tear, but I was impressed by the calmness of the waters. I drove along the shore and eventually parked on North Beach to watch the dark clouds moving over the ocean and the skies clearing to the West as a scene of beauty began to unfold. Further North, above the horizon a rainbow stood in sharp contrast to the fading storm. I thought of the story of Noah's Ark and of God's promise to never again flood the earth being written in such a celestial event and I thought to myself, "Yeah, yeah...promises, promises."

Years ago I learned how to drive along the dirt roads leading to the local dump. My father would haul me along on a dump-run and as soon as we hit those unpaved, rutted roads he'd pull over and put me in the driver's seat of his Pontiac Safari station wagon. It was a beast with a 455 cubic inch engine and a four-barrel carburetor. I'd slip it into gear and start to drive, but there were no shenanigans with dad in the passenger seat. Dump driving was all business. Puttering along towards the fetid piles of trash was one of those memorable thrills...one of the rites of passage my youth wouldn't be denied. I loved it.

Today the word 'dump' has been replaced purposefully by the term 'transfer station'. We're so much more aware of resources, recycling and pollution that the etymological shift was an inevitability. I went to the transfer station today with a load of trash. I've been driving with a license for almost thirty years now; dad has been dead for the better part of twenty-four years; but the moment I took those now paved, winding roads I was on a dump-run. I was all business pulling into the station and for a moment I felt the thrill of being a teenager again driving that big Pontiac with my dad. We call it a transfer station now, but if I call it the town dump it's not because I've forgotten all of the things that have changed since I was a boy...it's because I haven't forgotten all of the things that never will.

A while ago a recliner was pulled out of a back room in the basement during some construction and placed in the driveway by the carpenters. The only vehicle available for hauling the chair to the transfer station was a sedan and there was no way to fit it into the trunk in one piece. Last night I was lying in bed thinking of how I might disassemble it for transport, but in the light of day I was inclined to take another course of action from the one I had imagined.

Originally, I had thought I would use a hack saw to separate the back of the chair from the seat by cutting the hinges, but the heavy gauge of the metal made my plans an option of last resort. Looking more carefully at the construction of the chair I noted all of the cross members in the back and the seat were made of wood. This information guided my approach to the problem.

Using a large crowbar I first broke the back of the chair from the seat by smashing the wooden supports just above the hinges. Next I used a utility knife to cut the material connecting the two pieces, fully separating the back from the seat. Standing the seat up on the foot rest, I broke through each of the cross members with the crowbar and again used the utility knife to cut the seat into two pieces. The three sections of the former chair fit snugly in the trunk of the car. I think it took less time to smash the recliner into three pieces than it would have to cut through the hinges with the saw but it was more of an effort. Nevertheless, I had a satisfying ride to the dump.

I called my doctor's office to see if they had flu vaccinations. They were booked solid with the first round but suggested I call in 'a week or so' and try to get in line for an inoculation. That advice wasn't too hopeful, so I hit a flu shot clinic at a local supermarket yesterday. I took C— with me and she got one as well. We arrived a half-hour early, which was good as the line was getting quite long by the time we had had our shots.

It'll be worst with H1N1, too; supplies will be limited and there's some hysteria surrounding this bug, so people will be getting in line. Get out there when they're available and get an inoculation.

In an old manila envelope laying in a box I found a autographed copy of Yarim Bardak Su by Tarik Günersel. It's a Turkish language book of Tarik's poems. I have the credit for the photo on the back cover. Cool memories....

Sunday @ 1:00 PM — Gillette Stadium

Go Pats!

V— and I took in Zombieland this evening. It's a zombie comedy. Two thumbs up for this one. If you like zombie movies and you like comedies this is the movie for you.

Better still, V— noticed an actress in the previews he believes was in Joss Whedon's Firefly series, so he asked me if I had seen it. I haven't but I liked the movie Serenity, which was based on Firefly and also by Whedon, so V— said I could borrow his copy of the series on DVD if I was interested. Hey, it ain't Shakespeare, but sometimes you just have to let art flow over you.

Good stuff for a low-key Friday night.

The front door was making a racket every time I closed it. The latch was smacking the strike. Bang. The door wouldn't shut. BANG. It was taking a little too much mustard to get the thing closed. Yeah, one of these days I'm going to have to look at the mechanics of the problem and get 'er done, for the time being though I used guaranteed magic: I hit that latch with a little White Lithium Grease. WLG makes WD-40 look like sand paper.

Now, I know what you're thinking: WD-40 is a penetrating oil so I'm comparing apples and oranges. True, but in many households WD-40 is the duct tape of spray-on lubricants; it's frickin' ubiquitous and it's used for everything, so I'm not feeling too bad making the comparison. Besides, the WLG turned a clunker door into a Swiss watch. White Lithium Grease. Man, it even sounds slick. Put the WD-40 down and step away from the can!

I upgraded the blog to Movable Type 4.32 today. The decision to trash the tired, old design came with the territory. Nuking the Jephnol style was a snap after the upgrade because I wasn't coding templates or widgets, rather I copied over mt-static on the server, chose a style and published the site.

If you're wondering what happened to the Byron Blog and the Photoblog, well, they were a part of the nuking. I chose to eliminate the sub-domains and concentrate on Jephnol. Time marches on...