Discontinuous Prediction

Better late than never, I suppose. An essay from a month ago, with its prepared pictures. Back to current photographs next week.

April seemed a little more fickle than I remember or hope for

Ubiquitous computers have allowed crackpot ideas to be presented as convincingly as normal truth. It is a trivial task to find supporting documentation for any notion at all on the internet. Spell and grammar checking programs screen away what used to be telltale illiteracy. Social media allows wide dissemination _ and sometimes viral acceptance _ of idiotic rumors throughout the world.

Forsythia finally blossomed despite the challenges, welcome addition of gold to the landscape

Worse than that, computer programs allow experts to distort even scientifically valid data into dubious projections. Any selected statistical points can be stitched into a convincing graph or two to illustrate a pet theory. I am sure I could come up with a chart showing how phases of the moon affect the results of coin flips, if I were able to cherry pick the time period or carefully ignore conflicting results.

Mist settled on Oyster Bay, where already clam boats are plying their trade.

Scientifically-oriented twentieth-century historians debated fiercely whether civilization was driven by great men or the inevitable sweep of circumstance. They assumed that if we just knew everything at some point, our predictions as to what would happen next would be logically infallible. Aware now of subatomic uncertainty and chaos theory, we no longer trust that notion. Next year’s weather cannot be predicted accurately except as averages _ maybe.

Hardly the view one would expect as Easter passed by and May loomed nearer.

“Black Swan Events” such as individual assassinations or accidents have always been recognized as disrupters. There are longer-term cultural disrupters as well. No one surveying 13th century France could anticipate the effects of the Black Death, or of the end of the “medieval warm period.” It remains hard to understand how a small chunk of Europe _ enduring brutal fratricidal religious clashes in the 16^th century _ could within 400 years come to dominate the world politically, economically, and culturally.

Never sure if I am feeding feathered friends, falcons, or furry feral cats. Or all of them.

Unexpected massive social upset caused by gas-powered automobiles has been extensively documented. In the future, equivalent theses will be promulgated concerning a ten year period during which both information and disinformation became instantly accessible to everyone in the world via smart phone. Now I wonder what happens when supermarkets and private transportation vanish, when privacy is eliminated, when gene-editing roils the very meaning of life.

Roses inched towards blooming spectaculars, but emerging leaves were lovely accents.

I distrust cherry-picked statistics. I do not believe fancy graphs projecting future “likelihoods.” I assume there will be Black Swan events and shocks of which I can know nothing at all. I do not think I can predict anything that is likely to occur within the next 20 years.

Snow glories, originally planted elsewhere, transferred by squirrels in seasons past

Others quaintly seek to retain the past. Saving even the present is impossible. Knowing what is good or what is better outside of what we do today or tomorrow (and I mean only the real day after today) is much more complex than words and graphs can tell.

View down our hill in dormancy could be anytime in the last four months.

Patch of woodland daffodils on a south-facing hill at Caumsett

Here and there a burst of green brought hope for the coming weeks

Local Appreciation

Tiny bright daffodils are an early joy whenever they bloom

Almost every day, fabulous color brochures arrive in the mail begging me to travel to some of the seven million wonders of the world. They promote an implication that it is a sin to avoid what “I must see before I die.” Naturally, for this religious benediction, they also expect a “modest” remuneration.

Rose briars and other thorns leafing out as the sun grows stronger

I have instead decided to be a starry-eyed tourist beyond my own doorstep. I strive to gaze upon the glories of Huntington and Long Island as if I had never encountered them daily. I want to delve into history and current upheavals. To be as amazed or appalled by what happens within a mile or two miles or ten as I would be if I voyaged to Timbuktu or Hong Kong.

Species not endangered, but local wetlands skunk cabbage is threatened by a huge nasty nearby condo development.

Huntington events occur that are as praiseworthy or disgraceful as anywhere else in the world. Unique heritage is destroyed to make way for modern monotony. Wetlands are converted to shoddy condominiums. But simultaneously parks are upgraded and modern marvels are created and sometimes what has always been manages to drag itself into the future. People increasingly frequent public beaches while children chase geese and swans with ancient instinct.

Massive renovation in Wyncoma as Versailles-wannabees replace more modest dwellings of yesteryear.

