Anthropomorphism

If you buy one computer and it works flawlessly, you tend to assume that all computers are like this. And if your computer sometimes hiccups or jams and demonstrates fits of constipation, then you think all computers must be like this.

But if you buy eight to ten or twenty computers, all at the same time from the same manufacturer, put them on a network and watch what happens, you will learn that they are not all the same. They are almost like people; some seem to be more robust and agile than others.  Some more likely to trip and stumble. And some easily become confused or obstinate.  These traits tend to be consistent, even if you coddle them, as though they came with their own personality from the start. And as they age, like people, their idiosyncrasies become stronger. Some finally become so ornery and difficult to work with that in a fit of frustration you will abandon them for younger, more resilient and compliant machines. Those that are strong and continue to work well may be kept past their era, like treasured persons of experience that remain friendly, teachable and highly reliable within the scope of their design. At some point the latter too will not be able to keep up and then, when you part with them, it will be with a tinge of sadness and appreciation for the many years of service they’ve given.

Flexible Flyers

It is the fall of 2012 and David and I are cleaning out Lynnwood’s garage.  We run across two old children’s winter sleds.  They are vintage American Flyers Lynnwood purchased for us in the mid-fifties.  These are the sleds we used when we were children ourselves.  They are a little dusty, rusty and worn, and one has lost a cross member, but otherwise they seem to be in working condition.  We think about donating them to some cause but then I begin to think about cleaning them up and giving them to my grandsons, the Wilde boys, for Christmas.   David says he has no use for them, so I put them in the trunk and take them home.

I clean them, replace the missing cross-member on the broken sled, and paint both sleds.   I notice that both sleds still have the original sales price written on the back of the steering bar, $16.00, I leave this mark and varnish right over it, sealing the price to the wood.   I also obtain and attached new ropes for use in towing the sled or in steering when riding in tandem.

Used vintage sleds of this kind apparently would nowadays bring $50-80 plus shipping cost, if one were to try to purchase them on ebay.    I remember going with Lynnwood when he originally purchased then in the mid-fifties.  Had he known then that they would also someday be an exciting Christmas gift for some of his great grandsons, I’m sure he’d have felt even better about the investment he was making.

The newly refurbished sleds with their Christmas bows

Completing a ride on Christmas day

The sleds at their new home

 

Jemez Hot Springs

A little over an hour north of Albuquerque is the small town of Jemez Springs, NM.    This town on the on flanks of the Valles Caldera is surrounded by numerous natural hot springs.  Though a number of these springs are accessible by hiking, Jemez Springs is easily accessible by car and there are natural springs right in the town.   For more information about the many natural hot springs of New Mexico see Hot Springs Enthusiast.

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It is early November.  There is the stimulating coolness of fall in the morning air.   Lorraine and I are attending a tango festival in Albuquerque.   We sleep in . . . aaawh—isn’t this what vacations are for?  Then we take a leisurely breakfast, revisit our information sources, pack our swimming suits (because many of hot springs are not clothing optional) and head north toward Jemez Springs.   We pass through Jemez Pueblo and stop at the Visitors Center.  There we learn about the Valles Caldera.  Jemez Springs is located on the southwest flank of the caldera—an immense geological formation and root of the hot springs.

In village of Jemez Springs, we check out several venues including the historic Bath House.   However, Lorraine wants to soak out-of-doors.   We finally settle on Giggling Springs, another hot springs venue just a block down the road.   The few people there are about to leave and we end up with the place to ourselves.   The venue is quaint and picturesque.  The water temperature is fine and controllable.  The water is clean and is constantly circulating.  At one end it comes into the pool directly from the hot springs; at the other it flows out through a cute little gully and winds its way back into the river.   There is a path leading to the river only five yards away where one can periodically douse oneself with cold water, if so inclined.   There are quaint dressing rooms, pool-side drinking and dining areas, and a helpful attendant who eagerly brings more drinking water and offers a staggering array of refreshing fruity concoctions, the price of which she would then happily append to the soaker’s running tab.

We purchase extra bottled water in advance, spend an hour, forego the cold river dipping and the fruity drinks, but have delightful time.   Before entering the pools we are advised that we should afterward dry off but not shower.   We heed this advice and find that we feel rejuvenated and discover that our skin feels softer and smoother as a result of the minerals in the water.   These observed changes are unmistakable.

