Winter views from my windows are extremely limited.  Every autumn as the days grow shorter and nights colder, we stretch poly sheeting, “Visqueen,” over all the windows to conserve heat.  Light comes through, but shapes outside become indistinct.

The only window that doesn’t get covered is a small double-glazed one in the front door.

In summer when the winter covers come off the windows, the scenery is much different.  Last year, Doug and I hacked and snipped a line-of-sight trail through the woods toward the garden area, so I can sit in bed and keep an eye on the rhubarb that was devastated by stupid clumsy thieves in 2007… if it ever recovers from being so severely cut back.

My early upbringing taught me that reincarnation was a false doctrine, a superstitious belief.  Consequently, I had no understanding of or explanation for many of the dreams, and “daydreams” or “visions”, I experienced when I was young.  The first culturally acceptable explanation for them that I encountered was “racial memory.”  It’s more often called genetic memory now.

The more I thought about the genetic memory idea, the less rational it seemed.  If memories are passed along in ova or sperm, then a woman’s memories recorded in old age, after menopause, could never be transmitted.  Likewise, the memories of someone who never reproduced would not be transmitted.  Since I had memories involving both of those circumstances, I was eventually willing to accept the evidence offered by authors such as Ian Stephenson, Paramhansa Yogananda, and Elizabeth Clare Prophet, and I rejected the common superstition prevalent in my parents’ culture.

Since my forties, two decades ago, my past life recall has been spontaneous and voluntary, not limited to dreams and occasional flashes.  That part of my life is as real and immediate to me as the memories of this body’s childhood, and in some cases even more so.  According to Michael, that kind of recall is a trait of an old soul of a certain level.  Before I’d read that, I sorta thought I was an old soul, because I remembered so much, going back so long ago.  Also, there were those people I’d run into occasionally who said they’d known me when, who told me that I was an old soul.  Something like that happens often enough, and one tends to pay attention.

The more I read and learn about old souls, the more I can relate.  We are underachievers, slackers even.  I looked in the eyes of my newborn youngest son twenty-seven years ago, and saw an old soul looking out at me.  It was the first thing I noticed about Doug, before I bothered counting his fingers and toes.  I ran a thumb gently across the old-guy wrinkles in his little forehead, and told him to relax, mellow out, I had his back… no worries.

But I digress, as we old people often do.  I was saying that we are slackers, underachievers, and every time I think, “slacker,” I think of Doug.  It frustrated my teachers when I was a kid, and Doug’s teachers had the same problem:  How do you motivate someone with so much potential and no urge to live up to it?  I’d advise anyone in that situation to concentrate on helping the motivated but less than gifted ones succeed, and leave the rest of us alone.  Less frustration for the teachers, less bother and fuss for us.  Of course, since the academic bureaucracy is filled with young to mature souls, they’re not likely to be so laissez faire.

Old souls tend to be intellectually self-reliant, and also self-deprecating.  In other words, we realize we can make mistakes, and we’d rather make our own mistakes than live with the consequences of someone else’s.  We don’t mind bending the rules or making up our own rules.  We are not much interested in fads or fashions, and tend to value substance over appearance.  That all makes complete sense to me.  Fashion makes no sense.  General rules are usually arbitrary and are often inappropriate in a given set of particular circumstances.  And, just in case you’re considering arguing with me on that, don’t bother.  That way there will be less frustration for you and less fuss and bother for me.

One particular angle in the perspective of an old soul has to do with matters we may or may not feel are important.  Each era, each culture, each tribe, has its own set of special interests.  Currently, I’m interested in obtaining broadband because my dialup connection prevents me from enjoying YouTube.  A dozen years ago, before I got on the grid and onto the web, I was interested in getting a memory upgrade for my laptop because the damn thing was always crashing.  Those things held no interest for me in ancient Egypt, the Roman Empire, or the European Middle Ages.

I remember what was important to me back then.  In Medieval Europe, for example, I was a Penitente, and I was passionately interested in mortifying the flesh enough so that Almighty God would spare me from the Plague, but not so much that I’d swoon from loss of blood.  The general theme of, “just enough for this, but not so much that…,”  has followed me through numerous lifetimes.  I still try to stay between the hazardous extremes, it’s just a different set of hazards each time.