My local memories are as vivid as those of distant lands. Unfortunately, at my age all memories fade quickly. Friends protest “but you will have photographs.” That is true, but my pictures are no different than those I can view of anywhere anytime anyplace on the internet. Why bother with the inconvenience and expense of going there?

Melting town snow dump evokes jagged mountain ranges, at least for those with no real mountains nearby.

Local concentration embeds the wisdom of trite old sayings: “the farther you go the less you know”, “see the world in a grain of sand”, “think globally but act locally”. Each day renews and sharpens my understanding of this universe. Wildlife cavorts on our harbor as amazingly as on the Serengeti Plain, and I can watch it every day, with quiet time to appreciate and contemplate. There is no need for me to waste infinite dollars, infinite time, infinite aggravation, to trek somewhere that I may soon forget.

Maple belatedly beginning to flower, probably has been a good year for syrup

So I strive to constantly remain an out-of-towner with a fresh (if not quite innocent) mind. There are aggravations and exultations each moment. Success arrives as an innocent and excited eye when I spot the first crocus in bloom or the last leaf drifting down.

April, but the hits just keep on coming

Another Birthday

First day of spring, frozen fresh water seepage drapes reeds and sand in translucent robes.

I have turned 71, slightly less shocking than rounding another decade last year. In spite periodicals’ claims, sanity demands I begin to discount the future. That means not only personal future, where a clear end is in sight, but also imagined futures of family, culture, civilization, and the universe itself.
That ought not be a good thing. Faith in future anchors responsibility. But a fact is not changed by hiding from it.

Historic cemetery remains almost timeless as Huntington begins massive building spree.

With luck, there will be more solid years, even as the time horizon contracts. Each moment now barely resembles those when I was 20 or 40 or even 60. I weary easily, aches and pains pop up unexpectedly, friends are hurting or incapacitated or dying. My own probable future path is unfortunately clear enough.

Town workers prepare to set out channel navigation markers.

One surprising solution is to become as a child. Birthdays when I was ten were wonderful events. Presents and loved ones and a day filled with wonder and food and love. Logic claims that was because a whole exciting lifetime lay before me. Intuition remembers otherwise.
In childhood, each day is eternity, rounded and complete. That is the outlook to regain now. Concentrate on each day as totality. Leave nothing undone by bedtime. Start each day with plans that can be accomplished in a relatively short amount of time. Realize that schedules will be interrupted or broken. Go with the flow, and seize every moment.

Only crocuses I’ve seen so far are this small clump in a protected corner under bedroom window.

As a senior I am bloated with arcane wisdom. I stubbornly proclaim what works and what does not work. My long life qualifies me as an expert. Unfortunately, in constructing my life’s narrative, I unconsciously edit heavily. I narrow-mindedly forget that what was true once may no longer be true in a quickly rushing technological society. I discount old confusions, magnify triumphs, trivialize tragedies. Sullen anger may linger when “those stupid young folks” ignore my advice.

Day after spring brings the beginning of a blizzard, with stinging snow, local blur, and distant whiteout

When I was a child, I also knew everything. I had an absolute understanding of the whole wide world. I accepted as dogma everything I learned in school. Nor was I shy about informing my elders about how things actually were. Surprisingly (to me), few of them paid much attention to my proclamations, but they were usually tolerant. Occasionally they would smile. But what I knew at that time was unimportant and irrelevant to their lives. And so it must be now.

Morning after, and we all hope we are well done with such drama for a while.

It is frightening to fade into unimportance. Surely that is something to struggle against. Just as certainly, that is something to accept. For my own and others’ happiness, I must speak as I wish but only desire that what I say be heard _ not necessarily acted upon.
Ah yes. Another birthday, blowing in the wind.

Blog Restart

Ice remains on the water but buoys have already been restored for mooring.

I’ve been writing this blog for several years now, utilizing various notions and formats. In silly moments, one dreams of such a venture becoming a commercial success, or at least a success in terms of vast readership, just as one dreams of winning a multimillion lottery. My evolved goal became to compose a tool to sharpen local observation and appreciation.

Pensive Nicholas who can easily destroy any of my carefully scheduled plans

On my walk each day, composing photographs lets me pretend to once again be an artist sketching or painting a subject. Each object and view becomes a special study in shadow, line, and color. An inner author voice develops trains of thought into small paragraphs related to something noticed or heard or otherwise experienced. That discipline enriches my life, even when never read by anyone.

