Fragments of All Fears

A septuagenarian should be grateful to wake up each morning, and the first order of business is inventory. Increasing age means declining vision, hearing, memory, and endurance. Each new pain brings fear of catastrophic illness. Any moment might arrive with life-changing heart attack, stroke, or any of a thousand other ailments. Death is always near, as is reminiscence about what might have been done and what might yet be done. But an individual can deal with all this, must deal with all this, with as much control as possible, or acceptance when control is futile. Each day, after all, might be the last “normal” day of my life.

For a few weeks our region has experienced unusually high heat and humidity, echoing record-setting summer temperatures throughout the northern hemisphere. Media warns everyone to stay inside and drink fluids, avoid heat attacks, solar cancer, mosquitoes delivering newly arrived tropical diseases. I ignore all that _ take my walks, sit outside _ nothing much can add to my precarious position in life anyway. But I do think such attitudes ignore the likelihood that the earth’s global warming is indeed at a tipping point. I am well aware that this may be the last “normal” summer.

Ocean and bay beaches should offer some relief, but people fear those as well. Sparkling water, like hazy air, is thickened with miscellaneous pollution. Bacteria thrive in the warm temperatures, and frightening varieties are featured on the internet every week. Algae blooms, red and green, are gross. Again, however, this minor stuff missed the main point that oceans are warming, rising, losing environments and life, and are filled with poisonous invisible plastics which may never go away. Innocent swims in public salt water may very soon be a nostalgic memory from the past.

Folks react to all this uncertainty and actual discomfort by attacking or trying to reform what is near and local. They swarm to meetings about food, water supplies, chemicals, housing. I find that very similar to attacking clerks in the old USSR, who handed out rolls of miserable toilet paper one at a time. The problem was not the clerks, it was the system, but the clerks were available for abuse. Our local water is fine. The only thing that will fix pollution around here would be banning all lawn chemicals, outdoor pesticides, and internal combustion engines. That won’t happen, and even if it did, would have no effect on terrestrial demise.

What bothers me most is the misuse of science. Those who scream about food and water and other local issues are usually (from personal experience) fairly ignorant on the proper use of statistics, experiment, theory, and basic facts of chemically physical existence. It is impossible to argue with someone who thinks GMO means tainted, “organic” is less poisonous. I refuse to try to educate someone who simply shouts that double the part per billion of some obscure substance will lead to disease and death because such a claim is posted on an internet site. Dr. Oz or some other fad freak is their current witch doctor, slick advertising their solace, a magic pill or obscure practice their guarantee of practical immortality. It’s a free country, they have a right to do what they want, but I will not join them. Common sense and common courtesy are too much in short supply.

Not A Nation of Laws

Nation of Laws?

I detest claims that we are primarily a “nation of laws.” The letter of the law is the final refuge of scoundrels. I was brought up in a “nation of principles.” A nation of laws is a short step towards fascism. My parents fought a war which proclaimed that merely obeying laws and following orders was no excuse for reprehensible acts.
The United States was founded in rebellion against unjust laws unfairly applied. A fierce civil war raged against laws which violated human moral principles. The Civil Rights Movement successfully resisted Jim Crow laws put in place by southern whites. In my own lifetime protests expanded personal liberties while questioning the Vietnam War and prohibiting massive water and air pollution. Our literature and movies glorified not those who blindly accepted any awful situation, no matter how legal, but those who fought for the right.
Conservatives used to believe in the “higher values” of religion, family, community, country and even humanity itself, no matter what the temporary local law stated. We did not prosecute others because they stole a piece of bread or slept under a bridge when they were starving. We left that to the kings and dictators and bureaucracies of Europe and Asia. We curtailed the force of laws with individual rights embedded in the Constitution (without reference to citizenship.) Until the current administration, we insisted that all human beings deserved similar rights.
Laws are a tool of civilization, but like any tool they can be misused intentionally or unintentionally. Police enforce the laws but also interpret their application, and we should always distrust such naked power even though enforcement is a necessary evil. Our excessive veneration of the equally problematic military is an invitation to a future coup d’etat.
Liberty often consists simply of the right to resist injustice. Blind belief in becoming a “nation of laws” is the slippery path to despotic majority tyranny.

May Mix

By average statistics, May _ not April _ is the rainiest month for Long Island.

Spring can be frustrating on Long Island. Ocean waters which moderate summers and extend fall overlay fog and chill even as inland areas warm quickly. For residents, the season brings hyperbolic hopes and overwrought disappointments.

No need for abstract paintings when wet flagstones shine through overlaid maple spinners sown by strong thunderstorm winds.

By mid-May, the visual tease has climaxed. Early floral bulbs have popped and vanished. Most trees are in full leaf. Shrubs are violently displaying colors, birds have aggressively nested, grass demands to be mown. Human cycles require a return of noisy yard crews and extensive beginning building renovation. Birdsong fills perfumed air, chipmunks are out of hibernation, bumblebees lurch overhead. And yet _ each morning is often clammy and dark, some noons never rise above fifty degrees, and rain arrives more frequently than trains to the city. Meanwhile, summer visions sparkle in all imaginations.

Geese aggressively defensive with newly hatched goslings and they do not care if you are big or not.