Having seen so many disparate sets of temporal, cultural and/or tribal values, our perspectives on those of the here-and-now are somewhat different from the norm.  We tend to pick and choose those that have direct impact on us (such as memory chips and bandwidth) and ignore the ones such as clothing and hairstyles, trendy beliefs, or quaint popular myths.  This detachment doesn’t mean we don’t care about the world’s current concerns.  We just tend to focus on the vital ones.

Try to forgive us if we don’t give a shit about your current obsession, because holding resentments is like taking poison and hoping the other guy dies, and carrying grudges is like trying to swim with an armload of rocks.  Those things never change.

Occasional brief power outages today have interrupted my blogging, reset the computer, and erased everything I had written.  It’s likely to happen again because snow is still piling up on the power lines, but I have nothing better to do than sit here and rethink and rewrite. 

Moving around today is not easy.  I wouldn’t have gotten through yesterday’s shopping without using the scooters in the stores.  I’m gaining enough experience on them that operating the crip cart is not my first concern.  It’s no bigger in my consciousness than pushing a shopping cart used to be.  Greyfox commented on how smoothly and efficiently I was getting around.  I love the tight turning radius in those carts!

If I hadn’t just kept going last night and put the groceries away, we’d probably have had bags of things sitting around for days if not weeks.  I have learned from long experience to use my energy while I have it, because every little spurt of exertion brings a recovery period of uncertain length and varying levels of impairment.  Today, I am massively impaired, and have no idea how much longer that will last.

Holding a book and turning pages is somewhat more difficult today than keyboarding, or else I’d be across the room, propped against a pillow, basking in the glow of the wood fire, enjoying Richard Morgan’s genius.  Putting off that pleasure also delays reaching the end of that book, the last, so far, in the Takeshi Kovacs series.  I will miss it.  I hope there will be more books in the series, soon and often.

I’m making an effort not to succumb to a full-out sugar binge.  Hypoglycemia always follows physical exertion and it’s sometimes difficult not to give in to the sugar cravings, especially when I have just stocked up on snacks for Doug.  Greyfox added to the temptations by passing along some Hannukah cookies and a Christmas pumpkin pie he was given, didn’t want to eat, and kept frozen until I got there.  Doug doesn’t like pumpkin pie, and I have resigned myself to consuming it.   I know I’ll have to halt the indulgence and get back on the healthy diet, the sooner the better, but the sugar addict in me is saying, “not yet.”

I’m so glad to be home.

I got up at the crack of dawn today, dipped some hot water from the big pot on the woodstove, poured it into a dishpan on a stool in front of the stove, and added a dipper of snow from the bucket beside me to cool the water a bit.  I had already gathered up towels, soap, shampoo and stuff, so I stripped down to the waist and dunked my hair in the pan on the stool.  Lather, rinse, repeat until it’s squeaky clean, then I stripped the rest of the way down and started all over with fresh water for the skin.

Doug had been up all night, keeping the fire going, so it was warm there by the stove.  It’s the first time in a long time I actually had a pleasant stand-up bath there.  In warm weather, I use the SunShower, and most of the time when I’m bathing by the woodstove, it’s uncomfortably chilly.  Not this time.  I got all clean, and Doug said that while I was gone he would put clean sheets on my bed, the one we take turns sleeping in through the winter so we can keep the fire going and stay warm.  Sweet!

Doug had gotten the front doors open on my car, but both rear doors and the hatch were frozen shut, and we had to do some contorting and exerting to stow half a dozen boxes and bags of books, videos, and various things in the back seat so I could take them to Wasilla and give them to Greyfox.  Most had come from him in the first place.  He helps us stay informed and entertained.  So sweet!

As prearranged, I phoned Greyfox just before leaving home so he would know when to expect me.  I sometimes wonder what I might surprise him at, if I ever showed up unexpectedly.  Before I could get out the door, he called me back to say it had started to snow there.  I said, “…yes??…”  He stumbled a bit before saying he thought I might want to change my plans.  The weather guessers had said it was going to snow tomorrow.  I told Greyfox the snow just gave me that much more reason to get in there today and get it over with.