This winter, that became a tedious chore. I found myself contemplating rehashed thoughts, viewing with tired eyes, straining for fresh insights. The task lacked zest and joy.

Having no formal obligations, I was free to pause and reevaluate.

Pilings must be driven now to prepare docks for flotillas to arrive in the coming months.

On vacation, elements of playfulness reappeared. Last year I joined the multitudes and acquired a smart phone, but did not explore its features. Strolls on a Florida beach and boring nights in a motel forced experimentation. Soon a project emerged to use new technology, especially dictation, to aid my writing. This entry is the result of formalizing outlines, documentation, procedures, storage. I know from a career in the software industry that at any given moment I might forget exactly how I once did something no matter how trivial, so carefully writing down all the baby steps is both a critical backup and a means to organize workflow intelligently. I am excited again.

What strange entity might emerge from these art-project eggs at the Cold Spring Harbor library?

Instead of daily entries, I will compose one essay a week. There will be time to review and edit. Initially, rotate themes _ Nature, Philosophy, Current Events, Wildcard. Insert captioned pictures from daily wanderings.

Witch Hazel at the Unitarian Church extends bloom in a cold season.

For years, I have slaved into a predetermined schedule. Cast aside now, because our lives with grandchild and other factors have become too complicated and unpredictable. So I will work on this as possible, take pictures irregularly, dictate notions to be stashed for later development. Add miniscule purpose to strolls. Abandon plans to seek audience in any rational manner. Gratefully continue a creation of love of being.

Perfect whelk shell abandoned by a clammer as commercially worthless.

Bleak late-winter wetlands near the old dock at Caumsett.

Announcing

Blooming Andromeda helps with the promise of spring on the way.

This weekly blog will resume next week.

Crows survey the bleak scene waiting for some fast-food trash to be thrown aside.

Revised format is one longish essay each week containing several pictures, probably posted Mondays.

Sometimes I take an unaesthetic picture just to remember what may disappear in the near future.

There are no immediate plans to try to publicize this.
Commenting should be working, but please email me at wl.slingluff@gmail.com if you have any problems or suggestions.

Harbor master boat has not had much to do for a few months.

Who knows how long “the first supermarket chain in the US” will be around?

Testing Camera versus Phone, same subject\

Sunset Phone

Sunset Camera

TestRestart1

Strangely Druidic outdoor amphitheater looms above Cold Spring Harbor

This is just a test entry. I want to begin to use the dictation and photo capabilities of my cellphone. I am working out transfers, editing, and reducing pictures properly. Nothing particularly interesting, mostly mechanical setting up documents, folders, and working out the general flow for the future.

Test of horizontal picture from phone after reduction

This is a test from the manual entry into the dictation document. I am hoping that this will work quite well and this is the end of the formatting.

Test of vertical picture from phone after reduction

Interesting exercises to perform during a snowstorm
Probably more to come.

Add with greater reduction

= Day 2 =

This is a dictation at the beach where I do not have Wi-Fi

It snowed last night and gulls are crying loudly, the water is clear and blue

So far it seems to work well I will now try taking some pictures using digital close up

-Only thing wrong was it changed “gulls” to “goals”.-

All pictures with different digital close-up, all resized to ten percent of original from phone.

Sabbatical

As I continue my meditative sabbatical, I continue to try to get out and around, but without the edge of thinking what I may write or what pictures I should take. That has been refreshing and rejuvenating. In the heart of winter, the Huntington area remains as beautiful as anywhere else on Earth. I begin my new quest with that as one of the core elements of my fortunate life.
A few pictures from Crab Meadow and Northport on a relatively moderate day with heavy cold fog.

Evaluation

Harbor has iced all the way across, not so thick yet as to crush remaining boats in the inexorable tides.

Holidays, New Year, and extreme cabin-fever-inducing weather have combined with hysterical political television and crowded family duties to create personal malaise. Part of that is simply adjusting to everything in my life that has changed. The old schedules and routines do not hold, and all my energy is required to readjust.
So for a while this blog is cut back severely. Sometimes there will be no entries. At the moment, I plan not much in the way of ongoing work until March. By then, it may resume or not, it may have moved somewhere else, it probably will have a new focus and format.
But as of now I predict nothing. My creative mind feels as frozen as the bay.

