Lost,
as usual, heading to the gym early considering what to listen to. I’d downloaded a ton of international
soul-jazz collections and artists loosely and fortunately connected to Lloyd
Miller, two of whom I wrote about consecutively, yesterday and the day before. This morning I saw a collection called
“Spiritual Jazz” which first listened to writing emails at 3:00AM and it left
nothing other than a vaguely positive residue. This morning it was there, half synched and I figured I’d
give it a go. No regrets on that.
“Paul’s Ark” by Morris Wilson Beau Bailey Quintet came
swinging in. I can’t find anything about that band, where they're from or when
they cut this track. It’s
majestic. The next tune doesn’t
let up. “Ayo Ayo Nene” recorded by
Mor Thiam in 1973 seems perfectly calculated to make you nod your head. At least here I can discern that he was
and is a rather handsome drummer from Senegal who speaks Wolof in which
language his last name means “historian.”
I’ve never been cognizant in anything but name of the star Akon, but now
I know who his father was. Just
now, reviewing the tune, writing, my daughter was nodding her head, as strong a
sign as I need. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mor_Thiam
Who needs a television? Outside the window to the left is an enormous spider. “Enormous,” fully extended he’s not
much bigger than a silver dollar.
He built a web rather more the size of a manhole cover directly out my
window. Unlike some of the long,
almost elegant spiders that you can see in Hong Kong, which are almost as large
as my hand, this guy is more compact, hairy, shall we say “beefy.” I’m sure he’s an absolutely dreadful
thing to contemplate if you’re his size or smaller. I tried to take a picture
but, with the iPhone at least, no matter which angle I shoot it, his just an
off color dot in the center of a backyard shot. Can you see him/her there?
And it is an odd balance of fragility and ferocity to
consider. The web itself is almost
ridiculously delicate. A few main
lines, tether it off to my house, another to the conifer off to the left and
then another down below. The
actual mandala he’s spun is more functional than beautiful, with odd angles, as
if he were in a rush, that allow the wind, but not the insects a way through. The
wind blows and it absorbs the gusts.
He, or perhaps she, sits in the middle, waiting. It must be dizzying to sit there,
ridding, barely holding with every exhalation of wind. My wife showed me a video she shot of
two days ago with an absolute late summer deluge outside our house. How did this little construction survive that? Every moment, 千钧一发[1].
And as I was writing I noticed a catch. I called everyone over, for a second
time to show them. He/she’d got a
hold of something and by the time we were viewing had already wrapped it over
and over it what seemed to be one hundred threads and turns. The object was indiscernible, but
adding to the imaginative gore had a shade of red, as though it were
blood. My stepson suggested in was
garbage and he was merely tidying things up. I asked my little one to decide: garbage or lunch? She thought that, perhaps like Samwise and Frodo, this
Shelob was wrapping up a fly to store for consumption later.
“Will it have babies?” She asked. Of course. It has a lot to
get done before the winter. When
winter comes, he’ll die.” Boink. Epiphany. Now,
I’ve encouraged her . . . no, this is too gentle a verb, I’ve emphatically
insisted that go find a copy of “Charlotte’s Web” which we have at least two
copies of, her sister having read it years ago. Anything to stimulate more independent reading. Anything to make a connection to the
natural world.
Speaking of which I wrote a friend two days ago on a
business matter and she said, “well, that’s cool, we can discuss this weekend
at the apple picking thing.” To
which I replied “Um, huh?” “Oh,
well, your wife will tell you more about it when you get home.” And indeed, I am booked for today,
along with the whole family to head up to Chang Ping where we’ll convene with
other families and pick fruit.
Tomorrow I’ll let you know how it all went. I think we'll all be more as we whack through any webs in the apple orchard.
[1] qiānjūnyīfà: a thousand pounds hangs by a thread
(idiom) / imminent peril / a matter of life or death
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