Moon Blues

The sky was playing games with me last night. The puffy dregs of a storm were blocking the stars, pushed along by a steady wind, and I was lying on my back watching them and finding shapes in the not-clouds, the places where they pulled apart. A star filled camel, a skeleton key, a frigate bird whose body flew faster than its head, changing into a pterodactyl. By the time I was inside brushing my teeth, the last puffs had blown past, and I stared out the window at a clear sky and a full moon, the hills cast in silver light. As I fell asleep, the winds picked up again and the sea turned, roaring in its bed, driving the moon behind another bank of hammering rain and tearing the leaves from the trees.

I thought about the moon last night. It reminded me of other moons I have known. The last several years of my life have rushed past so quickly that sometimes I feel I have not properly mulled over the experiences. I run along like a child on the beach, shoving shells into my bag without looking at them, finding them years later in the corner gathering dust.

Last night, with my toothbrush dangling from my mouth, I was on the beach of Espanola once again. The full moon rose above the lip of the sea, rose behind the silhouette of a shipwrecked prow, with Mildred the frigate bird perched on top. I was walking out over the low tide rocks carrying my fins in my hand, wincing at the scrapes against my bare feet, watching for the spines of pencil urchins hidden purple against the black.

Farther on, and the moon was still rising; I slid into the water. Flashes of green lit around my wake, bioluminescent plankton, green stars below to match the white stars above. The light from the moon was enough to swim by, enough to see the shapes of sleeping fish hanging motionless against the rocks. Sometimes I found a sea turtle dozing on the sand who, waking up, would shuffle up and flap away slowly enough for me to follow for a few minutes, and then with one great snap of the fins be gone into the darkness.

A flutter of white; an eagle ray soaring beneath me. I dove to follow it, pacing the steady wave of its speckled wings until my lungs screamed for air. I rose to the shimmer of the surface, the whistles and squeaks of the seabird colony carrying across the water to where I floated, and watched the shore as a flashlight traced the way to a tent, which lit up at once from the inside like an enormous red lantern, the moving shape of its occupant casting a shadow against the sand.

The sea would turn, and I would head back towards shore, swimming until my stomach scraped the rocks, limping over them until they turned into the soft sand of the beach. The sea lions marked the level of the tide, falling asleep in a line just above the reach of the water. But as the water rose, they would awaken with bawling and snuffling and shuffle further up the sand to fall asleep at the next driest place. I tried this once with them, moving when I felt the waves touch my toes. There was sand in my hair, and eventually my poor old bones no longer found the ground comfortable, but for a while it was a pleasant, if not sound, sleep, and my neighbors were accepting of my lack of fur.

Moon writing - I moved my camera around on a long exposure using the moon as my pen. It took several tries to get it right:

By the light of the equatorial moon I wrote in my journal and read books. It was too bright to look at directly, casting shadows as strong as daytime here in Oregon, and it seemed to radiate a very un-moonlike heat. I would lie on my back and watch it burn a path across the sky, watch the stars slip positions against the reference point of a bamboo post, and for the first time I could feel myself actually rotating with the earth. So tiny, this little ball, spinning in space, the moon circling around it, tugging the water beneath.

And then I finished brushing my teeth and went to bed and dreamt about London. Some memories are too big to take in all at once.

My Loquacious Friends and I

After discovering that everyone and their dog has put up twenty posts on their blogs in the time it's taken me to post one on mine, I feel I must answer by at least doing two in one day.

We here at Fifteen Feet do not feel the need to post unless we have a completed thought to convey. As most of our thoughts never reach this state, we do not post in a reliably predictable manner.

In keeping with the theme of Fifteen Feet, the Management stresses that oxygen is to be conserved while decompressing, as we wish to resurface before we suffocate ourselves.

We also wish to point out that rapid ascent of thoughts will lead to the mental bends, and we do not want to find ourselves drooling in the corner somewhere.

In an unrelated story, I just heard on the news that a bunch of seafood from China has been deemed dangerous - shrimp, dale, catfish, basa, and eel. Add this to recent recalls of Chinese pork, toys, tires, grain, toothpaste, etcetera ad nauseum. Chinese suppliers face tremendous pressure to shave pennies off their products, which means they cut corners in safety, quality, and workers' rights. For instance, the pork suppliers were found to be force feeding their pigs waste water post-inspection to boost their weight, 44lbs of waste to each 250lbs hog. Yummy sewage flavored pork... and super cheap!

With Chinese imports continuing to increase, the percentage of goods that US inspectors can examine continues to shrink. Americans are drawn to the cheap price on the sticker without understanding the far greater price they are paying. The things on the shelf didn't show up there by magic. They have a history, maybe a horrific one. Track your goods, and boycott Wal-Mart!

