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.

Hey,, Old Man!

Monday

First snowfall of this winter just severe enough to transform views from our windows.

A few weeks after Santa Claus arrived in town on a fire truck, Old Man Winter blew in with a bit more fanfare, dumping 5 inches locally on top of a small ice storm. Enough to make our sandy hills difficult, and the steep driveway almost impossible. Predictions now are for more flurries and a string of extremely cold days and nights.
This was thick white stuff, coating trees’ limbs with more depth than the still relatively warm ground. Good for making snow creatures (even OMW is learning to be PC.) Still more beautiful than annoying, as the first appearance of snow always is.

Tuesday

Lovely blue harbor is clear of boats and buoys and fringed with remnants of last snowfall.

Anticipation of a snowstorm is shared by young and old _ and few in the middle. Those who wish to have no school and who have nowhere in particular to be on any given day can glory in the possible disruption of routines by slippery or impassible roads. For those fortunate few, first flakes are eagerly awaited, and the hush during the event enjoyed immensely from the warmth of their living rooms.
After any significant accumulation, a quiet beautiful white coating has transformed the world. Often the sun, accompanied by a cutting cold breeze, sparkles on lacy branches and blanketed evergreens. Snowplows struggle by. In a few hours snowblowers will crank up. But for just a while, the local universe gleams new and pristine and lovely and all good things seem possible.

Wednesday

Salt meadows have turned gold, accented under dark blue storm clouds.

The driveway’s lovely, dark, and deep …
My environment, alas, does not match that of Robert Frost

Thursday

Patrol craft heads into frigid waters, trees finally stripped to bare branches.

People seek omens. We find ones that support our views and interpret them to match our own outlooks. So while the weather has been warmer than normal, everyone who is concerned about global warming claim it was a precursor of what will come. When unexpectedly harsh winter storms roll in early, those who fear the coming winter claim this proves it will be a blustery one.
The key to weather perspective is “average,” that fictional normal. We accept that winter must be colder than summer, that there is a range of “usual” storms and temperatures, that any given day may differ considerably from what happens around it. But nature is never average. It delivers its effects in clumps rather than a smooth gravy, and we are too immersed to keep perspective.

Friday

The beach is in full winter mode now, ice on deck, people stopping by for a few minutes at most.

Winter wonderland may last for two or three days, but then it turns into winter slum. Car exhausts darken roadside snow, puddles gather trash and refreeze into ugliness. Patches of muddy ground show through crusty slush. The tree branches, of course, are long bare and back to looking forlorn.
Early in the season, this tragic change happens quickly and all returns to normal. But by February there is an ongoing glacier of disposal dump everywhere, blackened shapes rule former snowdrift, and all the new layers do is temporarily hide the nastiness beneath. Even driveways become corroded with sand and salt in an often vain attempt to keep cars from slipping around during trips to the garage. By then, of course, all thoughts have longingly turned to spring.

Saturday

Second snowfall of the week coats the neighborhood, just before the third storm arrives as temperatures remain in 20’s.

“Where has all the food gone,” asks a first-year cardinal of another. “It always used to be here. Now there is just this … whatever it is.”

“Snow,” answers an older brother. “This white stuff is snow. You’ll see a lot more of it soon.”

“But what about finding something to eat?”

“Oh, now is time to look on trees. You’ll see, there’s a lot to feast on. Well, at least for now.”

“What do you mean by that?” asks the little one anxiously.

“Never mind,” replies the other. We’ll both find out soon enough as months go on.”

Sunday

Outside lights barely penetrate heavy wet snow after another few inches wear out winter’s immanent arrival.

Old Man Winter, he brought snow

Caused the harsh North wind to blow

With a knick knack paddy whack freezing to the bone

Old Man Winter came roaring home.

Lights Fights

Monday

Lights and wreath more symbolic than visible from the road, but one of our anchors to Christmas past.

Once Thanksgiving goes by, Christmas light on homes begin to appear. This year everything is a little early, at least for those who participate at all. What with people off to Florida, just getting too old to care, or protesting commercialization, there is a strange mix of excess and non-participation. Or perhaps it was always like this and I never noticed.
Part of the rhythm is dictated by work schedules and anticipated weather. It used to be a lot was accomplished on weekends, when suddenly Sunday night would be illuminated. But now with people working odd hours, or not at all in extended households, and with others hiring crews, and technology being what it is, a massive demonstration can spring up any day of the week. Like flicking a switch. At some point, I suddenly realize I am behind the curve and pull out the annual offerings at my wife’s insistence.

Tuesday

Cheerful lawn decorations to appreciate during the day.

Beachcroft runs the full range of decorations. Some houses are fully lit, although only one extravaganza “nouveau riche” exists down at the harbor. Some houses show nothing at all, either not Christian or pure bah humbug. A few more or less tasteful lawn candy canes or elves pop onto lawns.
Generally, however, this neighborhood is subdued. The season is noted, a small display is welcome, and solstice blues are resisted with twinkles. It has remained warm enough to walk around and enjoy the ambience during early evening.

Wednesday

Unusually warm day hazes background, while foreground demonstrates the arrival of December.

Star light, star bright few stars to see tonight.
Sky is always overwhelmed by haze, town glow, and aircraft.

Thursday

Arrival of a supermoon also brings in super high tides, filled with newly dried flotsam.

Displaying lights is one way of keeping off the ancient terror of solstice short days with deep cold and snow right around the corner. Today, in spite of our comforts, problems sometimes seem worse and worse _ particular for those who take the media seriously. Having a gaudy brightly lit property is apparently one way of fighting back.
America consumerism preaches the sermon of purchasing meaning, in houses or cars or jobs or _ at this time of year_ with so much illumination outside that a place threatens to outdo the sun if turned on during the day. Each homeowner a midget Medici, showing how mighty the family has become.

