Environment General On the Peace Path Ottawa Photos Thirteen Thursday
- Mer Bleu Bog is the remains of ancient rivers turned into peat moss, some 5 meters thick and accumulating for 8000 years.
- Search for peat moss and you turn up links on mining it! Here’s a beautiful thing. Let’s kill it and burn it. Didn’t we already learn that lesson in Ireland? It’s in a weird position of being protected ecosystem, until we raid its resources, much like Algonquin Park, trumpeted as wild and free, while being logged. Humans are weird.
Since 1971 with the Ramsar convention started in Iran and signed by 168 nations, there has been recognition of this area as one of a few (just over 2000) of the world’s unique unique wetlands.
- How amazing that timing was. A shutter-click later they had flown off from wherever they came from.
- The bird calls and lack of traffic sound percolating in, only wind in the grasses and trees made for a restful spot. It’s been too long since we were here last but you can’t get there by city bus, and it would make for an awfully long cycle. We tacked on the sidetrip to a car rental and took a wonderful break time.
- It takes a lot of space to breathe.
The 8600 acres conversation area has areas of sandbar islands (with chainlink around trees because there are beavers) and open water areas and open areas of bog that resemble the area in the James Bay Basin.
- It also has area houses with signs saying “Dump the Dump Now”. How close is the plan to put a regional dump near the conservation area?
Evidence of people in the information signs and walkway are more welcome than the air traffic. Surely there must be a way to make engines quiet and our impact less big.
- The larch is one of the few needle trees that is also deciduous
- The berries are changing in the shorter days but the sky was entirely blue. The last time we were at Mer Bleu just at the second last curve of the boardwalk, it clouded over suddenly and started to rain.
- That upper right corner picture is cotton grass again, in case you were wondering.
- Funny how some march over the boardwalk in a timed powerwalk as if they were in any mall and others chat in a church-voice hush, while others use their outdoor voice as if they were at a ballgame. But mostly, there are few people.
- I’m not sure what the plant on the left is. Dad taught me the one on the right is called Indian tobacco. No one else seems to use that name for it. It’s a variety of Curly Dock. Some species are native, some not. They are poisonous to sheep, cattle and chickens, but humans can digest them. “When compared to spinach, curly dock has “… 1/3 more protein, iron, calcium, potassium, beta carotene and phosphorus.” [source]
- As a little kid I collected it up when it turned browner than that fern above, darker than an old penny, and rolled it in maple leaves and smoked it. The smoke was sweet and amusing but I didn’t get the point I didn’t think.
- This was to be Wordless Wednesday but given all the words, maybe we’ll bump it to Thursday 13 instead.
. Cedars and pines thin out and redden to a degree over winter but the larch, or tamarack, goes completely bald.
Quote: ““Democracy is not just the right to vote, it is the right to live in dignity.” ― Naomi Klein
- Man Celebrates 20 years with Schizophrenia
- Bless the small town newspaper for their spin as the subjects want it told.
- A large media newspaper has the mandate: you need to buy us to know the worst thing going on in the world at the moment.
- A local newspaper, often delivered for free, has the mandate: this is what people you will meet are doing for our community.
- Why should one be a pawn for someone else’s priorities for their gains instead of your benefits?
- With more centralization, what matters to individuals doesn’t weigh as much as the aggregate. Local reppresentation loses to rubber necking competitions.
- When I taught ESL using a newspaper, I often used the local section.
- Partly I don’t want to stomach disaster at 9 a.m. Partly war refugees don’t need more triggers in the safe space of learning.
- Several times I got objections for my “soft news” angle. The class was often under 10% male to about 1/3 male but all the objections came from the guys. (Incidental gender of those people?)
- Local news is also timely but has less amnesia as the next thing washes up. The same direction over the city scape of low or high density housing can continue for years of articles. It debates on slow scale things that matter instead of presenting what’s already a done thing.
- Hidden Harvest Volunteers harvest apples, service berries and nut trees. About 10% of the food trees that could be used are on their list. The food goes to food programs in part.
