The Dragonfly Effect...

The beautiful dragonfly in this picture has oil on its delicate wings -- oil from the BP horror oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. Of all the creatures in nature, dragonflies are my favorite. I love to watch them on a summer evening as they dance through the air. They're exquisitely beautiful and very necessary in the chain of nature, eating mosquitoes, flies, and ants. There are 5,000 species throughout the world, and about 500 in North America. In Great Britain, there is a society dedicated to the conservation of dragonflies, as three species of dragonfly have already become extinct, and a third of the remainder are threatened with extinction.

Everyone by now has heard of the Butterfly Effect -- "the idea that a butterfly's wings might create tiny changes in the atmosphere that may ultimately alter the path of a tornado or delay, accelerate or even prevent the occurrence of a tornado in a certain location. The flapping wing represents a small change in the initial condition of the system, which causes a chain of events leading to large-scale alterations of events (domino effect). Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different. While the butterfly does not "cause" the tornado in the sense of providing the energy for the tornado, it does "cause" it in the sense that the flap of its wings is an essential part of the initial conditions resulting in a tornado, and without that flap that particular tornado would not have existed."

The Butterfly Effect is based on the chaos theory, described by Edward Lorenz. I first read about the Butterfly Effect in a book by Ray Bradbury called “The Sound of Thunder”. I thought the Butterfly Effect was far-fetched when I read the book -- strictly science fiction with no basis in reality or fact. But Edward Lorenz's theory of the order of chaos proves that the Butterfly Effect is very real. In Bradbury's book, a squashed butterfly in the past drastically changed the course of the future.

The oil spill in the Gulf is changing the course of the future, not only for the folks in the near vicinity, but for the entire world. Migratory birds from Canada will be affected. The delicate and exquisite balance of the ecosystems around the world that are all related to each other will be affected in ways that we cannot even begin to imagine, except from the realm of what we would perceive to be science fiction.

Why isn't more being done to clean up the mess? It's almost as if everyone has given up. They are overwhelmed. BP enlisted 400 men to look as if they were cleaning up the beach for President Obama's visit, “Early in the morning in advance of the president’s arrival, hundreds of workers clad in white jump suits and rubber gloves hit the beaches to dig oily debris from the sand and haul it off. Workers refused to say who hired them, telling a reporter only they were told to keep quiet or lose their jobs.” When the President left, so did the workers.

My friend Susan sent me a quote by Chief Seattle, the full text of which:

"Teach your children what we have taught ours, that the earth is our mother. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the sons of the earth. The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand in it. We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children."

... and the dragonflies.

Bill The Toaster Repairman ... In The Beige Lacoste Golf Shirt

My blogging activities have been briefly curtailed for a few days due to work load and other activities, so I thought I would share with you one of my previous stories. This is a true story.

Several years ago I had the opportunity to take some art classes with a well-known local artist. I had always admired her work, and I jumped at the chance to study with her. She was quite exclusive and we had to audition and show her some of our work before we were accepted. Her class consisted of 15 people and it was an interesting group, all with very different artistic styles and levels of talent. We were instructed at the beginning of the classes to introduce ourselves by first names only, and we were not to discuss anything about our private lives. The teacher wanted everyone in the class to be on a level playing field, as it were, and to bring to it only our interest in learning art.

I made a couple of friends in the class, one was a woman named Kathy and the other was an older gentleman named Bill. The three of us sat together at the same table each week and we critiqued each other's homework. Bill grew roses and he loved doing paintings of his roses.

Over the course of several weeks we got to know each other very well, but on a first name basis only. The three of us had a lot of fun at our little table, and occasionally our paintings -- especially our self portraits -- would cause gales of laughter. One day as we were walking home, Kathy said to me, "What do you think Bill does for a living?" I said, "Well, he wears the same beige Lacoste golf shirt every week, and he's very quiet and unassuming. I think he's a toaster repairman."