Each day delivers impossible, beautiful, affirming change. Animals _ including humans _ are in love and ready for love. Ducks have paired off, swans have hatched grey cygnets, squirrels chase mates around the yard. Fish begin their annual cycles, while osprey swoop overhead determined to find food for their families. Turtles at Hecksher pond climb into a warming sun on island banks. A season of saturated hormones, as life continues its primary business of continuation. A stroll through parks and malls reveals people young and old holding hands or enviously looking at those who do.

Abundant wisteria drapes trees everywhere, an unusual purple in landscape filled with red, pink, green, and white.

More practical inhabitants begin chores and check off chore lists. Maritime areas are frenzied with boats splashing into water, docks and pilings undergoing repair, buoys anchored in place after onshore winter storage. Garden centers stack fertilizer and soil conditioners, while at home remaining layers of leaves are removed from flower beds. Tree trimmers frantically chainsaw old branches before heavy new foliage makes such tasks much harder. And there are always the repairs to buildings and roads after harsh snowy winter.

Bleeding hearts have been appropriate on nasty wet mornings, but will soon depart as the warm weather arrives for good.

On relatively mild days, children are sprung loose as if a dam burst. The playground is filled with noise and rushing small bodies. But it is all so new, so welcome, that even the oldest grumps are not complaining at all the commotion.

May is an active working month for our maritime industries; barges and floating cranes are a common sight.

Spring in Huntington. Not Paris, perhaps _ well, not Paris, certainly _ but magical enough to cause even the most depressed misanthrope to smile in spite of himself.

Azaleas in full glory, unfortunately cut short by a week of cold drizzle and thunderous downpours.

Intuition and Logic

Spring arrived suddenly riding four very hot days, a blink from nearly brown bare landscapes to nearly subtropical lush brilliant colors. Then metrological reality returned.

Complex humans create marvels, make mistakes, socialize wonderfully, and act badly. Autonomous humans judge each other nearly randomly _ friends and neighbors dispute our own crystal clear rationalizations and conclusions.

Azaleas near our front porch have survived and thrived for more than half a century _ suddenly I feel pretty old.

Western tradition formulated binary division between soul and mind. Man’s (sic) soul ruled by ineffable God, evil devils, unknown impulses, preordained instincts. Mind carefully controlled with reason, based on facts and logic. Soul and Mind in constant strife, the defining line between saint and sinner. Freud invented a “more scientific” subconscious to replace the soul; others followed with differing constructions of how consciousness worked. Today we are awash with popular explanations centering on body balance, instinct, genetics, gut feel, intuition, logic, fact and strange weird fantasies of all sorts. “Sober Intellectuals” claim we must follow fact and logic. Political discourse proves we do not. The devils are still in the details of mundane life.

Ferns are usually among the last perennials to unfold from winter hibernation, but this year they compete vigorously with everything else.

Technology seems to promise fully rational lives and societies just around the corner. Like religious millennia, “just around the corner” recedes constantly. I find myself irrationally happy, angry, sad, depressed or elated and entertained _ sometimes all of them nearly simultaneously _ throughout the many moments of each day. Trying to be rational rarely helps. I am, of course, grateful for my mind with its logic and facts. More of my daily existence seems concerned with emotions and visions and illogical streams of consciousness. As for facts, whatever I may believe is quite frequently challenged by the opinions of others who think differently _ and by myself as time passes.

Massive fir trees rerobe in heavy new green each year, somehow surviving impossibly strong winds.

Our universe and umwelt are fractally complex. Even “solid” facts arrive with exceptions and challenges, resulting from environment and situation. As for humans and their society _ well, infinity is just plain infinity. That we can agree about anything _ let alone most things _ is a true miracle. That we can get along pretty well even without agreeing on many things is an even greater one.

Modes of thought can be overcome with determination. Monks learn to ignore hunger as warriors ignore pain. Instinctive behaviors can be reworked. Intuition is constantly modified to allow us to get along together. Reason becomes rationalization _ nor is that necessarily a mistake.

Lilac festivals are nearly as numerous as lilacs themselves. The few blooms on our backyard specimen are all that are needed for heady perfume as we walk by.

A half century ago, when I thought as a child, reason appeared ascendant. Conclusions logically based on scientific fact would automatically match intuition; truth was a zero-sum game with one winner. As I aged, gut feelings often override cold logic. Now I construct rationalizations to support intuitive decisions. I treasure my intuition as an amalgamation of experience into quasi-instinct. My “fight or flight” reaction when I see a tiger is well underway before I logically enumerate “this is big animal. With teeth. Claws. Run!”

Leaves are even more miraculous _ and sometimes more beautiful _ than blooms. Because they are so numerous we sometimes take them much too much for granted.

Intuition is often correct. Pretending that all we need is more education, more facts, more logic _ and then agreement will descend as manna from heaven is just another utopian fantasy. I don’t claim to know an answer. However, I will say that lately I am more likely to trust my “gut” than pure logic. Rather, I view both as equally fallible. Whether I make a snap
moral judgement or follow a thread of thought to a logical conclusion, I know I must recheck conclusions in the other mode. Even when both sides of my reasoning agree, I mistrust myself. Perhaps that paralyzes my actions at times. Or, perhaps, that feeling itself is only a rationalization of aging .

Breathless displays of dogwood float everywhere to convince us how inadequate we are compared to the expansive beauty of this season.

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.