- 160 people come to a street party and get the police permission to close off their street to socialize.
- Joa Anne Guimond is running a gratitude project called Dare to be Grateful.
See other Thursday 13s.
Quote: “Anything that increases the degree of difficulty in the poem’s making is to be sought out.” ~ Diane Lockward
Relentlessly new days dawn.
- Even with my “broken wing” (photo by sweet hubbykins at Purdyfest),
and days before the doctor even receives xrays and ultrasound scans. Almost 4 months of this shoulder getting worse. (Impatient for “normal”.)
- Marriage habits of successful couples (rings true).
- What’s Writing for? my response is #7 in the On Writing series.
- Comedy minute: Are you a real writer? Check at the handy flowchart and If writers were paid like other professionals by Melanie Gillman.
- This could be handy: How to write a cover letter for a literary submission.
Is this lake big enough for us both? Yep, and no one is ever alone in the world. At a zoomed in level there are always so much life even in a water drop.
- An article on putting mental health on par with normalcy of other physical health.
Our day’s garden harvest: scarlet runner beans, cherry tomatoes and our first pepper.
- Did you see this? Burglars steal computers. Police come. Non-profit workers worry. Another police call. Computers are returned with apology note.
We float even when we dimple the surface where we sink.
Things are duckier than it feels, even in the rain. Quacking in the rain…
- Literary Landscapes is tonight at 6:30 EST and I’ll be interviewing Steve Artelle.
Quote: “Purity of mind and idleness are incompatible.” -Mahatma Gandhi
Hoping for slow down time warp effect.
13 Considerations for camping/cottaging:
- Resetting the body clock by the stars and change these city eyes back to normal ones.
- Navigate by the moon instead of as adeptly as the average dung beetle.
- How many cookies to bring?
(I’ll bud in here)
- What to sleep on?
Sleeping bag? check.
- Air mattress? Sadness of flatness due to cactus years ago. Could patch. (Look at clock.) Won’t.
- Loblaws has an air mattress on sale for $22 (instead of $50 or $29 at Canadian Tire regular price.) yǒu qù de (interesting) 有趣的
- Bringing cards, books, ice, fruit.
- Rain. 雨. yǔ.
- It will rain. yǔ betcha.
- We aren’t made of sugar.
- Wearing sling. Bringing advil. (And eyes peeled for hypospray.)
- Zǒu ba ！ 走吧！: Let’s go!
Quote: “Stop trying to shrink the world into the size of a self-help book. It doesn’t fit[...] Reading about how to be a pilot doesn’t make you a pilot. Plane gonna crash.” ~ Laurie Ann Fuhr
- Some times you’re in synch with the world, and sometimes you know you’re not.
This would be a not day, or a knot-day. Brain’s a clattery train yard. Nerves on edge so any unexpected sound makes my skin leap. I’m officially tired of being me. I’m accepting CVs for people to play the role of me instead. I’m not sure who will handle the auditions. Ah, right, also taking CVs for a casting director.
- I’m taking stock.
- That does mean pilfering goods from the office right? (Of course, working at home, it means going from one pocket to the other. But get rebellion where you can.)
- I’ve concluded time is going quickly. That may be just confirmation bias since I concluded much the same at age 8.
- It’s the 10th year of my being at the Poetry-W listserv. How many dozens of people have been thru over the years? I was in a couple other face-to-face poetry workshops at the time which have fizzled since but that one keeps on. Now I’m more mentoring and sharing theory posts instead of being an omnidirectional fuzz looking for guidance.
It’s funny that it works for me because it’s pretty consistent for me to write poem drafts constantly then binge edit in rapid cycles of substantive edits. With a workshop that allows only one per week, that means I have nothing or more than the group can accommodate. Still, I often can tell if I broke a poem. But close edits can be myopic and I tend to forget the reader needs to be oriented before I leap in mid-way. I like poems with gaps that don’t spell everything out.