On the way back to Albuquerque we stop for Mexican food at El Pinto on 4^th Street NW about half way between the town of Bernalillo and Albuquerque.  The food is good, the service is good and the place is immense and crowded.   Definitely recommendable.   And then we return to Albuquerque, relaxed and fortified, grounded and ready for the first milonga at Las Puertas.   It seems tango and soaking in natural hot springs are more complementary than I would have imagined.

Bagby Hot Springs

It is late 2012.  We have just finished a tango festival in Portland and are laying over an extra day before flying to San Francisco for dental meetings.  It’s raining.  It’s Portland.

We sleep in and spend the morning working on Association projects in connection with the coming meeting.  We have lunch and then proceed to do laundry.   Everything takes longer than we anticipate. Finally, in the late afternoon, we begin our journey to explore some local hot springs.   We drive toward Mt. Hood.  Guided by Google Maps and the global positioning capability of our phones we follow roads through the countryside and pass increasingly smaller towns until we find that we are no longer on a road flanked by fields, but one winding through a densely forested area along some kind of river gorge.   Here and there we catch glimpses of the river which is no longer smooth and wide and dark, but now narrow and rocky, crashing and cascading with whitewater.  Outcroppings of rock occasionally break through the dark green carpet of trees.  These are memorable landmarks as the sides of the road steepen.

It’s been a couple of hours.  It’s still raining.  We manage to find a Forest Service information station just before it closes and just before needing to turn on the headlights.   It is late.  Lorraine, who wanted so much to visit some natural hot springs, is disappointed.  The rain and encroaching darkness are discouraging, but we have come so far.  I am willing to learn what I can.   Lorraine waits in the car while I inquire inside.   I ask about the hot springs and am given information.  The station is well equipped and the attendant, who is about to close up, informs me that the springs are fairly close and open.  She gives me additional, detailed directions.  The station stocks inexpensive rain ponchos, and flashlights.   I make these purchases and return to the car with more confidence.  Lorraine is surprised.   It takes another 15-20 minutes on various roads in the forested area, switching highway designations several times, but we follow her instructions closely and have no trouble finally finding the trailhead.   The following image was taken on the trail of Lorraine in her rain poncho.

Bagby Hot Springs is popular.  When we arrive, just before nightfall, we find other persons there and some preparing to leave.  Facilities consist of several rough buildings constructed of local water-resistant redwood.  The main building is constructed on a slope and seems to house a series of stalls, each with a bench, nails in the wooden wall to hang clothes or towels, and a long tub hewn out of a huge redwood trunk easily large enough to accommodate two bathers.  A half hollow log redwood trough along the closed side of the structure, like a rudimentary miniature Roman aqueduct, brings hot water from the spring to the bathing structure.  Through the far wall at the foot of each tub is an opening to this trough and a fist-sized stone or wooden peg that allows one to regulate the flow of hot water into the tub.    And there is a round peg of wood that fits into a 3-inch round hole in the bottom of the tub that, when removed, completely empties the tub, dumping all the water down the slope some distance below the floor of the building, and from there it flows back into the river.

At the end of the building there is a larger, open patio space that contains three traditional circular-style wooden hot tubs.  Each tub can apparently accommodate 3-5 persons and has a connection to the elevated trough.  There is a fourth large cistern from which cold water can be drawn and carried in plastic 5-gallon pails to cool or temper the water in any of the tubs.

We find an empty stall, fill the trough style tub, add a couple of buckets of cold water, place the fist-sized stone again at the gate to shut off the flow, slip off our clothes, step over the edge, and easily slide our bodies under the water against the smooth, well worn wood.  The room is half roofed; above us a partial roof keeps the drizzle at bay, but the open roof above the lower end of the tub allowed it to lightly pelt the surface of the water under which our lower legs lay.  As light fades before total darkness descends we lay together in the water, wet and warm, and watch through the open roof the graceful, shadowy movement of the tall trees in the light air and misty rain.

This combination of sensations and raw intimate-with-nature oneness, the remoteness of the location, our naked vulnerability and connection to the water wood and elements invokes a kind of reverence—a respectful and energetic silence– that compels us for some time to listen . . . to just listen to the air moving through the trees, to the rain, to the sound of gurgling water flowing through the trough or falling from the structure, and to our own breathing.

