I am the pigeon.
Well, that sounds a bit pretentious, dunnit? One bird, laying claim to being the epitome of an entire type? An individual claiming to be an archetype? Go on wit’ you.
And yet . . . “I am a pigeon” doesn’t quite seem to capture the affect. The serenely self-confident stance. The sublime disregard for any nearby plebes, avian and human alike.
No, we had it right at the outset. This is the pigeon.
A heavy dew overnight leaves thousands of droplets on the hot-tub cover. After years of science classes I can say that I know where that water comes from, although I’d be hard pressed to convert that vague intuition into a clear explanation. Much of what I think I know is like that: not wrong, but not detailed enough to be helpful.
A small pond hosts at least 40 turtles, counting only the ones out sunning themselves on the rocks and the concrete edging of a pond in the middle of an urban neighbourhood in the middle of a desert. After years of casual observation I can say that I know where those turtles *must* have come from–from someone seeding that artificial pond with baby turtles–but I’d be hard pressed to convert that assumption into a conviction (I’ve seen a lot of artificial ponds with turtles in them). Much of what I think I know is like that, too: not unreasonable, but not confirmed.
If pressed hard, I would say that I’m pretty sure that neither the droplets nor the turtles fell from the sky. So that’s something.
How cold was it?
This is how cold it was: I saw a face in a bootprint in the snow and I DID NOT STOP for it. I couldn’t face (sorry) taking off my thin glove one more time–and my phone camera responds only to my bare finger.
Back in Edmonton on a quick trip for a family event, I was managing my exposure to the Great White North pretty well, dashing between the car and the hotel, the car and the yarn store, and the car and various restaurants. With a low of -16C it was cold, for sure, but nowhere near as bad as the -36C of the previous week. The issue was my gear: my gloves, specifically. They were intended only as liners and wouldn’t have kept my hands warm even if I’d kept them on. Which I didn’t. The bridge was calling, as it has before, and before that, and before that.
I’ve learned something:
I can go home now.
That used to be the joke (OK, the joke-let) when I was still working. Maybe even when I was still employed. Certainly when I was spending most of my day at places I would have been happy to go home from early. Somehow it never worked out that I did go home early, even though I learned some things: sudden insights into technical disciplines that were terra incognita to me. Insights that have either vanished completely for never being needed again or that have been integrated seamlessly into my understanding of the world. All to explain why I don’t have a handful of nifty examples.
Think of it as paying for my salary.
The speaker? A teacher in Saskatoon, in December 1980 or January 1981.
The speakees? Recently relocated Albertans, chafing under the unaccustomed weight of a provincial sales tax.
The logic? The Government of Saskatchewan had presented the latest increase to said sales tax as a health-and-education surcharge. The subtext wasn’t subtle.
Be cheery when you pay this:
It’s for good stuff.
Isn’t there an app that will generate
palindromic dates for the coming year?
This, more or less, was one response to the 123123 post. App or not, I don’t know, but the Farmers Almanac website gives palindromic dates in the MM/DD/YY format. Scroll down to find the dates for 2024: April will be the big month for Americans (the only folks who consistently use this format, as far as I know).
With the right light
and a phone
you can do anything.
I travel less with my big camera these days, and not only because it’s heavy to carry and awkward to pack. The software/filters in phone cameras get better with every new model. Some casual photos from Calgary illustrate the point.
I waited for the amaryllis bloom to be in full sunshine, and the only detail my phone missed was the crystalline structure of what I think is called the trifid stigma–that 3-part white bit. (Here’s someone who caught it nicely by working a lot harder than I did.)
And then there were the skies . . .
Having that photographic range in something I have to carry around anyway is truly a miracle.
My nose wrinkles. It isn’t that I don’t like floral scents, but in a garden one flower’s scent gracefully dissipates on the breeze before the next flower’s arrives. By contrast, in this tiny unventilated space, vapors leaking from a thousand perfume bottles assault my sinuses all at once. If scents could sing–or even hum–this resulting medley would be not a symphony but a cacophony. This is what heavy-metal rock would smell like: loud, brash, obnoxious.
You can download it as a meme or as a GIF. You can buy it on a baby’s onesie or on a t-shirt (front and/or back). You can have it on a mug, a tumbler, or a shot glass. I expect it will be all over Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
“It” is simply the text for “December 31st, 2023” but the format makes all the difference, showing yet again that presentation matters.
123123
Go, Blue Jays!