Funny how one little news story makes me feel like writing. Forgive me if I'm feeling a bit activist-y today.

Sea World

Or "The Ethics of Working for SeaWorld" 

A long while ago I decided to apply for a trainer position with SeaWorld, and lo! - I actually made it through the first round of cuts. They invited me to come for a personal interview and swim test. It was the swim test that intimidated me the most. I had to be able to free dive to 30 feet. No problem. I had to be able to swim the length of a pool underwater. Again, no problem. But I also had to swim 250 feet in a certain amount of time, a little over a minute, I think, and do a graceful dive off a 6 foot board.

Problem. When I swim, I am neither fast nor graceful. It's the result of twelve years of scuba diving. We divers are accustomed to swim very quietly with our hands at our sides, controlling every movement with a flick of the fin, able to dart forward or backward or hover in one place effortlessly, like a fish. Subtlety and slowness are key, because it lets you maneuver into tight places and glide alongside underwater creatures without alarming them. (Try swimming quickly into a school of fish and see how many are still there when you stop. Answer - none.) I take my time. I see things. This is the way I swim.

Take my fins away, and I am about as subtle as a cat in a bathtub. I thrash and flail and generally feel that I'm not actually going anywhere, like I've gone from being a dolphin to being a Lincoln Log. And since breathing is not much concern to a diver, I still haven't figured out that whole business about taking breaths during a stroke. It has something to do with timing, I think - breathe in when your head is above water, breathe out when it's underwater- but I never can get the order quite right. My version is - don't do anything while your head is above water, breathe in when it's underwater, cough and sputter, repeat.

I won't even begin to describe how I look when I try to dive off a board. (Picture a skydiver who has just realized his parachute isn't working...) Again, we scuba divers just strap on 50lbs of equipment and fall over the side of the boat in a giant splash. Sadly, my splash is about the same size even when I don't have the equipment. My dive method would best be described as "cinder block."

So there was that holding me back from the interview, the idea of making myself look like a drown victim in front of the other applicants, who were probably still eating glue and crayons when I was first learning to scuba. I had plenty of time to practice the speed thing, and the grace thing, if I wanted to. And besides the complete humiliation factor, I could at least go and have a lovely behind-the-scenes tour of SeaWorld, meet a few trainers, perhaps cuddle with a dolphin. The tests were to be held early - freakin' early - in the morning, before the park opened, so I would have a free ticket for the rest of the day in Sea World. Not bad, right?

Oh, the curse of principles.

The more I looked into what SeaWorld embraced, the more I realized that I would not be happy working for them, and I've never fancied humoring interviewers for a job I didn't actually want. Perhaps I passed on a fantastic opportunity, but here is the line of thinking that led me there.

I visited SeaWorld as a kid, and loved it. Loved it then, loved the concept of it even as I began researching what it would be like to work for them. Man and whale, coexisting in peace and cooperation as an example to the world... That was my childhood depiction of the place. But now, after doing much research, it seems to have changed to - man and whale, coexisting in a corporate driven illusion as a means to great gobs of money.

I ask myself, is this disenchanted adult cynicism, or a grasp of reality that comes with age and learning? It's a bit sad, either way. My inner debate about SeaWorld echoes the same qualms I have about all zoos and aquariums, after being both tourist and keeper, and boils down to three cons and two pros.

Cons
1. Wild Capture - Captive breeding cannot sustain the number of whales SeaWorld needs. Up until 1995, whales were being caught from the wild, sometimes using tremendously unethical methods (ie explosives). Although the current policy states that they no longer will acquire animals directly from the wild, they continue to purchase wild-caught whales from international water parks, supporting the trade.

2. Captivity - The orcas at SeaWorld average a lifespan of 20 years, compared to 60 years in the wild. Boredom is an issue, as well as aggression.

3. Glitz - SeaWorld presents its prized orcas in a display of flash and glamour that is as far removed from a natural experience as a bear on a bicycle. Their new show takes place in a stadium with three massive video screens and a sound system that blares the type of music you'd expect in a "Best of the NFL" montage. There are the prerequisite (and forced) "magical moments" that involve some lucky audience child bonding with Shamu (who is thinking, "Feed me the fish already!") and the overly perky trainers hamming it up. (Do they get to wear ear protection, or do they just go deaf from the ridiculously loud music?)

