Snowbirds Swelling

Mon-

Driven by mysterious instinctual migratory urges, flocks of humans darken the skies and cover southern beaches beginning around this time of year. Often their temporary sandy nests are adorned with colorful scraps of all sizes and shapes. Curiously, this display behavior is most present in those well past courtship age. Many curious monographs have been written on the phenomenon by various xenobiologists.

Unfortunately, in spite of bitter protests from the scientific community, this peculiar natural marvel will soon be entirely lost with the construction of a new hyperspace shunt.

Tue-

According to native American legend, the “New River” in Fort Lauderdale appeared suddenly after a night of earth shaking. But its name is prosaically attributed to frustrated early cartographers because the inlet through the barrier island out to the ocean kept shifting by miles every time they remapped it. I suppose it’s better than some of the other words they probably used.

In typical Florida fashion, the city goes to a lot of trouble to make a beautiful parkland and restaurant-lined plaza along a lovely stretch of water, then lets insanely huge boats tie up alongside to completely block the view. That seems to be a common quirky aesthetic around here, a nice conception, a hint of beauty, then a prosaic slide into common ugliness, as if the original vision fades and is blurringly erased by selfish private wealth working its wonders.

Wed-

Although Sisyphus today has a big machine to help, his task remains unending and essentially undoable. This guy tries to hide the residue of every high tide under a blanket of sand, while incidentally picking up the worst of the trash that also floats ashore. No matter how successful he may be, the whole thing happens again in twelve hours. Forever.

We want our beaches “pristine.” Gleaming white sand, unblemished by dead fish, rotting vegetation, or the garbage that an increasing polluted ocean regurgitates. No snakes, no bugs, no thorns. As someone who has had a day at the beach ruined by a swarm of mosquitoes, a few pesky greenhead flies, or the stink of decaying flesh, I admit that I am as effete and hypocritical as anyone else. I want to experience nature, but only after vast amounts of effort and fuel oil have sanded down the rough edges.
Thu-

Could be almost any shoreline anywhere. Seagulls may not have arrived with people _ as so many invasive species have been spread throughout the world _ but they certainly thrive wherever humans do. The fact that humans also provide all the mounds of garbage necessary for food supplies probably means that these birds do not directly compete with locals.

Seagulls are incessant scavengers, beautiful in flight. Each aggressively defends its own turf, driving others away from a self-perceived treasure with shrieks, beak thrusts, and short charges. If gene cross transplantation ever takes over, a few chromosomes from them would probably make a more effective class of managers and entrepreneurs. They even know when they are outclassed and take wing to easier locales, in the avian equivalent of declaring bankruptcy.
Fri-

Beach peas in profusion on a dune with grasses bearing sharp burrs (from barefoot experience) and holes probably dug by rats. Fifty years ago, such wild patches in abandoned or undeveloped lots on the Jersey shore filled my young imagination with thoughts of how wilderness had been conquered, leaving these reminders of its might. Now there are no heartlands of wilderness, and when the seas rise perhaps the last beach peas will be gone.

Beauty will remain. Begonias and orchids, roses and seagulls, will probably remain as long as humans endure. Not butterflies nor beac
h peas. I have lived through the beginning of the sixth extinction, and fortunately will not live to see its completion.
Sat-

Sunrise over the ocean as theatrical it always is every dawn everywhere every time. Beautiful, awesome, majestic, no art can do it full justice. Beyond the magic of illuminating a new world after our profound vanishing into the darks of sleep, it represents a beginning afresh, and wonders to be seen and done, and hope and warmth.

That I can use such words, and you can find them meaningful, is one of the reasons human experience is unique. A mechanical intelligence could document the exact moment the red ball appears on the horizon, but can it be capable of why that is “theatrical,” “magic,” or “hopeful.” I think not. Recreating emotions and sensations and being, which depend on chemicals and hormones more than electrical connections, is beyond any conception of current artificial intelligence attempts. Not celebrating complicated human glory is a crime against our self.
Sun-

Fallen coconut shell in front of a fallen palm log on the only open space for miles along the beach. I am not sure if the lack of a huge skyscraper here indicates insufficient financing or the presence of a public park. Maybe that is a tautology _ I suspect adequate financing could purchase any public land. For the moment, it is refreshing to have a semi-large grassy expanse behind the dunes of the beach.

Not too many people along the shore today, it being cold by southern Florida standards. People get here and quickly get in huff along the lines of “I refuse to wear a jacket when I am paying all this money for warm weather. Let’s go eat at a restaurant instead!” It’s very easy to let expectations cloud reality. What would have seemed heavenly to folks a day ago in New York is now a cruel twist of fate from nature robbing them of happy times getting a tan. Me _ well I’m grateful to experience cold or warm or rain or sun _ just about anything at all. It’s the alternative that’s bad.

Florida February

Mon-

Humans are destroying the planet, extinguishing the biozone, doing terrible things to each other. But, boy, can they build when they want to. An extensive, convenient, and relatively inexpensive miracle of air travel gets one away from ten degree temperatures in hours, and allows some of us to spend time in the man-made cliffs lining the ocean down here near Fort Lauderdale.