Friday

Nature has not yet quite given up on a display of colors, but you have to look hard.

I admit I enjoy going out and looking at the beautiful evening show. It is easy to be a curmudgeon and make fun of all the hoopla, but holiday lights are an American tradition, especially a 1950’s and on American tradition It is comforting to see it repeated year after year.
The conspicuous consumption and environmental degradation aspects of all this used to be more of a concern, but with the new LED lights even those have faded. And, after all, it is only for a little while, some few weeks. Although, like everything else these days, I note the tendency to keep them up longer and longer, sometimes even year round

Saturday

Much more enjoyable night scene than the security lighting we usually have to endure.

“That’s beautiful,” exclaims Joan, as we drive past another commercial display of trees wrapped in blue
sparkles.

“Remember when we used to drive the kids around in the evening?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, and my father too. Those were wonderful times.”

“This year there seem to be more and more,” I remark.

“Tacky,” she agrees, “Especially the blow up figures crowding the lawns.”

“Well, they were after our time, I guess.”

“I wish we could wrap our trees like that,” she sighs.

“I’m not about to break my bones climbing around like that. Of course, when I was a kid, it was my job to climb up the big fir out front to put up the high lights.”

Sunday

What is “tasteful” varies with whatever current fad has arrived recently _ all-white is in.

The snows of yesteryear may be gone

Today’s remains fresh

Soon to join its ancestors

Perhaps something to ponder

Perhaps simply to enjoy now

Heavy Skies

Monday

Dark clouds never show when you want them _ bright day, white stretches, no complaints.

This summer was full of rain, but those storms seemed filled with light anyway. November rains and November skies are different. Perhaps because the sun is dimmer and lower, clouds are dark and threatening, dramatic and purple. When darkness accompanies precipitation scenes are cast into deep twilight.
Now there are many fewer hours of daylight. Only a few of them, on the best of days, are filled with bright sparkle and blinding flash. When that happens, the contrast with the “new normal” is all the more intense. Far more often such moments feel like temporary breaks in some coming apocalypse, heralded by the moaning swish of dry falling leaves and the deep cutting chill of raw wind.

Tuesday

Low tide exposes rocks and old pilings, reminding us of spare months to come.

We can easily find patterns in ink blots, reflections, leaves, fate, tea leaves, entrails, history, economics, politics, and clouds. Faces, dragons, random images appear to warn, frighten, entertain, or soothe. Our rational natures know it is our projections that create these shapes, but our deeper reptile emotions believe there must be truth lurking behind what we intuit.
Most of the time we hardly notice clouds, except as comment on likely weather. Once in a while we may admire ethereal beauty in a sunset, or enjoy a frisson of danger as thunderclouds sweep near. Yet they are always there, in reality or potential, framing a large chunk of our outside world.
November clouds signal holidays to me _ Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. Their immense dark waves, or thick quilts, or foggy damp should create a mood of gloom. Yet I feel none, I am secured against these wisps of vapor, and I have carefully buried most of my hidden fears under the rush of exciting days upcoming.

Wednesday

Hardly typical of November, a solitary puff floats over the dock.

I wandered lonely as a cloud …
Clouds are rarely alone in the sky, often massing in crowds, mobs, and hordes.

Thursday

Reeds in final feathery fall splendor before being ravaged by storm and snow.

Late fall is muted earth colors, as all the flash and dazzle of summer blooms and spectacular dying gasps of foliage fade and fall more or less silently away. As the world turns brown, the sky takes its turn at dominance, and will hold it for a while. Are those fair weather clouds, or wind, or rain, or possibly a blizzard?
The various changes wrought by overcast have their own effect on the hues seen below. A clear sky seems to give true colors _ until we observe the blue of snow from reflections. Purple or grey overhead sets its own deep patterns on everything. And we become aware how a seemingly warm day can suddenly turn cold and raw whenever a shadow occludes the sun _ accompanied by immediate darkness that chills right back into our soul.

Friday

I am too amateur to retouch such views from our porch, sometimes mesmerizing for half an hour or so.

Skies have apparently always held portents, from meteors to supernovae to the creeping of the sun lower or higher each day except at the equator. More transient flights of birds and cloud patterns were also thrown into the mix. Clouds, at least, do more or less equate to what may happen. Winter coming back in the northern hemisphere, snow, or rain herald a true time of changes and often hardship.
Surely blood-red sunsets were more meaningful to native American than the usual midsummer cheerful displays of sparkling gold and crimson. Perhaps there were fewer such back before heavy industrial pollution. Even in our science-minded time, it seems hard to ignore what such clouds are trying to tell us.

Saturday

Wind clouds crouch on the northern horizon, beyond this patch of clear crisp breeze.

“Hey Carl, nice day! Dig out the winter gear yet?”

Carl glances up at the threatening cloudbank hovering on the northern horizon. “About a week ago. But this month it’s pretty useless no matter what.”

“Just colder, that’s all …” I begin

“No, you know better. Rain is much warmer. It’s the clear days that come with frigid temperatures.”

“Well, sometimes,” I admit. We both sense the freshening breeze.

“True mostly,” he insists. “Gotta run, still a mile to go and I’m not sure I have the time.”

“Right, have a nice day.” I speed up a bit myself as the first drizzled drops begin.

Sunday

Crystalline waters free of algae with a few floating leaves reflect impossibly complicated possible patterns.

Dark low clouds may fit my mood

Or I may find they contradict

I alone invest portent

It’s true the world is but a stage

But we are not bit players here

I am sole author of this play

Plot and meaning, self and clouds.

Its only audience.