Seriously, the only way I think I could ever be like one of those trainers would have to involve either some sort of head trauma or drugs. For the interview, I was required to memorize and, in a showman's voice, say, "I’d like to introduce you to a special pair of whales. This is Sandy, and right next to her is her baby, Cassie. Cassie was born right here in this pool just a year and a half ago. I was fortunate to be there when she was born. That was a long but very exciting night. Since then, Cassie has learned a lot from her mom and the rest of the whales in her family. She’s currently learning how to jump like her mom, who is one of our most spectacular jumpers. And even though Cassie’s not quite ready to match her –you’ll see that she tries. Now diving to the bottom of the pool and speeding into a jump well over three times her body length, here’s the amazing Sandy… and baby Cassie!"

Woo! Gaaag! I tried practicing it in an ultra-perky voice, and... yeah. It was equivalent to swallowing a handful of pixie sticks while watching the Teletubbies in a television store. Gag. And yet the showmanship of SeaWorld mirrors much of the Hollywood culture of Southern California, which (have you been to a movie lately?) is a wee bit out of touch with the rest of the world.

Okay, enough of my heckling. Now the Pros.

1. Education - People who come for an ADD day of cheap thrills and expensive souvenirs might actually walk away learning something. Heck, they might even change the way they live for a day or two. (One less pop can ring in the ocean!)

2. The Child Factor - Now I've come full circle. I loved SeaWorld as a kid, slept with a stuffed dolphin underneath a wall hanging of Shamu, played with whale toys in the bathtub. The park help build a love of the sea that continues to this day. Though I struggle to see it now, at age 8 the man/whale interaction was magical. So maybe I was a one-in-a-thousand kid, the kid who wanted to touch the stingrays more than see a show with fake pirates. I'm sure there are plenty of kids walking out of the park today who still find that unscripted magic, and remember it.

Therein lies my puzzlement. So many good things, so many iffy ones. A corporation run by Anheuser-Busch, using beer money to help fund worldwide conservation and research. Is it mitigation? Is it a good organization with questionable practices, or a glutinous entity that tries to gloss over its financial priorities?

In the end, I decided that my, er, shortcomings in swimming, my disdain for fakiness, and my obnoxious hangups with ethics were enough to make me say, "No thanks, artificial corporate-driven... I mean, SeaWorld." (Cheery smile and wave.) But who knows? Maybe my perspective will change again some day.

*update, June 4th, 2015* - My understanding about the orcas/killer whales held at SeaWorld has changed substantially since I wrote this post. I will be writing a follow-up in the near future to address some of what I say below.

Beginning of the Beginning

We were talking theology the other day, and while trying to grasp the concept of time and eternity I had a burst of revelation, and it was grand. So here it is.

Time does not exist for God, since He has no beginning or end, and yet He created a world (ours) where time exists. To say that God knows the future or the past is not as accurate as saying that He is already in the future and still in the past, that God is present simultaneously in every moment this world passes through. God never grows older; without time it is impossible to be new or old. He is in a state of eternity. We often talk about eternity as if it is time without end (my childhood vision of Heaven was a very long game of checkers, very boring.), when in fact eternity can be thought of as a single unchanging point.

The concept that my little human mind cannot understand is how any sequential event can occur in a "dimension" where no time passes. For example, how do you sing a song in Heaven? It's one of those conundrums that rattles my head.

So God, who does not pass from moment to moment, sees our world and its time line in its entirety. His timeless existence and our time-bound one exist simultaneously... except that the whole idea of "simultaneous" depends on time, which sort of reduces that statement to "Choose Option A or Option Beef Medallions." Trying to reconcile the two is impossible, simply because we have no notion of what it means to have no time. We can't even imagine it, because there is absolutely nothing in all of the human experience that does not involve it. The best we can do is grasp at analogies (like a very long and boring checkers game.)

But the point is that God understood both time and eternity so well that He was able to create the passing of time within His eternal state. No small feat, if you ask me. Remember, eternity means no beginning. And yet something began.

That's when it struck me. The very first three words of the Bible embrace this fantastic, utterly unthinkable event. "In the beginning..." That's it, that right there is the appearance of time where it had not been before. It goes on to say that "this happened," and "that happened," but I had never before grasped how mind-blowing those first three words are. Time out of eternity. The beginning of all beginnings. Something new occurring in a state where everything has already occurred. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around it.

This is what makes me love the Bible so deeply. A child can read it and enjoy it and understand it, and yet a scholar can delve into a sentence and never find the bottom. There are meanings stacked upon meanings, plenty of soil to grow your roots into. And I, decades after first hearing those three words, can suddenly find myself absolutely blown out of the water by their significance. I guess that's why it's called the Living Word of God.

Now I've had my brain exercises for the day...