Somehow, in all the contorting and exerting to load the gear into the car, one of us had knocked the 4 wheel drive selector out of the notch, and I didn’t notice I only had front wheel drive until I was on the highway.  I had sorta wondered why I’d spun my wheels so much getting out of the driveway.  Back in 4-wheel, the trip was uneventful except for the cold.  I do love Blur, my souped-up old Subaru wagon, but his heater is anemic.  I was dressed warmly, but even in gloves my fingers got numb.   I made two quick stops in Willow:  at the library to drop of a book, and at the post office to pick up some Nintendo DS accessories Doug had ordered from Amazon.  That’s where I noticed that my nose was glowing from the cold.

I was behind impaired drivers on both portions of the down-valley run.  Into Willow, it was someone pulling a trailer probably impaired by inexperience, over-steering, braking on downslopes and while entering curves, swinging that trailer all over the place.  I hung back and watched.  Then, from Houston to Greyfox’s cabin, it was someone doing many of the things people do when intoxicated:  wide turns, speed erratic and generally slower than the traffic flow, drifting onto the shoulder and into the oncoming lane, then jerking back in line… impaired, indeed.

It was good to see my husband again, and by all indications the feeling was mutual.  After I defrosted my nose and fingers and we hugged and kissed and stuff, and he showed me his new antique revolver, we stowed in my car some half-cases of pop he’d gotten on sale and been keeping for us.  After my darlin’ opened the stuck-frozen hatch and did his Mighty Mouse impression, the pop cases made a flat foundation for the rest of the day’s purchases.

Then we went to breakfast.  We had a pleasant day shopping together, neither of us in more than minimal pain.  Greyfox even got one of the rear doors open at one of the supermarket stops, making loading and unloading much easier.  It went smoothly, but it was a long day.  We were both tired and hungry and it was dark and snowing heavily by the time I left him at his place and stopped for fuel before heading home.

It has been twenty years since the last time I was that interested in the mileposts along that road.  I was taking my gloves off one at a time, and warming my fingers on my neck most of the way.   I started counting the miles when I was 36 miles from home.  The snow was so heavy in my headlights that I was keeping it on the road by watching the berm and ditch on one side and the ridge of snow along the center line on the other.  Forget about lane markings.  There weren’t even tire tracks to follow, the snow was coming down so hard.  Many road signs were obscured by sticky snow, too. 

When an 18-wheeler went by in the other direction, I was completely blind in the cloud it was pulling behind it.  For an instant, when I could see again, I was happy that it had blown the snow off my lane and I could actually see the road.  Then my tires slipped and I realized that the snow had been giving me traction and the road surface was ice. 

I stayed focused on the task at hand, mostly interested in avoiding frostbite, skids, moose, oncoming traffic and the ditch.  Traffic was sparse, mostly going along sedately as I was, but I was passed at one point by somebody in a newish little car, going maybe 15 or 20 MPH faster than me.  Up the road a few miles there was a newish little car off the side of the road in deep snow, doors open, lights on, and driver standing beside it looking over his predicament.  I sighed and turned my attention back to the road.

I made it home… obviously.  Turning off the highway onto our back road, slowing and switching on my high beams, suddenly the beauty of it all hit me — the fresh snow, the stillness, trees and not much else.  I live in such a gorgeous place!  I’m really glad to be home.  The groceries have been schlepped into the house and properly stowed, and I have eaten my fill.  Doug is putting the clean sheets on the bed as I sit here at the keyboard.  I’ll be between them before you read this.

Two nights in a row, I have dreamed about a tent show.  It isn’t a classic Big Top.  The tent is small, its performance space intimate, with a half shell of backstage area cupping it.

Performances are not classic circus acts, either.  Nothing is as it seems.  What looks like unscripted audience participation is all part of the regular cast’s act.  Acts so tightly timed they apparently must be well rehearsed are really improvised on the spot.  A monotonous rhythmic monologue by a grinning clown consists of a story of horror and pain that is anything but repetitious.

