Bird. Watching.
I was sitting near the window typing, writing a bit on the Israelites in front of the Red Sea. A large form moving fast right outside caught my eye. I immediately thought raven. Quickly became clear it wasn’t a raven sitting on the nearest branch of the cedar tree. No frivolity in its eyes or mischievousness in its demeanor. It was a dead serious bird, with piercing eyes–and a piercing beak. It flew in and landed right above the bird feeder. Watching for a tasty morsel. I watched it for a moment, got up and walked upstairs to get my camera. The hawk turned and stared at me the whole way, watching me. I sat back down near the window. It looked at me with eyes of a predator–a look that is quite apparent even even if one is not the prey. It scanned the whole area with eyes much sharper than my own for a bird or a rodent. All the wee beasties had found cracks and crevices, hiding amidst the forest clutter. It flew off down the hill, due west.
A red-tailed hawk.

Watching.

A nice day
Had a little day out this past Saturday. Went to Multnomah Falls, and parts thereabouts. Here are some pics:












So Brave, Young, and Handsome
Got a nice selection of items from the Amazon Vine program this month. One I especially want to feature here. The novel So Brave, Young, and Handsome by Lief Enger. Here’s my review:
“I said, ‘Most men never have the chance to be both things at once, the hero and the devil.’
‘That is ignorant. Most men are hero and devil. All men. That is what ruins it with wives.’
‘She wanted just the hero?’
‘Bad men or good she would’ve had me either way. She couldn’t endure both, however. She said to pick one and to be that thing only so that she might trust me until the day of Jesus.’”
There is a perspective in some ancient cultures about in-between places and times. Dawn and dusk, which lie between night and day. The seashore, that lies between water and land. Halloween, that time in which the spirit world and the physical world are perilously close. During these moments, in these places, it is both and neither all at once, indistinct and undefined. So too human life encounters these moments in identity. People are often caught in this nebulous middle, seeming one thing and another all at once. Sometimes this is being caught between their actions and their ideals, or their sin and their virtue. They are half-people of a sort, unrealized and unformed, without an identity of their own.
Some stay in this place their whole lives, never becoming, and never discovering themselves for who they really are. Others cast off from the dock, refusing to settle any longer for what was, and yet not yet knowing who they can or should be. It is a journey of becoming a whole person.
So Brave, Young, and Handsome is this story told of three primary characters, with a few others thrown in along the way. It is a road story telling of a physical journey that brings out the metaphysical of each of the characters, but not in a mushy, spiritualistic, heavy-laden way. And that’s what is so brilliant about the book. It’s not philosophy. It’s a great tale in the tradition of great American writers from decades past.
This is a book about in between times and in between people drawn with immense clarity and insight, while retaining a direct and sparse prose. Enger tells us of an era and certain characters, a story not a message. It is in this story, however, that we see so much of real life as it so often is: in between.
We are between the old and the new, the good and the bad, the honest and the false, the artist and the laborer, the young and the aged, the adventurous an the prosaic. The characters hope, but don’t know how to find this hope. What they do is carry on, having tasted something of who they know themselves to be they won’t let themselves go back. As Enger says in his acknowledgments, “Sometimes heroism is nothing more than patience, curiosity, and a refusal to panic.”
What I like so much about Enger’s work is that it is so hopeful. Absolutely honest, mind you, there’s no false hope to be found here or sentimentalism seeking to manipulate our emotions. These are real people, faults and all. But unlike so much contemporary literature and film Enger doesn’t feel a need to obsess with corruption or ruin. His is a book that shows people who are not handsome, or young, and rarely brave. But they want to be, and be such in ways that matter to them, not to others around them. They are seeking wholeness for themselves.
Not all succeed. Some do, but not in the expected ways.
“For at the same time he lost everything–the very direction of his own steps–he won the thing he held so precious he wouldn’t approach it in words.”
It is a story of real life. Not gritty, corrupted, malformed caricatures. Real people, or at least characters who are desperate to become real people, who learn what it is to be a real person.
With all this depth and insight it might sound ponderous. But it’s not. It’s very gentle and easy-going. It moves along at a varied pace, with enough movement to never seem tiresome and enough twists to never seem predictable. My only slight irritation is that sometimes Enger jumps ahead a bit and is so eager to bring a slight twist that he breaks the moment with unnecessary foreshadowing, sort of a “you’ll love what comes next!” moments. I wish he just let us experience the story as it happened a bit more. But this is a minor qualm and he does even this within the contexts of a fitting narration.
It’s a brilliant book, in craft and theme and insight. It’s the best work of contemporary fiction I’ve read in a very long time and guess it will be my favorite book of 2008.
In the path of the painted ladies
The painted lady butterflies are migrating. And it might be the biggest migration ever seen.
Millions of painted lady butterflies that fluttered into California’s Central Valley in the last week of March could be just the advance guard of one of the largest migrations of the species on record, said Arthur Shapiro, a professor and expert on butterflies at UC Davis.
“This may be the biggest migration of modern times,” Shapiro said.
Shapiro said he is getting reports of “billions” of butterflies around Trona, near Death Valley, and in the San Fernando Valley. More waves of butterflies are likely to appear in central California over the next few weeks as the insects take wing.
Painted lady butterflies, known by the scientific name Vanessa cardui, spend the winter in the desert. As caterpillars turn into adults in the spring, they migrate north in search of fresh food and breeding grounds, powered by a supply of yellow fat they have built up over the winter.
Painted ladies migrate every year, but usually less conspicuously and in far fewer numbers. This year, however, exceptionally high winter rainfall in southern California has created a bumper crop of plants for the caterpillars to eat, fuelling a population boom, Shapiro said.
The butterflies take about three days to reach the Central Valley, and the current generation will fly as far as southern Oregon. Their offspring will fly on to reach British Columbia by summer, before heading south again in the fall.
I’m sitting in the middle of a thoroughfare. A constant stream, hundreds going by, a dozen at a time, coming from the south east and heading north west. Off to the Central Valley of California apparently. They don’t stop. They are flying with purpose.
My camera batteries died when I tried to take pics. But for now, a portrait from elsewhere.