The problem always was, and continues to be, balance and limits. What is too much? How far is too far? How do we stop ourselves when we know we must. Or are we doomed to destruction? Well, I’ve added my own bit of excess, and here I am in a fine warm place for a while.

Tue-

Monstrous skyscrapers march along the shore, an artificial dune of immense proportions, filled with coral-like residents who each decorate their little cubic spaces and try to figure out what to do with the day. It’s all cash all the time, because there are almost no public spaces and in a few years the income-starved local governments will probably be charging for air to breathe.

Most of the population here _ permanent or temporary _ is old. Some places seem an inch from becoming a necropolis. Even the young people _ servitors to the ancient geezers wheezing around_ move in a deliberate rhythm, as if lightly infected by the disease (of aging) that is slowly killing everyone around them.
Wed –

The Atlantic is like the Atlantic everywhere _ harsh and rough most of the time, with the wind usually blowing inland. Wave follows wave, as waves have in all oceans since the first waters submerged the planet. The continents may have changed, life may have arisen, the composition of the atmosphere may have metamorphosed, but breakers like these rolled in ever and ever.

I become hypnotized, lost in time and space, watching the everlasting patterns that are never identical, constantly moving. Sounds lull me into a meditative trance. Sand cushions my toes perfectly. At least for a time, all is perfect. But since I myself am not perfect, I will become bored and move on soon enough.
Thu-

Even here along a shoreline that looks more built up with skyscrapers than Manhattan, a small strip of wild dune is left between the buildings and the beach. Maybe it is aesthetic _ there is certainly not enough to protect from storms. Palm trees, grasses, beach peas, and a surprising number of other species eke out a living as constricted as that of the humans roaming the small condo cubicles above them.

Typically, this should provoke a lament on how people have destroyed nature. But I have seen remnants of the natural wild state of this strip at a couple of state parks nearby. Even though the countless snakes that originally slithered through the impenetrable mucky thickets and the swarms of insects that clouded the swamps are long gone, the remaining dense tangle is hardly the place for a relaxing vacation. All in all, I guess I prefer it as it is. I just wish there were some Michelangelo of coast development determining a better set of aesthetic considerations rather than the stark functional soviet housing blocks it has become.
Fri-

Portuguese Man o’War is as odd as its name. I thought at first it was all jelly, but careful poking shows it is a tough balloon. Reading indicates that not only is it venomous, but more startling it is not even a true multicelled organism. More like a beehive colony of single cells, which somehow support the shape, the air inside, and the venomous tentacles that swimmers (and beachcombers) should avoid.

I suppose, since it is classed under hydrozoa, that ancestors of this creature diverged from ours early on. I further suppose there would be little if any fossil record of their changes over the eons. Perhaps they have been around in the same shape since before creatures made it to land, or before there were multicelled animals at all. These interesting but useless speculations are both a blessing and a curse of our consciousness. It’s wonderful that we have the capacity to learn and think of elements of our u
niverse so alien to our everyday experience.
Sat-

Temperatures reported on the news are a little deceptive. With gale-force winds whipping off the Atlantic, churning the surf into a fury, a person can chill down awful fast, even after chasing a hat down the beach. So far, the winds have hardly ceased, and it feels at least five, sometimes ten, degrees colder than are measured inland a ways.

Except for the high-rises, it can look like Maine, lighthouse and all. Florida lighthouses I have seen look much better from a distance then up close. They are none of the European/New England cute stone fortresses, but rather squat black iron water towers braced by utilitarian ugly black iron beams. Post-civil war military utilitarian aesthetic. That period gave us the Brooklyn Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, a lot of historic New York and Paris, but passed Florida by. Of course, almost nobody lived here until the 1920’s, it was truly a wilderness zone.
Sun-

Sign at (private _ $2 to get on) Lauderdale pier reads “sea turtle nesting,” and countless signs along the main highway advise that street lights are dimmed during the nesting period. Turtles are an ancient order, although not nearly so ancient as the jellyfish which are one of their main food sources. Ocean warming and possibly pollution have dramatically increased the jellyfish supply, and perhaps the turtles are rebounding as well. Humans may be a silver lining for a few creatures beyond cockroaches, rats, and seagulls!

We have an odd place in our heart for turtles. They’re not exactly cute, but they seem about the least threatening objects around. Nobody has nightmares of being pursued by a giant tortoise, nor dreads being locked in a dark closet with a sea turtle. We don’t worry about falling overboard and finding one swimming toward us, and even the most ingenious and bloodthirsty cultures and rulers have unable to work them into torture. I wish them health, although I’ve never seen a live one outside a zoo or aquarium, and probably never will.

Blizzard !

Mon-

“Historic Blizzard” already starting to lay fresh powder on top of the remnants of the storm of a few days ago. I’m somewhat jaded _ it seems that “historic” means anything that 25 to 30 year old meteorologists cannot personally remember. But a few feet is very inconvenient for everyone and dangerous for some, and an old retired gent who can sit at home and watch the world turn white has no right to comment on such things.