There is no live audience except for a few performers who pause to watch the action in between their turns.  All are playing to unobtrusive cameras and a remote, unseen, audience.  Scenes shift smoothly and unobtrusively, with no effort to disguise the action.  Costuming is understated and sets are stylized.  Costume changes are swift, and sometimes done over on a moment’s notice to accommodate another player’s color choices.  Technical tricks appear as magic, such as a handful of solvent tossed at a frog costume that dissolves to reveal a seal underneath.

Dramatic tension comes from the players’ efforts to please a demanding boss, and to support and assist the clown whose life is falling apart, while their own lives involve complicated interactions with each other and others beyond the show.  The whole show is colorful, cinematic and intricately varied.  I mentioned only one of many innovative technical tricks.  I hope the series continues.  I want to look more closely at technical details and see what develops next in the backstage story.

Mount Redoubt has been elevated by the Alaska Volcano Observatory to watch level orange after seismic activity was recorded over the weekend.

Redoubt is not one of the friendly little volcanoes in that chain that connects the Aleutian Islands to the Alaska Range.  Some of those pretty snow-clad cones across Cook Inlet just sparkle in the sun and occasionally shake a little and send out some steam clouds.  Redoubt, Augustine and Spurr have gone way past that during the years I have lived here.

There have been winters here when cutting down through the snow would reveal bands of brown of varying thickness and darkness, from ash that fell with the snow.  Ash clouds have obscured the sun, made breathing difficult and hazardous, and clogged air filters in cars.  When the wind comes up here, the dust it picks up is a mixture of glacial silt and volcanic ash deposited over many centuries.

Unlike Hawaii, where many people live on volcanic slopes where lava flows can take out their houses, Alaska’s volcanoes are relatively remote from population centers.  Here it is the airborne ash that is the biggest hazard, and other than some villages near the volcanoes, that is greatest for the towns on the Kenai Peninsula.  By the time an ash cloud reaches the Susitna Valley, it is diffuse and not likely to dump more than an inch or so of ash on us.

I’m not complaining.  An inch or so is enough.

Tomorrow is a special New Moon, because across the South Pacific people will be able to view an annular solar eclipse.  The photo above, by Dennis Mammana (from spaceweather.com) shows a previous annular (ringlike) eclipse.

Off to the west and southwest from here, in a tradition over four-and-a-half millennia old, millions of people are headed for the warmth of their family homes or are preparing for the trip in celebration of the Lunar New Year, the second new moon after the Winter Solstice.  This time of year many of the largest Asian cities become virtually deserted as people return to the villages of their ancestral roots.  The Year of the Rat is ending and the Year of the Ox is about to begin.  It is a time of homecoming, even more so than is our tradition at Thanksgiving.  The annual return of Chinese people to their homeland from new homes all over the world is the planet’s largest human migration.

Gōng xǐ fā cái!  The traditional Chinese greeting of “Kung hei fat choi,” is commonly translated as a wish for a happy and prosperous new year.  In fact, it is literally congratulations on one’s prosperity and a subtle hint that since one is so prosperous one might hand over a traditional red “lai see” packet of money.  For kids, it is very much like Halloween trick-or-treat. 

In Vietnam, the red envelopes of “lucky money” are called li xi.  In Japan, parents give their children otoshidama for oshogatsu (new year’s), a special “allowance” or gift of money in a pochibukuro, a special packet.  In the weeks leading up to the new year celebration, Japanese toy stores step up their advertising in order to attract as much of that otoshidama as they can.  The appropriate New Year greeting in Japan is, “Akemashite omedeto gozaimasu.”

The New Year’s greeting in Korea, where the holiday is called “Seol” or “Seol-nal,” is “say hay boke-mahn he pah du say oh”, a wish for many blessings in the coming year.  On sut dal sum mum, New Year’s Eve in Korea, lights are left on in every room all night and nobody is supposed to sleep, in order to greet the new year alertly with eyes bright and wide open.  An old belief said that if one slept that night, his eyebrows would turn white.  The day before the new year begins is traditionally spent in a thorough housecleaning.

The ritual cleansing and the wearing of new clothes is a widespread new year tradition in Asian cultures.  In Japan the cleaning and shopping may take up to two or three weeks before the holiday, and there are bonenkai, forget-the-year parties, to wipe out bad memories of the past year.  At bonenkai, the usually strict observances of social position are relaxed and it becomes acceptable to use more informal and “impolite” language. 