Walk at Dusk
I’ve changed the picture at the top of this page. It’s one of my favorite paintings, maybe my favorite. I remember about seven years ago going to the Getty Museum for the first time. By myself if I remember correctly. Just wanted some inspiration. I walked through the rooms and there was this small painting near the corner. It hit me. It reflected something deep within my soul. I stood and stared at it a while, not as much thinking about it as much as feeling its quiet energy.
It spoke to me, more than I knew at the time. And maybe it still does. Like a reminder. A direction. An encouragement.
I don’t really know the words to describe what exactly it was saying. But I thought I’d put it up as a regular reminder. Of course, I did add the title, and the appropriate corvids for the theme.
A Walk at Dusk by Caspar David Friedrich.
Feel free to try some words about it. Let me know how it strikes you.

Life in Southern California
I do, in fact, live in Southern California.
Though you might not know it from the pictures I took today.
A new gallery of today’s winter pics coming soon.
windy old weather
I finished working and reading this evening so made a bit of dinner and popped in a DVD. It’s the third Pirate’s of the Caribbean, which I hadn’t seen before. About fifteen minutes into it I turned it off. Couldn’t hear the dialogue.
It was too loud outside.
In the forest the trees sing in the wind. With rain and gusts like we’re having tonight they are a mighty chorus, whistling and singing and clapping their hands in wet celebration.
So there is only to listen to the repeated refrain. It’s much more entertaining than Pirates anyhow.

checking in
It’s told that when no one else would listen St. Francis preached a sermon to the birds.
Me? I’m no preacher. The birds come to read what I’m writing.


Or at least this one junco did.





