Nature @ MindSay

I've been told I have a weird mind.

There is a part of me that's somewhat resentful that I can't give blood to save people's lives, but I'm able to sustain mosquitoes for another day.

Actually, I'm not sure what the time works out to. If I let a mosquito bite me, just let it, without the reflexive smacking, and it takes its full and rather drunkenly flies off (the mosquito, in my opinion, is one of the most poorly-designed fliers in the Midwest. Itty bitty whiney wings, six long legs and a long face that just hang down and drag at the air. They are made for landing, and biting, not for flying), how long does that particular meal last it? An hour? The rest of the day? Enough time to find a male mosquito and lay enough eggs to rival the stars on our side of the Milky Way?

On the subject of male mosquitoes, they are non-biting - the mosquito society is somewhat comparable to the Amazons. Males are necessary to mate, of course, but aside from that, they're really a disgrace to the species, as they don't do what mosquitoes are made to do. The females only put up with them because finding enough food to lay all those eggs is a rather hazardous and time-consuming practice, and thus they haven't found a way to artificially produce mosquito sperm.

Hang on a sec. What exactly do male mosquitoes eat? They don't feed off people. Do they just eat enough junk as larvae to sustain them for their One Great Lay? Actually, I have no idea how many mates a male will take in his leggy lifetime. I speculated that their primary ambition was to produce offspring, but for all I know, male mosquitoes are brilliant writers who spend much of their time learning the great philosophies of previous generations. They contentedly spend their days closed up in their personal libraries (which explains why we never see them), and their attitude towards the females is more of a mild annoyance at being interrupted from their studies. "Ah. You're wearing THAT. Oh, very well." For them, it's more a sense of duty than anything else, and they'd really much prefer to be left alone with their books and cigars.

I picture the females as being rather aggressive, the males quite a bit calmer. If they had voices (perhaps they do), one of them is certainly far more strident and demanding. The one sees the other as a necessary affliction, and the other finds the first to be a mildly attractive irritation.

Although, really, if I knew that the only reason that someone hadn't decided to off me was because they didn't know how to produce whatever they needed from me, I'd probably spend a good amount of time making sure that I kept a monopoly on that item's production. Maybe male mosquitoes keep a close eye on their scientists, and whenever anyone starts in that direction, they find themselves having a little chat with the mosquito mob, and soon they're sleeping with the larvae.

Dude. Maybe that's it. Larvae eat adult mosquitoes that have been tossed in the water, and pick up other blueprints that way.

"Hey. Are you guys sure we're supposed to have all these legs? They're supposed to be this long?"
"Uh, I guess so. Hey, Jakey - remember when they threw your dad in here? What'd he look like?"
"Shut up."

Buzz buzz buzz.

There is so, so much that is beautiful in this world.

My work, my life, my dream, is about helping people. About taking something that's not so great, and healing it. Sometimes all I can do is listen to someone hurting, but contrary to the implied definition, even that's not a passive experience. Unless I'm having a selfish day, I'm always looking for something to give, something to do, some way to help.

Until the moment when I break out of the trees, and my words are stolen by a painted sky, over a forest so dark it's been reduced to two dimensions. The lake carries deep secrets of beauty under a glassy surface, a surface that permits no entry because disturbing it would be beyond criminal. There's a line of amber in the middle of the shadows, revealing that part of that flat black treeline is an island. Beauty and darkness blending into something beyond the definitions of each.

The morning I go out for a walk in the mist on the shore. The waves are crashing, running in and out as though searching for something in the gravel. The brightly wet rocks slide from under my weight, and the sky is impassively gray, too great to be aware of the tiny crustaceans that skitter and slide higher up the shore, demanding safety. The whole world seems to be waiting for something, and maybe it's just for me to leave, so that it can celebrate in its riotous joy. A promise of a terrific storm later. Can a storm have emotion? It seems to promise beauty and emotion, but in such a way to defy both terms.

The hushed open-air cathedral of the trees, with the long grass that invites all and tells nothing. High enough on the hills that the wind is your companion, and only a hawk soars over you. Dusty leaves enjoy their new settings, and the smell of the woods dances tantalizingly past your eyes. Lying down in that long soft grass, the earth accepting your weight, gazing up at the tall pale trees. There's a song here from before we knew notation, and so we'll never be able to take down the notes. Elusive and welcoming. Beautiful.

Only fifteen feet from the surface, and it's a totally different world. The floor is carved by a different master, the ceiling is in constant motion. A valley so deep that darkness seems to bleed out of it, reaching to pull you in and hide you forever, whispering the secrets that will make you forget the sun. Startled life that darts away from your form into better hiding. Sound you can't remember when you break the surface again. Beautiful. Beautiful.

There's nothing I can do, no words I can say. This was a place where I'm not going to be serving, where I'm not going to be helping or making anything better. The only thing I can possibly do here is view, drink, perceive. I'll be something of a holding receptacle for this moment.

That's all I can do - sit, listen with my eyes. Why? I won't have the words to tell anyone else about it later. I can't capture the sound, the taste of the air and convert it. I'm not a painter or a sculptor, to be able to convey this. Even the act of taking a picture would seem to interrupt something, to turn the focus back on the little person down here.

I'm not sure I know why. Maybe it's something I need to see to be all right. Maybe it's just because to see this and walk away without taking it in would be completely wrong. Maybe I'll be able to come back here and bring someone else with me. Maybe it's something that will teach me to love better, somehow. I don't know. I just know that this is beautiful, and I need to take it in.

Or at least the Pigeon river.





...and with a blue color filter.  I like this one better personally.

I know we will grow old it is lovely, still
Make a plan to love me sometime soon.

I'm so excited because we have been making plans for a trip out to Utah. This should happen sometime around the end of September. We are going to jam-pack it with fun things to do and visit family. :D I just love all the visual history in Utah.

Any suggestions of places to visit? So far here is the non-definitive

As stated yesterday; here are the pictures for today.



Why is taking pictures of flowers so much fun? I don't know why... am I an addict?








*** PREEMPTIVE WARNING TO PEOPLE AFRAID OF INSECTS/BUGS. This next picture may send shivers down your spine and/or freak you out. ***



*** END OF WARNING. Thank you. ****






I seem to have plenty of pictures to share. Lucky for me now I wont run out of things to post. (for now) Hooray.

This is the Stones river outside of Hermitage, Tennessee about 10' past where it normally is on one rainy spring back in 2006.