Blow Up

We're having these frightening thunderstorms for the past several days. They roll in towards twilight, from the southwest. Here in the cabin the southwest quadrant is a towering wall of hardwood forest, climbing uphill as well. In the winter one can see the moon, now and then, disappear through the tree trunks when it is setting. Of course by winter the sun has moved to the south anyways. But here at the height of summer it's thick green, and the storms burst upon us with only approaching thunder as their herald. This morning there's a cool breeze still coming in the window where the cats sit and watch the day, and the air is bright and clean, sun and shadows across the big trunks of the oaks and hickories. Last night, just as we were going out to catch our son-in-law playing a late gig at the Cave in Chapel Hill, the storm broke on us, hard blowing rain misting into the kitty ledge, hail I think (at least it sounded like it). After we left we drove just in the wake of the storm, watching constant lightning and the various roiling shapes the clouds formed and reformed. As we turned onto 15-501, about 20 minutes into our trip, I thought I might have spotted a funnel cloud back-lit by flashes, then it was gone, or never was.

About then the cell rang and it was our daughter telling us the Cave was flooded as were the streets of Chapel Hill. How bizarre. An indoor gig rained out. It was a very thoughtful call, and we turned around and headed back home, where we watched a documentary about belly-dancing women touring with the rock show Lollapalooza. The general theme of today would be, if you look closer things aren't the same as what you thought.

Sheila O'Malley has a very nice blog about movies and art and other things and posted the following the other day, apropos Zelda Fitzgerald's birthday. The post is long and very much worth reading and thinking about. There's this conventional view of Zelda, poor crazy southern belle Fitzgerald married, who then broke his heart and drove him to ruinous drink with her insanity. And indeed, as O'Malley's post makes clear, Zelda did have some questionable moments. But she also wrote this, which O'Malley quotes in her post:

Excerpt of review Zelda wrote about her husband’s book "The Beautiful and Damned":

It seems to me that on one page I recognized a portion of an old diary of mine which mysteriously disappeared shortly after my marriage, and also scraps of letters, which, though considerably edited, sound to me vaguely familiar. In fact, Mr. Fitzgerald – I believe that is how he spells his name – seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.

This is wry, droll humor of the highest order. It is written by a smart and delightful person. It is the sort of paragraph a writer could fall in love to.
http://www.sheilaomalley.com

____


I'm reading E.C. Pielou's great book, "After the Ice Age: The Return of Life to Glaciated North America." Only a few pages will show anyone who can think that the work of science is not really to be countered by the airy backhands of people who just say stuff like "I don't find the arguments for human assisted climate change believable." It's similar to the situation with regard to Third Parties. In an important sense--the most important sense--there aren't any third parties in the United States political system as we find it. There is an incredible mass of factual evidence which tells a particular story of how much of the North American continent was covered in ice, then uncovered, with countless specific details concerning the return of life to vast places where there was for many centuries, no life. There was a time when huge land areas existed which are now under the ocean, such as an area called (by scientists) Beringia, which was a cold desert, was populated with animals and plants, and was a refuge from the ice sheets of North America and Asia even as it connected those two great continents. One can say "but I believe something else, something quite different." Such a statement does not offer a counter argument to facts as plentiful as grains of sand on a beach. Nor are the grains of sand merely an elaborate hoax concocted to cage grant money. As I've probably said here more than once, Bishop Berkeley is not to be read in the primary grades. Kick the stone first.

Ms. Pielou makes the following statement in her book:

There is a wealth of evidence, however, showing that climate change is never ending. Even if major climatic "steps" are comparatively quick, it is almost certain that the climate in the intervals between steps undergoes continual lesser changes. In the light of present knowledge, therefore, ... disequilibrium in ecological communities is much commoner than equilibrium...

[This fact, of disequilibrium] should lead in time to a much needed change in popular thought. The notion espoused by so many nonprofessional ecologists--that the living world is "marvelously" and "delicately" attuned to its environment--is not so much a scientifically reasonable theory as a mystically satisfying dogma. Its abandonment might lead to a useful fresh start in environmental politics.
(p. 101)

Let it be noted that Ms. Pielou is not offering a critique of any theory of global climate change. Her point, rather, is that the entire conversation is mostly concerning the wrong things. As it's not pertinent to her subject, she does not address the "mysticism" emanating from the denier crowd, who tend to say things like "CO-2 is only a green house gas at the surface of the planet," and "how can CO-2 make any difference, it's only a tiny fraction of the gasses that make up the atmosphere." Much less does she engage with the plain fact that, mostly, denialism is a strategy aimed at stalling all governmental efforts to attack the problem of climate change by raising doubts in a voting public which has little time for a serious scientific look at the subject--or any subject. Obviously, her readers will have already overcome that shortcoming and so might manage to intake her deeper observations.