Goodwill To All

Monday

Sunset which exemplifies the glory and hope of this bitter cold season.

Humans, like most primates, are tribally social. Unlike other primates, we are so complicated that we can belong to many tribes at once, often of our own conception. We have blood and marriage families, work, politics, neighbors, clubs and, in fact, tribes of almost any obsession we might have. Including purely virtual tribes on media and internet. Literature and history are full of the anxiety we endure determining our true loyalties when differing tribal duties conflict.
Common end of year celebrations in this newly interconnected world are representative of both the hope and problems of trying to get all our tribes to relate peacefully to one another. Wishing goodwill to everyone is all very well so long as we believe they are truly just like us. Unfortunately, another primate trait is that the various tribes formed in those species often taunt, scream at, and try to hurt each other as part of their common experience.

Tuesday

Joan lovingly decorates our tree each year, complaining even as she enjoys remembering the story of each ornament.

In spite of too large a human population, most of the world is swimming in abundance compared to earlier times. There is generally more food, clothing, and shelter for each person than there once was, and more security that it will all continue to be available day by day. For the moment, commercial ties have overcome most wars and crime. Even the most rapacious would rather be billionaires in a peaceful paradise than megalomaniac warlords holding power with uncertain paranoid force.
Appropriately, at commonly accepted year end, gift giving has become a common and universal tradition. It is all crassly commercial, of course, and filled with very strange and varied mythology and symbols, but the core gesture remains benign. There have definitely been worse times to be alive, and many worse worries into the next year. Smile and be grateful and hope that these traditions will endure and continue for many solar cycles to come.

Wednesday

Afternoon sun illuminates high icy crystals across the emptied sea.

God bless us one and all ….
… except for terrorists, some politicians and _ oh, yeah _ that idiot who just cut me off …

Thursday

Placid swans are relatively unaffected by unusually frigid temperature.

Our theme for Christmas gathering this year was unfortunately “everyone has the flu.” Coughing and general tired misery set the tone. We managed moments of merriment, as was proper, but generally it was hard to project a constantly happy outlook with snow, deep cold, sneezing and wheezing.
A lesson in that was that although our travails were extremely minor, in terms relative to real problems, I still had too much tendency to sink into general cynicism. Like all the political news of the last year, irrelevant issues could affect my mood. One of my resolutions for the coming year will be to remain as a lily of the field, unaffected by anything beyond my local sky and enchanting meadow.

Friday

Fallen branch stripped by wind of last storm lies in the light fluffy snow, tardy white Christmas after all.

First garbage pickup after Christmas is a big one. Boxes, bags, cardboard, whatever are piled high at the end of most driveways. A sign of affluence, the problems of waste disposal and overuse of Earth’s resources in a nutshell. As is the morning pickup, in 11 degree cold, using massive amounts of fossil fuels to send the products of other fossil fuel use to either be burned or buried.
But is it ever worth being Cassandra? Predicting doom and disaster is easy, and often even makes older people feel righteous. Spreading unhappiness will solve nothing, and never has. The human cycle remains dust to dust, life engages in its objectively hopeless fight against entropy, and yet we smile and laugh and have wonderful consciousness to appreciate our eternal moments. For all the stupidity of waste of the season, an awful lot of joy has also been delivered to everyone. Maybe that is the most important thought of the day.

Saturday

Light fluffy stuffing around greenery provides appropriate background to holiday decorative accents.

“Bah blah nah yeah.” Nicholas tears paper off, more interested in the wrapping than the present inside.

“Isn’t that cute?” asks Patricia.

“Let me get a picture,” insists Joan.

“He won’t remember any of this,” notes Greg. “He’s only two.”

“This whole thing is just for the grandparents,” observes uncle Wayne cynically.

“No, “ I remark. “This who thing is for you adults, who will one day realize how special it is to have a young child and parents still alive.”

“Stop! Stop! You can’t eat that!” screams everybody.

“Goo blah whah bam….”

Sunday

Some of the scenery of the season is, naturally, indoors.