My guess is that ten years from now, this will not be remembered. With global warming the various storms and precipitation patterns are inevitably growing more intense. If I were a betting man, I’d probably predict “historic” weather events almost every year, each dwarfing in magnitude what we all used to consider normal back in the good old days of the 1950’s.
Tue-

Early preliminary to major snowfall, wind picking up, moderate flakes off and on blurring the horizon. After dark, the wind picked up and this morning about 15 inches on the ground. Nothing too spectacular, as indicated by the second picture.

Some claim this shows the power of nature. 500 years ago, the power of nature had already winnowed local tribes to the hardiest young, and a storm like this would lead to death by freezing and starvation. 300 years ago, early settlers would be trapped in cabins for long periods, also worried about cold and hunger. 150 years ago, the farming community would be relatively safe, but necessary outdoor tasks still risked mortal danger and frostbite. Today we worry overly about missing a few comforts _ instant transportation, power and connectivity _ as if they were of the same degree. Nature has lost its bite in most of these local events, but may be avenging itself more long term with warming beginning to destroy the biosphere as we know it.
Wed-

Nowadays, being snowbound is a romantic state of mind. Just about anyone can get out of anywhere _ even if it takes a helicopter _ if necessary. Yet it can be a pleasant illusion for those with the necessary time. Deep snow, frigid cold, harsh wind, long thick icicles _ things people are unlikely to find in a future of underground malls or interstellar spacecraft.

I get just as much caught up in the cultural moods as anyone else. There is always an edge of disaster, a rush of newness, hopes and fears and jumbles of experiences overloading each day. Even meditative moments have trouble quelling the tide. Sometimes nature can help slow me down a little, and this is such a moment.
Thu –

Not much to say about an expanse of snow. Nothing very dramatic. Warming ocean waters still resist any kind of permanent freeze in spite of low temperatures for the last few weeks.

I make myself go out and walk around a little, although my toes chill even through three pairs of socks. What stops me from normal activity in the winter is not the cold, but the lack of shoulder on the roads. It’s hard enough watching out for my own missteps, but sharing a narrowed icy road with maniacs who must get somewhere can be suicidal.
Fri-

Light snow has covered the world in beauty. Softly luminous light envelops harmonious whites and greys tinged with soft brown, accented by peeks of dark green. Flakes continue to fall, there is no time but now, nothing to do but enjoy the show.

I sit quietly in contemplation sipping coffee, adjusting my mood to match the scenery. Not difficult for me today, I am fortunate in having nothing of the jangling outside world intruding on my peaceful solitude. A lovely blessing this morning, something to truly appreciate and be thankful for.

Sat-

For all the trouble caused by a foot and a half of snow, its results are singularly unimpressive along the shoreline. Wind and cold are far more brutal than slush and the remnants of ice washed by tide. Fish, I am sure, noticed nothing at all.

Beautiful scene for a modern person who need not be concerned with the trivialities of having enough to eat, a cozy place to sleep. Were I to properly use the miracles daily provided by civilization and science, I could bask in such experience all the time.
Sun-

Nobody going swimming here today. But tonight we shall be in Florida, where at least the sand is visible. Miracles of modern science, jet planes, even as they add to global warming. Would us not taking this one trip a year make a difference? I suspect not.

We go a little north of Miami, where children are as rare as unicorns. It’s mostly grumpy older well-off people, a sprinkling of younger burn-outs, and various young-adult menials who must do wealth’s bidding. Affection has been almost totally transferred, it seems, to dogs in various shapes and sizes. For me, an excursion to an exotic culture in a very strange land.

Still Winter

Mon-

Heavy rain over the weekend washed away most of the residual snow and ice from last week. Woods have nothing dramatic left, just brown leaves, dull ivy, darkened birch _ even the bright green holly is subdued in the bright overcast. Another day passes, and suddenly we are past mid January. Days are already notably longer.

An easy time to be snug and immobile indoors. Being outside is often a challenge, from bitter cold to freezing rain to snow and ice making walking all but impossible. And what are the rewards _ no flowers, few birds, shades of brown? Yet entering the elements has rewards, if I can just get beyond that storm door.
Tue-

Tangled bare fallen seasons gone

Skies hover colored as the waters

Nothing memorable

Unless I try
Wed-

Centerport Harbor unusually empty in a frigid north wind. An enterprising clammer takes advantage of that natural resource to use sails to help him drag rakes along the bottom for harvest. Tough way to make a living, but it does keep you out of fluorescent light hell.

About the only thing I miss from other eras is the lack of open spaces free of people. Around here, especially, every inch of ground is covered and coveted. Fortunately we do have parks, most importantly these parks on open water, where I can pretend to be alone for a while. I don’t know if my periodic desire for solitude is a grace or a fault, but I know I must allow it once in a while for my mental balance.