"Yup," Kathy agreed. Bill was definitely a toaster repairman, quietly sitting in the back of his shop every day, fixing toasters. It suited him perfectly.

At the end of the art sessions, the entire class had a party. The teacher brought a few bottles of wine and we had a pot-luck dinner and kicked back. It was very informal, and we were finally all given permission to state our last names and to describe a bit about ourselves. There were the usual suspects, a physiotherapist, a school teacher, a nurse, me ... a few other folks. Kathy and I winked at each other. We were finally going to find out if Bill was really a toaster repairman. We had a $5.00 bet on it.

When it came to Bill's turn to speak about himself, he quietly talked about his rose garden and his interest in painting, but he was hesitant to talk about what he did for a living. We felt bad that he was embarrassed to admit he was a toaster repairman, and so -- with much reluctance -- Bill told us what he did.

Bill, the unassuming toaster repairman in the beige Lacoste golf shirt, turned out to be The Honourable Mr. Justice William Joseph Trainer, a Justice of the Supreme Court of British Columbia. Our friend Bill had presided over the Supreme Court trial deciding the disposition of the “cash for bodies” in the Clifford Olson case, Canada's most notorious mass murderer and serial killer of children.

Never judge a man by his quiet manner or his beige Lacoste golf shirt.

Phinnaeus and Marigold

In my day-to-day posts here on my boring-little-blog, I don't write much about my family, and I never post pictures of them. All over the internet people post pictures of their children doing wonderfully cute things -- wrangling cattle and branding horses, or is it the other way around, I never know -- and doing all sorts of other amazing things kids do. So I thought today I would tell you about Phinnaeus and Marigold. No, those are not their real names -- obviously -- and this is not a picture of them.

Phinnaeus and Marigold are three years apart in age, and for the most part they are great friends. They have their moments of course, as all siblings do, but they seem to genuinely like each other -- in spite of Phinnaeus's 14 year-old boy cooties, and Marigold's tweeny obsession with Justin Bieber. Over the years as I have observed Phinnaeus and Marigold, the one thing that has always impressed me the most is what nice people they are. I believe everyone is born with a certain "centre" or "essence" and both Phinnaeus and Marigold have a lovely centre. I can see a lot of my father in Phinnaeus. He's an old soul, and very complex. He has a wonderful sense of humor, and he can be the world's biggest goof at times, but he doesn't tolerate fools glady. He's very bright, and he has his own ideas about how the world works. He's like his Mom in that everything he tries to do, he does well.

Marigold is blessed with great beauty. She has the fine, exquisite features of a future Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. She has straight dark hair and reminds me of my own mother. When I look at Marigold, I can imagine what my mother must have been like as a girl. She is extremely bright and very feisty -- also like my mother -- and she has a quiet, knife-edged wit that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. When Marigold was a toddler, she was always racing to catch up to her big brother. She couldn't say his name, so she called him "Buddy". "Buddy! Buddy!"

I love seeing Phinnaeus and Marigold together. I took a wonderful photograph of them on Sunday, but my family prefers that I not post pictures of them on the internet, so I can't share it with you. The picture captured their essence, and it's one that I will always treasure.

Phinnaeus and Marigold are very nice people, and I have a feeling they will be nice people for their whole lives. I think their Mom and Dad have every reason to be extremely proud of them.

My Quatrain Mirror ... Now In Place

Well, I promised to show you my mirror once it was in place, so here it is. Doesn't it look lovely? I can hardly wait until it reflects the afternoon sun. My tree house faces south, so I get the east sun and the southern sun, but by the afternoon it has gone behind the trees. With this mirror for reflection, I will capture some of that too.

And now it's off to work for me. Have a wonderful day, everyone.