Life bless ye merry gentlefolk, let nothing you dismay

Remember every year the world’s reborn upon this day

And all the ills that once had been are past and in decay

Oh headlines of comfort and joy (don’t we all wish?)

Oh headlines of comfort and joy.

Short Shorts

Monday

Light hovers on the horizon under dark skies as winter solstice approaches.

We (should have) learned in fifth grade that around December 21 is winter solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. Not only does the earth radiate heat away for most of the 24 hours, but the warming rays of the sun are slanted and not as effective as at other times. Intuition tells us this would be the coldest day of the year as well. Not true. Days remain shorter than nights until around March 21 _ this part of the Earth continues to lose heat. So intuition would think that maybe spring equinox is the coldest.
Temperatures actually trail the solar path by a little over month, so coldest days are at end January and early February. And a lot depends on general cloud overcast, snow cover, jet stream path, what fronts the Canadians hurl at us, and strange terms like “polar vortex” that meteorologists keep inventing.
Like so much of science, fifth grade conceptions are often generally right but specifically wrong. I’m very glad, because such chaotic unpredictability is what makes our real world so marvelous and constantly surprising.

Tuesday

Flocks of ducks loudly proclaim their intention of staying around for a while as the weather warms a bit.

Living close to nature has become romanticized. Genealogy has some people dreaming of life as a Native American, or a Celt, or in the wild Teutonic tribes. The ancient foods, practices, religions, rituals, spirits made life more meaningful than in these degenerate times. Most of those imaginings _ for good reason _ focus on happy summer days, the freshness of spring, the tang of crisp autumn.
In reality, as winter closed in at northern latitudes Nature became harsh, painful, and raw terror. Famine and freezing were constant concerns. Nights passed with nothing to break 16 or more hours of darkness. The tales related by 17^th century French fur traders concerning how Neolithic peoples of the American west starved, suffered, and often died in unbelievable misery are astounding.
All in all, I vote in favor of these degenerate times.

Wednesday

Sun sets about as far south as it ever gets, almost early afternoon.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light …
But sometimes teasingly brilliant noontimes on frigid days are even more cruel.

Thursday

A tiny local grotto along the shoreline road frozen into interesting patterns as cold set in.

I think the quality of sunlight is a little different around winter solstice. The lower sun is naturally redder, just as it is at sunset. Frequently present ice crystals in the upper air scatter the light more evenly. There are peculiar effects from angles and reflections on the clouds, with orange patches even in the middle of the day through breaks in dark clouds.
On the other hand, I am never quite sure how much of that is real. Just as I easily learn to make any perceptions normal, I can make any perceptions fit my logic or mood. If I believe light is altered, I will probably see it as being so. Doesn’t much matter, as long as I enjoy what I am looking at and try to be conscious of its beauty.

Friday

Low orange light lines a dark solstice horizon, with harbor lighthouse hulking behind bar branches.

Winter solstice has been stripped of its terror, and it is subsumed into general worldwide celebrations of a common end of year. There is no reason to feel bad about that, it’s now just another part of the natural calendar. Those who regret the passing of ancient rites and rituals may mourn its decline, but anyone with sense knows the modern world _ slick and smooth and always the same _ is far preferable to the bipolar roller coaster of feast and famine.
Traditions are at least maintained in the display of lights everywhere fighting back against the early fall of night. There is something hauntingly pathetically beautiful in a tree lit against dark snow by dinnertime. It can be seen as a statement against cynicism, depression, and the oncoming inevitable. In fact, it is surely more just a continuation of what has always been done, which in itself is a kind of miracle.

Saturday

This dirt path looks perfectly set to carry us to grandma’s house.

“Goodnight, Chip. Pleasant dreams.”

“You too, Dale.”

“Did you stuff yourself enough this year?” asks the first chipmunk.

“Oh, sure. That feeder every day was full. It was just great. I didn’t even have to look much.”

“See you in the spring, then. Stay warm.”

“Zzzzz ….”

Hibernation sets in suddenly this solstice.

Saturday

Another view of special light at this time of year.

Once dark silent world, growing cold

Now city lights reflect all night, confusing birds and other creatures

Once people beginning a sluggish cycle for months of grim survival

Now grand shopping sprees and feasts

Once fears lurked right outside every window, if there was a window

Now fears are huge and worse, but at least far away.