At midnight, Buddhist temples ring their bells 108 times to call in the new year.  At this season, flanking the entrances of most buildings in Japan are kadomatsu (above), which always consist of pine boughs symbolizing endurance, a vigorous old age and success in adversity.  They also frequently include bamboo for uprightness (virtue, fidelity, constancy) and growth, and plum branches to symbolize spirit.

During the weeklong celebrations of Tet, Vietnamese families erect a pole called Cay Neu (above) in front of their homes. Bamboo is often used as a Cay Neu. All the leaves are removed from the tree so that it can be wrapped or decorated by good luck red paper. Legends have it that the red color scares off evil spirits.  The sounds of gongs, bells, and firecrackers, and symbols such as bows and arrows also serve to drive out evil spirits.

The correct new year greeting in Vietnam is Chúc Mừng Nǎm Mới,  Cung Chúc Tân Niên, or Cung Chúc Tân Xuân.   Choose one, and try to say it correctly, at your own risk.  Debts are paid off before the beginning of Tet, and an auspicous new start is represented by decorating with the hoa mai flower (above), a symbol of spring.  Families visit temples and pray for peace and prosperity.   Painstaking care is given to starting the year out right, since it is believed that the first day and the first week of the new year will determine the fortunes or misfortunes for the rest of the year.  People avoid showing anger or being rude, and refrain from visiting those who are ill or in mourning.  On the last day of Tet, the Cay Neu is taken down.

The themes of out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new and out-with-the-bad, in-with-the-good pervade new year’s celebrations across cultures.  In Japan, the shimenawa, ropes made of rice straw, ward off evil spirits while the gohei, zigzag shapes made of cut and folded paper and hung from the shimenawa or from the sacred sakaki tree, invoke the presence of the gods.  I am reminded of the Native American tradition of smudging with a combination of pungent sage to repel evil and fragrant sweet grass to attract friendly spirits.

In Korea, the tradition is to decorate the home with bok jo ri, a strainer or scoop used to separate rice grains from the chaff.  Its symbolic use is to scoop up happiness and good things and leave out the rest.

Like most Americans, I grew up thinking of this as “Chinese” New Year.  I have a vivid childhood memory of  celebrations in the street, firecrackers, a wild cacophany of noise and bewildering melange of light and color.  There were many one- and two-man “lions” and a long, colorful glittering silk-and-sequin dragon dancing in the street.  It wove from side to side across the street for about a block.  There would have had to have been a hundred men or more dancing that dragon!   I might have been in San Francisco’s Chinatown at the time, or the parade could have been in San Jose; I do not recall which it was.  QuickTime movie of a parade dragon

Vietnamese Tet celebrations often include dancing unicorns based upon the traditional lion or dragon dances of China.  Fireworks are a traditional part of the Chinese celebrations, and in Vietnam at the ceremony called Le Tru Tich at Giao Thua (the mid-night hour), to welcome Tet, the first hour of the first day of the new year.  Fireworks are not part of the usual celebration in Japan or Korea, where it is traditional to climb a mountain and watch the sunrise on New Years.

Everyone becomes a year older on new year’s day, regardless of the date of their birthday.   Chinese astrology differs markedly from the Chaldean Zodiac with which most Westerners are familiar.  Combining the principles of both systems can yield a fuller understanding of a personal birth chart.   The twelve animal signs rotate in a twelve-year cycle and combine with the five elements in a sixty-year great cycle.  Since everyone’s “birthday” is the same – New Year’s Day – everyone born in a particular year has the same sign. 

I’m a witty and wily Monkey, and my son Doug is a self-confident Rooster.  People born in the year of the Ox, including actor Armand Assante; tennis great Monica Seles; musicians Bonnie Raitt and Lindsey Buckingham; poet Bei Dao, Pablo Escobar, head of the Medellin Cartel; journalist James Fallows; politician Walid Jumblatt; Linda Lovelace, porn star turned anti-porn activist; comics Garry Shandling and Kirsten Wiig; Gary Leon Ridgway, the Green River Killer; film director Peter Jackson; actor Woody Harrelson; trumpeter Wynton Marsalis; U2 drummer Larry Mullen; basketball star Dennis Rodman; musician Henry Rollins; Cary Stayner, the Yosemite Killer; Jason Acuña, dwarf on Jackass; models Heidi Klum, Twiggy and Tyra Banks; street magician David Blaine; rapper Mos Def; Leyla Zana, Turkish activist jailed for speaking Kurdish; porn star Mimi Miyagi; California Congressman Devin Nuñes; and Aishwarya Rai, the Queen of Bollywood, are supposed to be steady, quiet and plain.  Yeah, right.