Mummy Meme

All right, Mummy Dearest, I'll answer your meme, just to share in the joyous celebration of your 101st post. (And to procrastinate from the dreaded Cleaning of the Clutter.) I guess I'll keep meming (?) until I stop enjoying that word so much.

Meme meme meme. Mememe. Such fun.

The Theme - 5 Things I Take for Granted

1. A college degree. I'm surprised when I meet people who dream of getting theirs.

2. The freedom/ability/willingness to travel. Almost everyone I know is lacking in one of these areas. I've managed to live a somewhat normal life despite a chronic case of the travel bug.

3. Loving parents. My family actually - surprise! - gets along. It's a tradition passed down through many generations.

4. My prayer safety net. I often forget about the many people praying for me, and the impact it has in keeping me safe and happy.

5. Living in the satisfied minority. In my college years we used to celebrate World Hunger Awareness Week by fasting for a day. The next day, everyone gathered in the commons, taking a ticket at random from a dispenser at the door. The tickets told you which society you had been born in. Developed nations got to eat a full dinner seated at a table. Developing nations got chairs, but no table, and a plate that had ample vegetables and rice. Undeveloped nations sat on the floor with only a bowl of rice. Most of the students were on the floor. (I was too, every time.) The point was that only a slim portion of the world's population lives with no fear of starvation, of cold, of poverty. It's almost overwhelming to think that I've lived my whole life seated at the table.

Only 5 things? I'm sure I take far more than that for granted. These were the first five that spring to mind. So now I'll tag some folks. Letsee.... Snarke and Monster Library Student, I choose you! (You must fight to the death! Oh wait, wrong game...)

You're Much Better Off Skipping This...

I really enjoy the show "Arrested Development," whose lifespan was cruelly cut short by the voice of the vulgate. It was too intelligent a show for TV, in other words. Now I watch it in rerun. Yes, you could say I'm quite a fan of AD.

Bu I always get so impatient to do other things while I'm watching it. I can never sit still. I guess I have AD ADHD.

This is only aggravated when I happen to catch it on high-definition television. It's HD AD ADHD.

Sometimes I can't watch the show live, so I have to go to the video store. I end up with a HD AD ADHD DVD.

Sad, isn't it? It reminds me of our old saying back in Great Barrington, where good ol' W.E.B. DuBois started his career as an early civil rights leader. We used to ask, "What would W.E.B. DuBois do?". . . better known as "WWWEBDBD?" Trying saying it out loud.

If you're wondering, this isn't out of the blue. It all got started the other day when, while cleaning, I turned up a scrap of paper from a long-ago trip to the Mardi Gras storeroom in New Orleans, upon which was scrawled the age old question, "WWPBJIAKCD?"

"What would plastic baby Jesus in a King Cake do?"

Quick, someone stop me. But in my defense, I believe we must all do our part to make the world a better place, and I feel proud to make a stand. Next I shall regale you all with my rendition of:

"Ode to a Blazingly Good Avocado"

Oh Avocado, upon the hearth we view thee
Thy green and umber skin, thy sultry fruit
Whereon the trees of sunkist shores all wavy
While flocks of angels on their trumpets....

Whoops, I've run out of time and need to go. What a pity. What a shame. I'll have to finish it later.

The Cafe de Compresado

There are three rules when I make myself a cup of coffee:
1. It must have chocolate.
2. It must have a "flavor."
3. It must consist of no more than 1/3 actual coffee.

I started drinking coffee as a mistake. Four years I survived the streets of Seattle without touching the stuff, compensating with steamed milk and chai... and Seattle's Best Coffee hot chocolate, which came with a wonderful chocolate swizzle stick. Alas, since Starbucks bought out SBC this has been replace by the signature Starbucks "nasty" hot chocolate. The world grows lesser... but I digress.

My downfall came the day I started working at a summer camp. Mornings began with a staff meeting and Bible study, and I, not able to function properly before 10am, would immediately fetch a cup of hot chocolate in an attempt to pour some life into myself. Whether it was the sugar in the chocolate, or burning my tongue on the scalding liquid, or occasionally missing my mouth and ending up with a wet lap, it usually worked.

But the same machine that heated the water also made the coffee. Often after the coffee was made we would forget to remove the coffee grounds and turn it on again for straight hot water, resulting in water with a weak coffee flavor. Too groggy to wait for a second run of "clean" water, I started making my hot chocolates with this pansy coffee, and the long slide towards actual coffee began.

Of course, although I say "actual coffee," my concoctions usually make black coffee drinkers scoff. Over the years I have tinkered and dabbled with a whole host of strange ingredients, from peppermint sticks to powdered sage, searching for the perfect blended drink. Because my many different jobs often limited my choice of ingredients, I landed on a distinct morning boost for each one. My cafe's menu would look something like so:

The Flying Squirrel - A mocha with molasses. My wake-up for driving bumpy logging roads in Alaska.

