Category Archives: life

First day of fall

My child is blessed to be born near the fall equinox, and so I found myself lying in the basket swing of his new swingset (a birthday present) yesterday morning, enjoying the first cool whether of the year, while he happily chattered and repeatedly ascended and descended his slide when a peculiar thing happened. I imagined that he might slide these tiny wooden cars he has down the slide where they would fly off into the grass, perhaps be to be forgotten, their tiny chrome hubcaps becoming flecked with minute patches of rust over which a finger could pass and feel a slight texture.

I’m tempted to say that this idle image became peculiarly vivid in my mind as I swung back and forth looking at the sky, but that is not accurate. It is more accurate to say that the image became suffused with a sense significance quite larger than the things in it and, in any case, disjoint from them. As though I was staring at a key or a door the use of which would remove me radically from the context in which I was currently living and transport me elsewhere, like closing a particularly engrossing book and being surprised to return to an entirely distinct sequence of events: your own life.

“Want to play in the sandbox,” Felix said, and so I got up to open it for him and, very gradually, the sensation diminished.

Black Hole Information Paradox

A Cafe I visit routinely on my morning commute exploded yesterday. We also took pictures of a black hole for the first time. My son used his potty for the first time.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed by the crazy confluence of scales which intersected in my life yesterday. On our weekly date, Shelley asked me about the long term structure and fate of the universe. Hard not to think, absurd as it is, about my own child careening into the future. Is some distant descendant going to look out the window at an earth which can barely support life on account of the increase in solar radiation or suffer some other painful sense of final detachment from the universe?

The owner of the cafe died in the explosion. I talked to him on Monday when I stopped to get a tea on the way to work. Now that impression of a friendly old man framed by the accoutrements of a bustling cafe has taken on a hyper-reality, like the morning light streaming in from the windows as the sun came up over the buildings across the street really was the excitation of a mysterious quantum field. One characterized by nothing more or less than handful of symmetry relations which ascended picoseconds after the universe began and whose reign will still be absolute when the universe is nothing but black holes and the distant, cooling, cosmic horizon.


The baby was fussy all morning, and when he finally went to sleep, in the crook of his mother’s arm, after nursing we were scared to leave him alone in case the silence woke him up. I made carbonara downstairs, ate, and then went to lie beside him reading while Shelley took her portion.

As I re-positioned my leg, my knee popped loudly, startling the baby. He stretched his arms above his head and pawed at his face with the backs of his hands. These gestures were familiar to me from my own body. I had seen, too, him sneeze or yawn. I imagined for a moment, that I had given these things to him, but that transposition made a deeper truth clear.

My cat, who slept above us, on a table over the bed we had arranged on the floor, stretched and yawned. He sneezes. When we turn the lights on at night to change Felix’s diaper, he sprawls onto his stomach and covers his eyes with his paws, sulkily. These gestures, taught to us by no one, inherent in us, which you could have observed in my child minutes after he was born, belong to an unimaginably ancient process of which we are merely brief manifestations.

Human beings tie themselves into knots or grind themselves to featureless lumps, struggling to connect with something vast and ancient. We don’t stop to think that each time we yawn we are in contact with something profound and atavistic, something older than history, bigger than the merely human.

Accounting for Turtles

When we bought the land, the irrigation pond, formed at the lowest point of the property by an earthen dam now overgrown with pines, cherry trees, and hobbles of tangled honey suckle, had failed. After cutting our way through the tall grass between the pond and the road and wading out into the swamp mud which now marked out the area where water had been, we found it: a four inch, rusted out, galvanized steel pipe down which water fell in a cold, sonorous trickle, despite the heat. Pieces of the rusted pipe, too few and small to form the whole of the missing riser, which otherwise seemed to have almost completely disintegrated, littered the area.

A year later, after we had repaired the riser with a clean new piece of white PVC, an orange bucket and twenty pounds of concrete mixed with muddy water, a storm rolled in over the ridge to the north west and I dreamed that I saw, from the porch, a huge turtle making its slow way through the grassy shallow ditch from the road down to the pond.

In May, and for several months afterwards, turtles, seeking new habitats or mates or following their own silent intuitions, make their way across the rural roads around our home. You see them standing on the side of the road as cars rush past in the morning, as if contemplating making a run for it.

Or you see their bodies, mangled or crushed into chunks of muscle and shell, attracting flies in the afternoon heat which melts the tar between the pebbles of the asphalt. That summer I found a special sympathy developing for those animals. The natural defenses of such animals give them a relaxed, even clumsy, attitude which doesn’t prepare them for the dangers of living among humans. Whenever I saw a turtle furtively planning a trip across a road I would pull over and, using a camouflage work glove with black, spray on, latex grips that I kept in the car for the purpose, move it across the road. Usually, deep into the grass on the other side to discourage a return trip.

A few months after I dreamed of the enormous turtle I took a canoe out onto the water to inspect the new riser. As I got close I saw a pale yellow something sticking out from the top. It was a turtle which had gotten stuck, head first, down the pipe. It was dead, and while its feet and shell had been baked and desiccated by the sunlight, its head was down in the trickling darkness and covered in a film of almost airy mucous that made me think of the ectoplasmic expulsions of spiritualists.

After that day I attached a foot long, perforated, PVC section to the top of the riser so that other animals wouldn’t get sucked in.  I also started to keep a tally of the number of turtles I picked up and moved across the road and the number I saw killed or already dead.

This practice of counting turtles exposes you to suffering.

Once, unable to stop immediately to move a turtle, I watched the truck behind me pass it harmlessly only for its trailer to catch its edge and send it hurtling into the ditch alongside the road. Similar scenes often played out – you see the turtle crushed by the car behind you, or, after managing to find a place to turn around, you find only pieces. On one occasion, a turtle which was sitting at the side of the road, as through ready to cross, had already been hit. It seemed whole, but there were cracks along the seams of its shell. I carefully moved it under a tree. I wondered for some time whether turtles could survive such a thing or of it died of blood loss or dehydration, its essence sublimating off into the summer air.