"Well," Libby said, raising her umbrella as we left the three boys to their own devices and squished down to the Toyota for our soon to be aborted trip to Chapel Hill. "We'd be talking about the drought otherwise."

The photo is called "Broken Shade," of an oak tree on my road, which used to shade a little farm house that burned down several years ago. It had been empty for years, and the tree was partly killed by the fire, but the one living branch soldiered on, and its weight against the dead trunk finally took it down. Buzzards like to roost in the top in the morning, but they weren't there last week when I took the photo. If you look carefully you might see a glimpse of crepe myrtle, a sure sign of human habitation.

1911-A

[image from http://forums.1911forum.com/showthread.php?t=2324&page=2 ]

Digby puts up the following post:

http://digbysblog.blogspot.com/2012/07/nra-to-america-nice-little-country-you.html

The thing is, the actual business of being a legislator involves rational analysis of the conditions that pertain for reelection. This analysis is done in a scientific-ish fashion, using various poling techniques together with a serious and detailed attempt to understand the meaning of election outcomes. Thus, when a candidate is defeated, his defeat is eventually "understood" by the professionals who must run campaigns as reflecting truths, at least of the moment, about the views of the electorate. And once those truths are accepted, the sort of situation described by the professional in Digby's post pertains. This is simply logical--sensible. And of course now and then someone decides to test the pertaining theory, and if they succeed then the theory is shaken. And if they fail, the theory is even more "confirmed."

One faint hope is to start out by trying to reframe the conversation, as Mr. Obama did last night at the Urban League's conference, where he simply stated some things that, indeed, most people, including gun owners, surely would agree with--such as that "most gun owners think AK-47s are weapons for soldiers on a battlefield, not people on the street" (I paraphrase). Mr. Obama's argument last night was so commonsensical that were it restated again and again, it might eventually turn the body of public opinion enough to undercut the current common wisdom which Digby reports.

But this happy turn of events leaves out--of course--the fact that there is an ongoing, relentless, full-tilt propaganda campaign aimed at raising the fear-level of at least all "gun lovin' voters" to the degree that they will be certain to vote against anyone who might suggest any sort of gun legislation. The NRA, for example, has already suggested that the Aurora shooter was actually a hypnotized operative of gun control forces who want to get new international gun treaties ok-ed--"the timing is rather convenient," one apologist suggested yesterday, raising his eyebrows and winking at his listeners.

The world must indeed cringe at the spectacle of us'n. Mr. Romney's pathetic response to Aurora was remarkable--a 16th century astronomer who'd seen the rings of Saturn could surely have done no better when questioned by the red-robed Vatican authorities, assuming he wished to save his head.

And as a tangential note appros of nothing much beyond my continuing homage to Mr. Peckinpah, of course Bishop Pike carries a 1911-A on his hip, as is noted with interest by the German military advisor aiding Mapatche in his campaign against Villa. Just sayin'. It's a fact merely historically accurate, even if the movie is "really" about Vietnam. And what is Vietnam "about," if not, in the end, us.


Sunday Update: From the Rude Pundit no less:

http://rudepundit.blogspot.com/2012/07/an-older-aurora-story-might-help-us.html

He do have a point.

Brief Report from Houdahenianlandville

The picture was taken last weekend. This is one of the boys' favorite spots, as I think I've mentioned. Here they can sit and watch the cavalcade of nature at its North Carolina summer best. I looked out, over their heads, to see what was up, and saw two turtles walking single file down the path to the shed where the boys were born. Squirrels taunt the boys from the wood piles, or even stand on the race car and shake their tails. I'm planning on teaching the boys "Rock Salt and Nails" some winter moment when I have some free time. They are a three-part harmony waiting to happen.