This week’s subject was suggested by Photographics.

Click thumbnails for slightly larger images.  Some of these are available in much bigger sizes.  For the WAY BIG images, click the URL beneath the thumbnail.

almost just sky

autumn haze

ice-crusted shallows in the flooded muskeg across the road from my home, April 29, 2005 — I recommend clicking for the big version of this one, because the detail just doesn’t show in the thumbnail.

XLG

sunset over Kashwitna Lake, 1 AM, May 20, 2005 — facing just a little west of due north, mountain in silhouette on right is Mount McKinley, AKA Denali

LG
wallpaper size

Kenai River

bear –the story of how I got this shot is HERE

The photo below of an albino moose is not my work, but is a great picture that I want to share with you. (photo credit Richard Pixley)

XLG

Everyone is welcome to join in. All you have to do is post one or more photos regarding this subject on your site and comment on the Challenge page, saying that you have posted, so we can all come by and have a look.

The photo challenge is not a contest. It’s not about who comes up with the best photo or who has the most expensive equipment.  The purpose is to have fun and meet other photographers.

There was one guy recently who expected me to go to youtube and listen to a bunch of music that he claimed would put me under the influence of the Devil.  I disappointed his expectation.  I have learned to be cautious in the indulgence of my own whims.  I think it would be foolish indeed for me to indiscriminately indulge other people’s crazy caprices.

When I was a kid, my mother advised me that the best way to handle a crazy person was, “just humor him.”  Fortunately for me and for some of the crazy people whose paths have crossed mine, I was never particularly impressed with my mother’s wisdom or intelligence.  Truth be told, I have never been much inclined to indulge anybody’s whims, especially if they seem insane or potentially harmful.

I started out here with the craziest instance I could think of, killing the sheriff on the first page, as many good writers do to get their readers’ attention.  He’s not the only recent instance by far.  Several times a week I am contacted by people wanting me to do something that to me seems crazy.  I don’t mind.  I accept as my dharma the reception or interception of such messages from beyond sanity.

I enjoy speaking rationally to the irrational, being reasonable with the unreasonable, up to a point.  Let me illustrate that point with a bit more detail about that youtube guy.  He was sent to me by the Old Fart, Greyfox, my soulmate, lawful spouse, and partner in business and crime.  I don’t delude myself that he sent me this guy because he knows I enjoy dealing with such crap.  I know that he hates trying to deal with it, and that’s why he hands it over to me.

His first message was semi-coherent, rambling and confused.  He characterized himself as “fearful and confused.” He was asking me to cast judgment on two different psychic practitioners whose previous advice to him had conflicted with each other.  He was testing me, having already made up his mind about the other two.  The one he favored had cleverly picked up on his pecuiliar delusions and played to them by obliquely alluding to a lucrative and supposedly shady offer someone had made her, which she had turned down.

I wrote to him about false and limiting beliefs, the futility and counterproductivity of fear, “ideas of reference,” and some of the tricks of the trade used by shady “psychics.”  I had no expectations regarding his response.  Therefore, I was not particularly surprised when his next message was much more coherent than the first.  He apologized, which struck me as characteristic ingratiating behavior.  Then he told me to go listen to Marshall Mathers and Felipe Coronel.  He said, in essence, that one of them is channeling God and the other is channeling the Devil.

I responded to him honestly and without pulling any punches.  My intention was simply to respond, to give him accurate feedback, not to affect him or his behavior.  I had no preconceptions regarding what would define “success” or “failure” with this contact (too informal to call it a client), but in retrospect, after talking to Greyfox today, I realize that I succeeded.  I received no more communications from the guy, but Greyfox got another incoherent and rambling message informing him that he had failed the test.