The Man-O-War - Instant coffee and powdered milk, honey, melted milk chocolate, South American vanilla extract (which has more alcoholic content). Used to sit on the beach and watch the sun come up, Galapagos.

The Morning Mongoose - Steamed milk with brown sugar, cinnamon, rooibos tea. From my pre-coffee days, to take the sting out of the morning chill, South Africa.

The Akoekoe Kokonut - Kona coffee with brown sugar, moo cow milk, coconut milk. For the long walk to work, Hawaii.

Break Room Brew - Gritty coffee, milk probably past date, hot chocolate, sugar (remove flies.) The lumpy milk adds excitement! From the GF break room. Best enjoyed with a bolo levado and Bob Heath swearing in the background.

The Monterey Maple - A mocha with cream and maple syrup. My survival method for morning meetings, Massachusetts.

The Golden Aspen - A latte with pecan creamed honey. For recovering from long days of shovelling snow, Colorado.

But black coffee alone? Not on my watch! I'd rather suffer narcoleptic spells throughout the day than try to stomach the stuff. Baking chocolate needs sugar, yeast needs flour, and black coffee needs the entire contents of the pantry to cover its nigh unpalatable flavor.

Now here's a thought... In movies, they always show gruff generals planning out their war strategies over black coffee. No one ever plans out a war strategy over cinnamon eggnog latte. What if we could shove a caramel macchiato into the hand of every despotic tyrant in the world? Flavored coffee = worldwide peace? Hmm, think about it.

PETA Amuck

I went and saw "Waitress" the other day. I liked it. It was a good movie. It was good and noble and true.

Whoops... sorry. Still stuck in Hemingway mode.

Anyway, I highly recommend it, but not on an empty stomach, because the array of delicious pies they show will drive you nuts. Oftentimes after I see a good movie I like to visit Rottentomatoes.com to see what consensus the reviewers reach, whether or not we agree with each other. (We usually do.)

While I was investigating other highly reviewed movies currently in release, I noticed that "Ten Canoes" has finally come to America. It's a movie about Australian Aborigines which I originally saw on the plane to Sydney. Excellent, excellent. Try to find it if you can.

But then I saw another one listed in the must-see category, a documentary called "Your Mommy Kills Animals." While the documentary is a balanced take on the animal rights/animal welfare movements, the 2003 PETA comic book on which it is based is decidedly not. PETA activists apparently waited outside of performances of "The Nutcracker" nationwide and handed the comic book to kids whose parents, I can only assume, came wearing fur. The cover of the comic shows a brightly colored June Cleaver-type mom gleefully stabbing a horrified bunny. And inside, as if that wasn't bad enough, the "story" goes something like this:

"Do you have a puppy or a kitty that you love? Everyone knows that it's fun to play with our animals friends. But how would you feel if someone took away your animal friend, stomped on its head, and ripped off its fur for a coat? You would feel sad, wouldn't you? There are terrible people who kill our furry friends like that every day. And guess what? One of those terrible people is your mommy. Your mommy kills animals! I bet you didn't know that."

It gets worse and worse, ending with, "Keep your doggie or kitty friends away from mommy - she's an animal killer!"

Far be it from me to even begin to touch on the animal rights debate, but reading this comic incited me to the point of wanting to jump up and down and gesture wildly at the pure idiocy involved in such a campaign. Maybe this is old news for most people. I think I was out of the country for much of 2003, and therefore out of touch with mainstream news, so I hadn't heard of it until now. Could PETA pick a more inept approach to conveying their message? Yeah, let's alienate little kids from their parents. What loony in marketing thought this was a good idea?

It's frustrating that passionate people with a good cause at heart can become so focused on a single issue as to lose track of, well, reality. For me, it's a wake-up call to carefully choose which organizations to support. The documentary "Your Mommy Kills Animals" has been receiving acclaim for delving into the workings of animal rights activists, their tactics and why the FBI has labelled them a threat to the national security. Can't be good for the cause, can it?

People abusing animals... people abusing people who abuse animals. Can't we all just hug a bunny and be happy?

This is Not a Haiku

I put my work pants on
The ones with the tinkly belt
The dog comes in
The dog is excited
He jumps, he barks
He thinks we are going outside

There is spinach to cook today
There are boxes in the attic
That need looking into
The wind is picking up outside
The house is humming
With motors and water and wind

The dog checks in on me
He wonders what is taking so long
He wonders when the door will open
To let us go outside
But I am boring, still writing
I am trapped in a Hemingway moment