On lonely trail above blue sea,

Weeds stiffly brown, bare frozen sand,

No birds, no deer, just barren trees,

Empty mind, no thoughts, no plans.
Fri-

This scene will soon change as a new probably ugly steel and glass hotel is stuck onto the façade of the old town hall. Meanwhile, just below, a movie set is seeking to utilize some of the quaint historic charm of the village. I’d go for keeping the historic charm, but all the town elders ever think about (because that is the nature of ambitious people) is to raze the ancient and get more money (presumably) from the new.

Oh, it’s sad enough that no one around here even thinks about what they call “patrimony” in Europe. Admittedly, ours is only a few centuries, and hardly spectacular, but it is real. At least I have had a chance to see much of it, to meditate on the meaning of time’s passage, and to enjoy fully the world I have inhabited.
Sat-

Warming waters from the Atlantic have prevented much freeze this year _ even this ice is just from fresh water seepage floating on top of the brine. What little we have is quite pretty, on a cold clear morning.

The invasive phragmite reeds, which everyone hates, float prettily overhead. The spartina, which everyone wants to thrive, struggles with the polluted waters. Yet in China, apparently, it is the spartina which is the hated invader, displacing native grasses quite as aggressively as phragmite here. As a pretty awful invasive species myself, I can sympathize with everyone and everything.
Sun-

Usually these pictures come from my walk in the morning, or at least somewhere outside. But sometimes I do get very lazy, when it is, for example, drizzling coldly on heavy wet snow. So it’s just a poor picture out our window, not even bothering to throw on a coat and boots and tramp around a little. Mea culpa.

Any discipline, writing or art included, is an exercise in setting boundaries. What are you willing to use, what do you want to leave out. Will a picture use advanced techniques or just be by design a crude point and click? Will an essay seek the exact mot juste, or simply express a flow of thoughts at a given moment? Lurking behind the technique is the reason, but choosing the technique is a larger part of the rationale than we often acknowledge.

Postfestival Blues

Mon-

Parts of the harbor finally succumb to deep cold with a skimming of ice. The warm water has been very resistant this year, these floating patches the first sign of freeze. Even so, only the upper fresh water layer is affected _ out near the inlet the salt water looks like mid July.

Most lights have been taken down, most decorations put away. All guests have gone home. Daily routines have resumed in all their dull glory. The party is over, even the hangover the party is over, and now the hard wait for spring truly begins. An easy time to ignore, to hide from, to try to forget. And yet _ as always _ there is deep beauty in the always fresh scenes each morning, loveliness in the rich colors of southern sunset.
Tue-

Hushed frozen wind
Words thoughts fail

Wonder or infirmity of age?

Answers slide vague as air
Wed-

This bay into Lloyd Neck lies beyond the harbor inlet, and the waters out here are slightly more frigid and unpolluted. A freeze can almost resemble “the good old days” when everything _ even Long Island Sound itself _ would occasionally ice over in the more normally harsh winters.

On the one hand, I regret those times have passed. For one reason or another, the waters run free almost all year, every year. There is a worry about what that may mean. But, on the other hand, I only have today to enjoy it all anyway. What reason have I to be troubled of past and future? Things will change _ they always do _ and whoever is around then will have to adapt and enjoy whatever there is, as I have done with what has been around now.
Thu-

By necessity or choice

Some people must perform

Tasks alone and difficult

While I try to stay warm

Fri-

A dock in Northport village could be Maine, gulls and all. Northport is known to be picturesque, but many of the commercial photographs concentrate on summer evenings. The iced harbor hosts a wind that bites to the bone and sucks heat out no matter how warmly dressed you are.

Yet there is a clear channel in the middle of the harbor, where working boats continue to go in and out as long as the ice remains thin enough. I suppose those folks are extremely proud of how hardy they are _ I would be. Nevertheless, I’m always amazed that in this day and age people can still be found to do such tough and difficult and presumably nasty work.

Sat-

Irresistible force of the tide meets unmovable object of the rocks and the loser is _ the ice. Here are all the elements of a good tale or proverb, not excepting the dead reeds that will eventually return no matter what and the encroaching works of man destined for eventual dust.

Proverbs and tales and thoughts of irresistible and immovable are plentiful and comforting. They all lie. The world is all relative and contradictory and complex and there are no absolutes. Deeper cold for longer and glaciers wou
ld halt the tides and move the rocks. Desperate heat for longer would remove the reeds and eventually the people. Goldilocks environment is in delicate balance, for which the only appropriate tale is one of worry.
Sun-

Imagine how strange a scene like this would look to some primitive from the tropics who had never known snow or ice. Even for me, the sharp shadows and reflections can make it resemble some setting from a science fiction movie on another planet. Yet it is part of all the “normal” taken for granted every day.

One of the hardest tasks I find, in a world of electronic distractions, is to maintain a sense of wonder at the “ordinary.” I become dulled by the repetition of moments, and forget how precious each one is. I set out strenuously looking for something wonderful, when wonderful is everywhere I wish to concentrate my being.