 

Wilde Fields – Ranch at Croydon, UT

Wilde Places

Florida – Gulf Beaches

The White Sands of Florida near Tampa

It was only a few days after passage of a hurricane across Florida that this shot was taken of the sand near Clearwater Beach on the west coast not far from Tampa/St. Petersburg.  The ocean was remarkably calm, the water clear, the sand so white and bright, and the sky so clear and blue that it was almost surreal. Besides being almost still, the water was warm.  Sunglasses and sunscreen were essential equipment.  It was hard to tear ourselves away from this pristine place in order to complete the journey back to Orlando in time to make our flight.   Nowhere on the west coast have we seen sand this white and reflective.

Hips

Something is wrong with my hips . . . or how I use my hips . . . I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s noticeable. Others see or feel this and they tell me. But I feel it not. For me, everything seems fine; I walk and move easily enough, with grace even, it seems. And there is no pain. But there is something, I’m told. Florencia was the first to notice this, and she developed obtuse exercises ostensible designed to help me understand and correct the wrong. We lay on the floor and put feet, with 90-degree bent legs, against the wall. Fine. “You see”, she says, but I don’t. Then we push against the wall and notice my pelvis . . . something about it. OK. But I don’t understand exactly what is happening or how whatever is happening relates to my walk and wrong.

I return home and focus attention on my pelvis. I feel, actually, that doing this may enhance balance in pivoting . . . but not as much as standing straight and not looking down. Hmmm. It’s a puzzle.

Then comes Michelle. “I’m losing you,” she says, as I walk outside. Then to the cross, “no, that was good . . . maybe not in tango,” she murmurs. “Hmmm . . . what? only in milonga?” I think, completely baffled. Lorraine takes instruction while I am at work. “Michelle says that you do something with your hips . . . but that I should be very gentle and sensitive in talking to you about it,” she reports; but then does not seem to remember exactly what Michelle said. Eeeeooww, it feels like a conspiracy . . . you are all driving me nuts. There is something? “Yes love,” but, then, the world is silent.

So I am vexed . . . “focus, relax, try to notice what is happening” I tell myself. I put attention here, then there, and breathe, and try to relax. I start walking like an African queen, swinging the pelvis back to counter each forward throw of a leg. And I try rounding or swinging the pelvis forward with each step, as though it were a just an extension of my leg. I try combining these affects. I get pretty good at this but Lorraine says, “Please don’t walk like that in public.” I am distracted and wasted. It’s strange . . . to have something wrong with your hips . . . or how you use them . . . and not to know. To know that there something noticeable about yourself that other people whose judgment you respect register, but that you do not see or understand. It could drive one mad. “Be cool, let it go, relax”, and such become my coping mantra.

Now I am afraid . . . afraid that when I learn this thing, it will seem too trivial. Yes, then, when the moment comes and the demon is revealed . . . laid out, as it were, in the full light of day . . . I fear I shall dismiss it, so wound up have I become with curiosity and investigative schemes whose greater complexity is now liable to distract my mind from the import of any simple truth. Conversely, I am afraid that it may be impossible for me to ever grasp, to ever know, about what they are really talking. And now suspended between these possibilities, I am. Caught.

Entropy

My life is so fraught with mechanical things frayed.

This, I suppose, comes as a result of accumulating things and of age, but it annoys me.   Duplicity is built into my systems . . . of necessity; I am accustomed to operating with functionality in the range of 90%. Repair and refurbishment sessions with technical assistants are scheduled on a regular basis; they always have been.  There is so much technical detail in my life that this is just standard operating procedure. Still, lately, it feels like things have been slipping.   It feels like no longer 90% percent, but something less . . . yes, definitely less. The whole system feels like it is slipping below 90%, to somewhere in the mid-80’s, or even lower. From this sense comes my appeal.