The boys' momma comes around about every morning when I get up, wanting breakfast. This was the hope, and I'm delighted to feed her. The boys sit in the window and stare at her. She doesn't much like that, but will eat. (Conveniently she usually likes their left-overs, which is a bit of a money-saver.) I'm not sure anyone "recognizes" anyone. She looks like one of them now, in length, so maybe they think maybe one of them got out, like all of them kinda want to--till they do. There are occasional "kitty leaks," and with three sometimes we don't even notice till we make a head count. (Libby finds my head-counting ways somewhat annoying, as they imply to her that she wouldn't notice on her own. My current job enhances my tendencies to back-seat drive, since it requires almost hyper focus at times.) When we have noticed a missing crew member, a quick look outside will find the boy standing bemused on the other side of the door he went out. They'd rather be with us. Much rather. Bed time is an adventure, since "being with us" does not equal "lying quietly in bed and purring" in every case. Now and then it means pouncing with vehemence (and a loving heart) on our feet, or engaging in a big three-way tag-team match just between the bed and the precipice down to the stone floor below. If it gets too difficult, we get up and carry them into the living room, where they can all play in the big pile of CDs that used to reside on a nice shelf, in some vaguely logical order (fiddle tunes on the third shelf down, that kind of thing).

Maybe when I get to teaching "Rock Salt and Nails," I'll start out by finding Utah's CD down in the pile, and that'll inspire me to go ahead and put all the discs back up on the shelves. I'm thinking that the kitties are mostly bored with the simple idea of just going back behind the shelves and pushing the CDs out in big blocks, just for the fun of the clatter. Why bother with that. Now they can climb the big book case on the opposite wall all the way to the tippy top and explore the cobwebs and spiders that live with Kant and Wittgenstein and Dave Hume, absorbing their deep lessons as only spiders can.

Anyways. It's laundry Saturday, and a long way to Halloween. But it's great we have two black cats. I'm definitely going to put out a pumpkin this fall. Also maybe some tiny beware signs for the field mice that always invade when it gets cold. These guys may be indoor cats, but they do not lack for interest in tiny movements, and definitely have no problem with killing small things. Gray boy was a bit ill just the other day after eating some sort of large bug he found.

Last night I dreamed that some people had brought me a white and yellow kitten. I told them to take it back and they just laughed and left. About then one of the boys decided to taste my big toe, and I got up to write this and assemble the laundry. The kitty alarms are always on. We do not have to worry about electricity out here, as far as that goes.

Meanwhile, Some Real Stuff

My former and occasional band-mate, Dr. Barbara Garrity-Blake, spends a lot of time talking to fishermen who work the sounds of the NC Outer Banks. Here's a youtube posting she did of an interview with a guy named Rex O'Neal, who is a fisherman living and working in Ocracoke, NC, where Libby and I lived for about 9 years back when Clinton was President and we thought we could more or less do what we wanted, i.e., play music, build a foundation, make some glass art, play some more music.

Rex, as you can tell, was hard at work, then as now. He's a good man, and has caught a lot of fish in his day. Listening to his story, I can smell the salt air again. Ocracoke is a little sand island sitting 23 miles out in the Atlantic Ocean. The best time to be there is probably in the middle of January, with a cold north wind at your back, standing at the Swan Quarter Ferry Dock and looking at the white caps on the sound and the gulls swirling around. You can hear your own thoughts pretty well at such a moment.



Libby worked for a time at the little gallery, "Island Art Works," shown in the photo at the top. The artist who runs the place is married to Ronnie O'Neal, another Ocracoke fisherman, Captain last time I was there of the "Miss Kathleen." There are two big families of O'Neals who live on Ocracoke. Neither family says they are related to the other family. Back in the early early days of European settlement of America, Edward Teach, known as Blackbeard, lived on Ocracoke part time, when he wasn't working for the Governor of North Carolina, who resided in the village of Bath, across the sound (and not far from where the Swan Quarter Ferry now docks up on the sound-side). There was a tiny war between North Carolina and Virginia because Mr. Blackbeard was picking off shipping from the islands which was headed up to Virginia. A naval force commanded by one Captain Maynard came down to the Pamlico, caught Blackbeard at low tide, and eventually boarded his ship and killed him, cutting off his head and taking the trophy back to Virginia. Legend has it the skull became a goblet, possibly residing to this day in Gimghoul Castle in Chapel Hill. Legend has it that Blackbeard's body swam ten times around his ship before sinking beneath the waves.

Arrrrrr, me buckos, and that were the way it was. And a good thing, too, that Blackbeard's yacht, Queen Anne's Revenge, didn't have no outboard motor. Arrrrrr. But now I hears Blind Pew a tap tappin, 'n the shadow from the yard arm be near six bells. Begone, ye brats, and to the riggin' wit' ye.