Renewed Joy

Mon-

By convention, seasons begin another annual cycle, just like the last one, but subtly different. So also with the views and daily thoughts in my blog, each very much like each other, like all the others last year, yet each subtly charged, never quite repeating. So, of course, each moment of my life.

I notice no difference in myself. Yet almost all my cells, in the solar revolution past, have been replaced one or several times. Some memories _ what I ate for breakfast in September _ are irretrievably gone, but others such as a summer wedding are deeply etched in memory. Mysterious, incomprehensible, contradictory, awesome. I try to great each joyous moment of existence with the respect it deserves.
Tue-

North wind whips

Whitecaps rushing on
While calm geese shelter all day

Old man remembers.

Wed-

Light snow drifts into a quite cold morning. Only I see these outlined branches against the farther waters. Dogs and their masters are waiting for better times, not yet desperate enough to brave these minor elements when they have just had the holidays to run around outside as much as they want.

As always, I carry mood within myself, although that is sometimes hard to accept. The deep chill of short winter days seems made for depression, but it is just as beautiful as summer. In any case, all my universe and how I seek to appreciate it lies behind these eyes, under my cap, almost immune to the physical world.
Thu-

What marvels seen, such wonders come,

In passing night, each risen sun.
_Karma Save_
Fri-

In spite of 5 degree temperatures, the water is too warm to even skim over yet. Light snow refuses to melt, mud from recent rain has frozen into the consistency of steel. A brisk wind rapidly bruises exposed skin, even taking a deep breath can be an adventure.

But the good side of all this is that I have the whole place to myself. Even the cars are infrequent. No dogs, no joggers, not even my casual normal fellow walkers. I can enjoy the peace and quiet, listening to birds and the rustle of the trees. I rarely notice how antisocial I am until I have the happiness of such moments.
Sat-

Preening feathers, swan said “Behold how lovely am I, the most noble of waterfowl.”

Goose said “Yeah but you can’t do anything except drift. We take over entire fields, and can migrate incredible distances.”

Duck said “You never do, though. I’m the only one around here that has to work for a living.”

“Poor birds,” old man said, turning away, “too stupid to know that I am the glory of the universe.”
Sun-

Haven’t had much snow this year in spite of frigid temperatures lately. These two inches are about it.
An appropriate blanket of forgetfulness marking the true end of another year gone.

I struggle with the recognition that I am useless and irrelevant. I no longer share an illusion that I can affect the world. It is important that I remain true to my culture and my time of life by appreciating it fully. In all the infinite history of the universe, there has never been anyone like me, and never will be again.

Holiday Cheers

Mon-

What? This hardly looks cheerful. Rain (not snow this year) due any second, no sign of happy shoppers, just another drab day in an increasingly drab season. Solstice passed, we assume the sun is making his way back, but it will be a long journey until spring. Meanwhile, all our instincts are to burrow in somewhere for the rest of the winter.

These are the times when I must force myself outdoors, to follow the normal routines of walking about, enjoying the few bird calls that are there, watching the play of light and feeling the grace of the breeze. If I dress appropriately, the world is still an immense playground. And, of course, there is the added bonus of gatherings of friends and family when I return, warming my soul while my fingers and nose catch up.
Tue-

I drone on about the subtle harmonies of browns when it suits my purposes, trying to contrast how I feel now with my emotions in summer. But conifers are here in profusion, and their green needles quietly insist I am mistaken. The white sand, the grey sky, the blue water all join the chorus. And that is without getting into the brash colorful chatter of manmade objects no matter where I look. My carefully constructed observations are, inevitably, founded on falsely narrowed perceptions.

The world is too infinitely diverse to describe. Much of what we could know, we never do. I suspect there is even more that we are unable to comprehend. But even in that narrow band of what we think we do know, based on what we think we do perceive, our limitations at any given moment are only allowing us a frozen impression of what our mercurial minds will eventually realize as they slide along and about. Consciousness is a miraculous gift, reborn each moment, an appropriate thought for these days of solar renewal.
Wed-

Suspended moment, almost unformed, misty and cool and waiting for rain or clearing or something besides the transience of suspended droplets. Waiting, as it were, for birth, which is really the theme of this season. The birth of a new year, or the return of the sun, or the religious encapsulation of Christianity.

It is appropriate to have a celebration of being born, for that is hope and future and genetic or cultural continuation. Bring out all the bright lights, exchange gifts, devour feasts. The old will soon enough have their day of reckoning, but for now it is all about the bright promise of what will be, and being grateful for what there is.

Thu-

Ah, Christmas skies clear with the dawn. Lovely symbolism. Except, like many things, this clearing comes from an unexpected direction. The east, where the sun is presumably rising, is covered in thick dark clouds, and the light is all from the west. How silly we often are, to think we know where to look into the future.