- Charles Tumbrull said at Frogpond, in talking about juxtaposition,
[...] when the gap between the two parts is set exactly right by the poet so that with a moderate amount of effort the reader is able to experience an “aha!” moment and suddenly be smothered in extra meaning that was not present in either part. The proper regulation of the gap in a spark plug is often used as an analogy to the mechanics of the haiku. A functioning gap will vary for various people, of course.
Some people have to be led by the nose. That’s fine. I don’t need to be the one with the shank lead. Other people already know what I’m saying. They can go off and speak to others rather than us both wasting time affirming each other. It’s that slim overlap where the gap is a productive one that is the sweet spot.
- One does what one does. As Marvin Bell put it, “Everyone needs something to do in his or her life that they would do even if no one paid them to do it.”
- I know I lose out by being a generalist with gaps. But so do people who don’t read or perceive broadly. Not that there is anyone who is not a specialist or anyone who is not a generalist. The depth, widths and overlaps just vary. Talk to me about species or poetry or architecture or let the steering go any random direction and I probably can go somewhere. (Don’t talk to me of sports or movies or music or anything invoking the word hegemony. I will have no idea. I will glaze over. And you’ll just frustrate yourself.)
- While I was busy gadding about, it seems I missed another anniversary.
Feb 22nd, 2003 I started blogging at Humanyms. I missed my own 10 year anniversary. Oops.
- In 2008 I pointed out I had 1200 posts here, and 4000 comments.
I can’t exactly count anymore. A couple years ago I thought I was making an archive of older posts, but was backing up and overwrote the backups, and didn’t realize for some time. (Lost, lost.)
Of those posts I can still see, those since moving to WordPress (the third platform), I have 1900 posts (murky estimate: about one every second day on average). I used to do daily and have switched to 1-3 times a week.
There have been 6,525 comments. I’d like to thank you all, even if some, in absentia.
- People who started to write withdrew into less-traceable offline. Or decided to photograph or have babies or write cookbooks or change careers. Or outlet their lives at FB instead. But mostly just ghosted away and deleting blogs as they left.
Blogging is often such a interstitial state – the old haunts are ghost towns. I suppose that makes it a mandala of life.
As with anywhere, you can’t stay only with your cohort because they drift off or die off. You need contact with every generation, a continual stretch of neurons to novel challenges. To begin again. And again. And. New births of relationships to offset the constant loss.
- I suppose that I seem sad. I’m not good at rah-rah hop-up the excitement. I don’t trust excitement and whoop. That seems a sport for the young and excitable. I don’t know about excitable, but I’ve never been young. Or maybe that’s just my shoulder talking. (Shh, shoulder, watch your language – this is a Family-Friendly Space.)
- I don’t seem to post poems here much anymore so here’s a draft being wily about getting done.
a couple going down the canals
when my hearing clogged I stood, s_t, in dad’s
head. birdsong shut out and conversation
became more in_erence th_n usual,
reliant on hands, say again?, helpers.
fatigued anger. strained, withdrawn, pretending
that I know what was said because I’m tired
of being accommodated, or not.
how much of his irritation was ‘him’?
or about ‘them’? how much, daft vs. deaf?
how much m_re would golden-years marriages
flourish with hearing aids? ads: “hear the vows
you renew daily.” “get him back.” ”turn up
those sweet nothings.” photo ops: jammed
restaurant, two deep in conversation,
walking thru the door of a party, “that
whistle didn’t come from your hearing aid,”
“the fun back in functional”; a coup
with a couple, their 5000 buck ears.
For poetics I’m characteristically spilled water – spreading out in all directions, and wetting socks. That’s a kind of niche too. It worries when people say to be developed you must be a specialist in one thing. It nearly convinces me that one increasingly narrow path is an ideal.
Another episode of my sporadic participation in Thirteen Thursday.
Noteable Quoteable: “Word of mouth comes from intermittent delight. Things that work all the time are harder to talk about.” Seth Godin