At least one of every nine sinks does not drain properly; now, it seems, one out of seven, and an additional sink is threatening.   Electrical switches increasingly work only intermittently.   This time it’s not just the hard drive; the motherboard is fried and the entire computer needs to be rebuilt.   Then there’s the FAX machine; starting last week, it now no longer confidently connects with its intended target, and we’ve started receiving complaints from recipients regarding the legibility of copies.   A toner cartrige is cracked.  What?  Yes, cracked and spilling toner everywhere inside the copier and, of course, gradually across the desk as well. One of the turn-signal housings is falling off the car.   And the automatic garage door increasingly jams about a third of the way down, especially, when the outside temperature is below thirty degrees–or otherwise, just at times when I seem to need it most. (I suppose I should talk to my wife about both these items.)   And this week I am plagued in the mornings by a floss container that no longer cuts the floss on the first tug, or second tug, or sometimes even third tug. It feels like my life just mechanically unravels and unravels.

Remoteness

Barbara Richardson writes announcing her new novel, “Guest House”, and includes the link to a promotional YouTube video.   Barb is a friend and I look forward to reading her book.   She has reason to be excited, she has a publisher and her book is being well received.  It doesn’t actually come out until March, and a host of us have already ordered our copies.

I watch the video and see the stark landscape around and in Atomic City, Idaho.    The images remind me of my own life, growing up with all that youthful energy, feeling rather abandoned by my circumstances, expectant, sure that everything I could dream of actually lay somewhere, inaccessible,  just over the horizon.

The images also remind me of a time when Lorraine became a ranger for the US Forest Service and she and the children lived for an entire summer in a small, rudimentary Forest Service cabin at the Green River Lakes trail head at the north end of the Wind River range in Wyoming.  The trail head is a 45 minute drive over a rough dirt road beyond pavement, past Cora, a tiny postal drop among spreading ranches just a little this side of the small, classic western town of Pinedale, WY.   Decades earlier some of the property at Green River Lakes was part of a dude ranch; now it’s all Forest Service land and designated Wilderness Area.  And it’s quiet, very quiet.  In this place one can easily hear small gusts of wind, and see and feel sunlight moving and flashing through the comb of lodge pole around the isolated cabin.   From the porch in mid-day we frequently see deer browsing, and wild rabbits and mice moving softly over the ground, unafraid, only a yard or two away.  With high peaks all around, AM-FM radios, mobile phones, even amateur radios are completely useless.  And when the sky is overcast and one finally douses the fire at night, there’s an instant and dangerous blackness–a darkness so dense and tomb like that it stops one’s breath.  Nothing can be seen, only heard and felt, and it takes a moment for the senses to readjust, even when one is already in bed.  And outside, on clear nights, the moon’s brightness is stunning and magical, its cool shadows sharp, and the depth of the sky and the stars, indescribably larger, many and more varied than ever before imagined.

New Year’s Eve 2009-10

It is December 31st.  Last night I shoveled snow, at least eight inches.   Invigorating.   Beautiful.   As often happens after a winter storm, the white snow-covered ground, streets and buildings reflect light between the earth and the cloud-cover blanket in the night sky.  This gives the landscape a soft glow.   It feels almost like mid-day under an overcast sky, but the soft pervasiveness of light reflecting also up from the ground is more magical.   It seductively draws me outside and I gladly apply myself to the task of moving the soft snow.   Light from a myriad of small Christmas lights illuminates the neighborhood and my work.   I feel almost like part of the Nutcracker cast as I greet strollers and fellow shovelers across the street.   It is the time too of a blue moon.  Here and there the waning clouds part just enough to yield a glimpse of the clear black sky beyond, and enough for light of the moon to occasionally penetrate the reinforce the magical scene.    But this was last night, glistening, magical and cold.

Now, today, I am in San Diego.    It’s seventy-one degrees and rising.  Skies are clear.  A light breeze comes steadily off the ocean.  Sailboats move silently through the harbor.  It’s warm, almost tropical.  I put away my coat and gloves.

This is Kona Kai resort.   I am here for a tango festival.  I shall dance at a New Year’s Eve milonga tonight in a chanlelier-guilded room with open French doors beyond which lies a terrace and then, the beach, marina and the sea.

The contrast is stunning; the beauty and romance, comparable.    I remember for a moment the soft glow and pleasure I had shoveling snow the evening before, but the memory is fleeting.   Now I sit in loose clothes on a balcony, with my feet up, overlooking the marina, eat mandarin oranges and dark chocolate, feel the warmth of the sun, and smile to myself.