I insert here the standard prayer for peace on earth and goodwill
for all. Optimistically, I think that still has a chance to happen, and that after our difficult cultural transitions there may yet be a golden age for all. It’s a good dream to have.
Fri-

Very mild holiday week _ no snow, in the fifties, verdant lawns. When I escape the rush, there are quiet unfrequented places in the woods, such as this, where no delivery truck nor yard crew roams. That may all change in a few years, as the drones frequently given as presents yesterday become common everywhere. The world continues to change in unexpected ways.

All I can do is be grateful for having lived now, for living now, for still having enough of the wonder of a child to appreciate my existence. As I grow older, I realize that has been greatest gift of all, and no mere bauble from the mall can produce nearly such happiness.
Sat-

Children’s happy laughter and loud adult conversations have died down, overwhelming anxiety gives way to calm. Perhaps after New Year’s there will be resignation, perhaps anticipation of all that is to come, but for now it is enough to relax and forget about what was and may be.

Normal life gradually returns as do all the visitors. The sun continues to rise and set, the ducks and geese swim in the cool, and media inform us of new storms on the horizon. I am simply happy to look out and be grateful for everything.

Solstice Stops By

Mon-

Harbor activities wrap up rapidly now. The weather has been moderately bad, but normal. Everyone knows at any given time, it could become horrible for quite a while. So the boats that are going ashore have gone ashore, and their moorings are now being picked up and stashed in parking lots. That’s what this little work craft is doing _ in fact, in another week it is likely the docks themselves will no longer be available.

Mornings don’t seem all that different _ well, colder, of course _ but noon sunlight is never all that brilliant, and the outside workday comes to an end surprisingly fast. Most of the folks who are putting up holiday lights have them blazing by the time the sun goes down. Judging by the frantic traffic, most of those same people can hardly spare a glance to notice any of this, immersed as they are in last minute necessary tasks.
Tue-

Remove the possible snow, eliminate the fancy flashing lights and eccentric lawn decorations, turn a back on the constant auto traffic and the season has a feeling of free emptiness and quiet. The birds are often quite hushed, except for a shriek of alarm here or there. When the wind does blow, its echoes are subdued with no leaves to disturb. The eye rests on seascapes free of human activity, not even implied by boats bobbing patiently awaiting use. Docks are tied down, expecting the worst, but the worst is a while off yet.

It’s a good time to reflect on the rhythms of the universe, the tides of my life, and the majesty of each day I am permitted to experience. Some, apparently, regard such vistas and ask “is that all there is?” seeking a secret logical meaning or imagining great hidden treasures in an inconceivable eternity. I know I know nothing, but “all there is” in my world and life is infinitely more than I can possibly appreciate properly.
Wed-

A mild spell has everyone who can do so out walking. Mist softens the harsh outlines of bare branches. Sienna, ocre, umber soften to grey in the distance, while the muted greens of remaining grass accent the composition. The same moisture mutes the various constant noises from last minute yard clean-up and road crews getting the pavement ready for the worst.

In a week, there will be jolly festivities, enforced merriment, tense truces in family relations, and the constant requirements of following tradition. A week after that, everyone will take stock of themselves, shake off the disappointments of the last year, make resolutions for the new, and gird themselves to get back to “normal.” Then the decorations come down, cold settles in for good, snow and slush and ice rule the grounds, and I return to life simply being.

Thu-

Nice effects from the sun low in the sky even near noon. Without any instrumental change in the temperature reading, simply having the sun and no wind this morning felt warm and fine, no direct sun and a brisk breeze this afternoon feels raw and cuts deeply. No matter how bleak it may seem, however, the beauty of everything is undeniable.

Day after day,
paragraph after paragraph, I drone on and on about beauty and wonder. Do I not realize there is evil in the world, that people are hungry and children die and pollution pours into the seas? Am I ignorant of the thousand and one calamities that surround us all? Mea culpa. All I know, shallow as I may, is that at my time in life, in my situation, moments in the world are magical and glorious and worthy of praise, and perhaps that is what I must add to the noisy bedlam.
Fri-

Water is chilling down fast, although it looks the same as always _ I can tell because my warmth is ripped by the steady northeast wind blowing across the empty expanse. The barnacles on the pilings and the shellfish unseen go on with their normal lives. Fish _ well, I don’t actually know any of their cycles except for the bluefish, all gone out to deep sea.

I could read up on all this, try to become a naturalist, relearn all the names of the plants and trees and shells and other things I once knew, be amazed by studies and meditations others have produced. But the tattered remains of my memory are enough for now. They add to my enjoyment and pleasure, without intruding or overwhelming the experience, and that for this afternoon is exactly where I want to be.
Sat-

Monochrome only slightly broken by the crane, done working for five or six months. Boatyard activity has slowed considerably now _ well, actually the action moves indoors and out of sight. Even the yard crews have scraped the last of the leaves off every surface and rarely visit. Once again, sound is dominated by wind, birds, and an occasional jet plane or siren. Not exactly ever quiet, but about as much so as it gets until a deep fresh snowfall.

Contrary to expectation, such days can cheer me up. There is a certain perverse streak in looking at a monotonous landscape settled in depressing chill and just going with the mood. Nothing to be done, it is all futile, we are lost. OK, that means it is truly a holiday _ I have no responsibilities, no hopes, no urgent must-be-dones. Adjust and enjoy the world as it is.
Sun-

At least six geese, more swans and ducks, but as far as I can tell no golden rings. This avian gathering in a sheltered cove goes on all winter, out of the wind and with plentiful fresh water seeping through the sand from the hillside. The worse the weather, the bigger the crowd.

You would say that other creatures hardly notice solstice, but of course that is wrong. Now that they have dealt with migration instinct anxieties, if any, males are already preoccupied with mating in the coming spring. It’s fun to watch the chasing and pairing. Humans like to feel they have a monopoly on emotions, and also like to believe they have tamed their more primitive behaviors, but some of the actions in this area closely match the plots of many of our soap-opera entertainments.

Stormy Weather

Mon-

Harsh blue stretching almost uninterrupted by watercraft, except for the Harbor Master boat which has to remain available all winter even if it eventually gets icebound. This year the bets seem to be on heavy freeze and nasty storms. Today is below thirty, and a northeaster is due tomorrow, so I suppose the early season is reinforcing those predictions.

Otherwise, of course, nobody notices. Up the hill from this tranquil scene, hundreds of kids are standing outside the Halesite Fire Station with their parents waiting for Santa Claus. No matter how bad the snow wind and rain the malls and stores will be open all week. Schools and businesses might as well be underground or on a spaceship. All in all, stormy weather is not what it used to be, hardly cause for concern, surely never life and death, and rarely even an inconvenience. That is, no doubt, a good thing.
Tue-

As usual, these pictures run one day prior, when I was walking after my writing routines. It was twenty five degrees with a raw east wind off the not so distant ocean that cut to the bone and made it feel much colder. One of my acquaintances, who was stationed in Alaska in the sixties, claims that this cold is worse than anything he experienced at forty below out there. Of course, he was a lot younger then, and memories tend to blur with the years. On the other hand, that wind cuts quite bitterly.

Slate grey is in any case the color of the week. Today it is pouring, with more to come, and you almost need a miner’s headlamp to venture outside. Here the sea almost seems brighter than the sky. One clamming boat, whose owner works in all weather to bring in a fresh harvest around the holidays, when prices are often at their best. Tough way to make a living, lest we forget how just about everyone used to have to live _ and without the warmth and light to come home to that we now assume is our right.
Wed-

No walk in the rain, flooding highways and setting records, so just fall back on an older picture. Is this dishonest? Not showing what should be a moderately current photograph with some little idea inspired by it? I don’t know.

As I get older rigid categories have relaxed a bit in my mind. I no longer see nature and humans as quite so distinct, nor good and evil, nor truth and reality. Sometimes the world seems so complicated as to leave me completely confused and helpless. Why, then, should I find that the same realizations also provide hope and a possible path to wisdom?

Thu-

Swans ignore or do not notice a cold freezing drizzle that dims everything in the distance. I’m always amazed at what a change of a mere twenty or thirty degrees Fahrenheit can do for our perception of the world. Suddenly, in weather like this, it seems hostile and distant.

Nevertheless and regardless of my mood, everything is beautiful beyond description. That is a decent thought to begin each day, as the shrill worries of fragile civilization intrude endlessly.

Fri-

Light snow dusting covers the kayak racks at one of the private neighborhood beaches. The entire week has been cold, dark, and wet, with an interesting surprise each morning for anyone who must go outdoors. The overall mood is little helped by the late sunrise and early sunset, if there were a sunset ever to be seen behind the clouds.

Yet I walk along with a smile, quite happily, greeting other regulars out to get a breath of fresh air, or walk their dog, or just enjoy the world. Most of the crowds who were around for a while trying to work off their Thanksgiving pounds have vanished for a while, although they will surely reappear with new year’s resolutions for a couple of days eventually. Dressed adequately, this is as rewarding a set of moments as any other, and certainly much more of an experience than trying to understand the world through colored LED screens.
Sat-

Reeds already looking a little bedraggled dark against the sky. Noticed the sun is rising far south this week _ of course. It can be a strain to try to notice stuff all the time. I am grateful I now have the time to do so.

There are many philosophies of life aggressively floating about these days _ purpose-driven or hedonistic or wealth-related. The “good life” has lots of definitions. Our consciousness and experience is insanely complex: no single philosophy fits us at all times, in all situations, for each of our ages. But just as once in a while I now like to break out of my relaxed mellow vacuousness and achieve some goal, so back when I was always driven to accomplish tasks I fortunately found moments to breathe in the beauty of my existence.
Sun-

Caumsett State Park is busy even after a snowstorm in deep winter, but there is room off the beaten path. Here on the trails through the woods, the leaves are all down and in place _ without the noisy help of yard crews and blowers and rakes and vacuums. The browns and blue of the sky are relaxing and integrate the cycle of the year with the rest of our memories. A few green briars or yellow leaves stubbornly resist the elements.

These trees, of course, are all new new growth. The ancient forest primeval was cut down in the 1700s by the first enterprising settler here, who sold the logs to Europe and the Indies. It grew back. The jazz age millionaire who wanted a farm leveled it once again. So little here is even a hundred years old. And yet, it is woodland, it is thick, and unless someone cuts it down yet again (or the oceans rise to cover these hills) it will be thick primeval forest once again.

Edged Anticipation

Mon-

Sticklers for detail remind us that true winter does not arrive for three more weeks, but for most people in this area, winter begins with December as surely as March begins spring. Although there has been cold, snow, and ice, it has all felt temporary, and is often followed by pleasant days in the fifties. Suddenly, we are ready for the real stuff _ weeks of freeze, never-melting slush, dangerous storms always on the horizon. And, of course, the almost unconscious awareness of less and less sunlight day by day.

Yet by the same token, the worst tends to take its time. We expect deep blizzards, horrible wind chills, all the nastiness that Christmas cards try to sentimentalize. Like the holiday itself, they often take time materializing, and we are left in edgy anticipation. I try to shake off this lassitude and enjoy the experience of each day as fully as I do in midsummer _ one of the hardest tricks, I admit, that I normally attempt.
Tue-

The white humps above the dock are boats wrapped in plastic. I suspect future generations will view such profligate waste of unrenewable oil with horror, but who knows? Anyway, I think it is kind of stupid _ I wouldn’t mind if they could somehow save the stuff, but this is all a kind of one-use shrink wrap that they mold to the boats with hair dryers on steroids. In the spring it all heads to the landfill.

Part of the human landscape of this century. Not the worst of what the civilization does, by far, but indicative of the excesses we all entertain. Anyway, at least, for the moment, the breeze seems fresh, the sky is lovely, and the trees hold their own against the upcreep of the mean tide level. The sand more clearly represents the destiny of everything.
Wed-

Season of subtle brown has arrived. Many of the weeds and reeds and grasses are simply drained of other colors, although the trees reveal branches now that only a few leaves remain. The storms have not yet battered anything upright, the winds have not yet torn the ever more fragile remnants of summer foliage, snows have not flattened the fields. Very lovely, if I concentrate and relax and ignore the raw chill.

Some might claim I could leach out all the color, turn this into a black and white shot, then print in sepia and it would be the same. Those same would say this is, within limits, an accurate picture of being there. But neither statement is true. A photograph is not an experience _ like any art it is most successful if it recalls an experience, and possibly challenges our memory of that moment.
Thu-

Beginning a period of dreary rain with occasional cold breaks of brilliant sun. Everyone just happily chortles “lucky it’s not all snow.” In some ways, scenes like this can be taken as grim, depressing and extended to terrible melancholy about fate and life. On the other hand, the mellow merged tones are kind of soothing and non threatening, we can relax and just let the world go on its way.

The hardest part of December is adjustment. Once I have accepted the deeper cold and dressed well for the biting wind, it is invigorating. But until my body and soul have accepted the switch as the “new normal” I find I can resent it as much as the next guy. That insolence in the face of reality is also part of being fully human.
Fri-

Other surrounding waters _ such as these at Cold Spring Harbor _ have also emptied of craft, leaving the increasingly jagged waves to flocks of ducks ready to overwinter. Perhaps because of the lack of other color, the blues of sky and sea seem more vibrant this month, the few notes of color such as the boat more memorable. I suppose the tones are much influenced, also, by how low in the southern sky the sun remains even at midday.

Inevitably, but swiftly, nature rushes into cold and snow. This week is easy, relatively warm, free of ice, only a bit removed from lovely outside weather. Yet it seems part of what is coming, when even standing here on this dock _ even getting to this dock _ will be an exercise in will and fortitude (well, what I call will and fortitude in these tranquil and easy times.) Today, I luxuriate in the feeling of time with no regrets at its passage.
Sat-

Strong raw East wind off the ocean, twenty miles away. Darkness in the morning only slightly lifting through the overcast some days, in any case dusk falling by four in the afternoon. Holiday lights everywhere, of course, as we seek to make the solstice transition a festival.

Winter solstice was only a big deal to people in the northern temperate land masses, but those cultures have come to dominate the planet. I think these days most of the synchronized lights and fireworks and holidays at year end are there simply because an accepted universal global year end exists. Only a few stubborn people or cultures _ who which to ignore and be ignored by all the others _ cling to other equally arbitrary calendars. For everyone, the passage of a year is meaningful, a time for both regret and celebration, memories and plans, and it is fun to share the experience.
Sun-

Full calm before a rainstorm. These ducks will be unperturbed no matter what. I try to cultivate the same attitude, but often fail.

Fitting way to end a week of thoughts on slow changes and intermediate weather. Too many people seem to be focused a few weeks away, and ignoring the moment except to get through it as quickly as possible, sucking its possibilities dry in a vampirish need to “get things done” before the end of year holidays completely arrive. I try to keep out of their way and avoid being angry if they intrude on my calm _ as, I suppose, these waterfowl treat us humans.