The Art Of Human Interaction And Conversation

Ophelia Among the Flowers
Odilon Redon
1905

Yesterday I did a blog post for which I actually lost some sleep, and probably a few readers. I have pondered all day whether I feel bad or not, and in some ways I do, and in some ways I don't. That's about as specific as I can be. One of the things I inherited from my father -- along with my nose -- is the unfortunate habit of having opinions on things, and voicing them. People in my real life know that I can often get to the heart of a matter very quickly, I think mainly because both my parents were that way too. It made for some interesting conversations in our home, and both my brothers and I tend to still be the same way. My older brother, in particular, is able to hone in on the truth of any situation, with laser-like precision. It's uncanny, and like my father, my brother is always accurate.

Some people have the gift of diplomacy, and I admire those people. I wish I had it. It truly is a gift. I, however, do not have it. If I think something is ridiculous, I will say so. On the other hand, if I think something is brilliant, or someone is doing a wonderful job, you can be sure I am not saying it just to be polite. It's just not my style. On the odd and rare occasion when I have given false praise about something or someone, I feel slightly ill and uncomfortable. I would never be unkind, and there are many occasions in polite society when a "little white lie" is acceptable in order not to hurt someone's feelings.

"No, those ghastly high heel shoes don't make you look like a ridiculous stork on stilts..."

So I guess for those half-dozen or so folks who read my blog -- and thank you to those who do! -- you will not always find sugar and spice and everything nice when you visit here, and I hope you will forgive me for that. In fact, in my next life I plan to come back as Joy Behar. She "tells it like it is", and I admire her for that ability. I love controversy and debate, and I don't mind at all if you disagree with me, and I suspect most of you do, most of the time. It's all part of the fun of conversation. I would not, however, want to hurt anyone and I always feel bad if and when I do.

"Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” ~ Oscar Wilde

“It was impossible to get a conversation going; everybody was talking too much.” ~ Yogi Berra

May Day...! May Day,,,!

This weekend is a holiday weekend in Canada, originally in honor of Queen Victoria's birthday. I'm not sure what it is in celebration of now, as the ever politically correct Canadians keep changing things -- including our National Anthem. Most school children don't know all the words to the anthem because it keeps getting "tweaked" so as not to offend anyone. So, I'm not sure if we are still celebrating Queen Victoria's birthday, or if it's just an excuse for a long weekend. In most parts of Canada it is now called May Two-Four in honor of a case of 24 beers (a "two-four"), which gets consumed during the long weekend. To me, it's just called May Day weekend. My brain is definitely in three-day weekend mode, and I thought I would share with you some of the bits of flotsam and jetsam that have been meandering through my thoughts this weekend.

Is it just me, or has anyone else noticed that when you use a hand-dryer in a public washroom, your hands seem to be wetter when the dryer turns off, than when you started? How does that happen? If I subscribed to conspiracy theories, I would think it's a conspiracy. There's a camera somewhere in the corner of the washroom, and we're human guineau pigs. Somewhere, someone is laughing at the puzzled looks on our faces. We could stand there all day, and our hands just will not get dry.

Ree Drummond - Pioneer Woman or Stepford Wife? The jury is still out for me. I guess the woman has made a fortune writing about the "womanly arts", but she has a university degree and had planned to attend law school. Her most recent Facebook entries consist of: "Today I shall endeavor to: Take the nail polish off my toes, plant the rest of my vegetables, detangle my necklaces, detangle my hair, detangle my children's hair, find my brain, exercise, and forgive myself for going to bed tonight without exercising. Wish me luck! ... Today I shall endeavor to: Make my bed, kiss my children, finish unpacking, spell words correctly, find my missing boot, find my missing earring, find my missing brain, find my missing camisole, find my missing mascara, and breathe." And now Columbia Pictures is making a movie of this. The description is; “how a detour on a trip from L.A. to Chicago led her to Oklahoma. There, she met the cowboy of her dreams and transformed from spoiled city girl to domestic ranch wife.” This must be what happens after the happy ending in the Harlequin romance, when the heroine rides off into the sunset with the cowboy who rescues her. I'm sure she is a lovely woman, and this is not meant as a criticism of her, but I think there is a sociological study to be made of the way the pendulum has swung so far back in the other direction in the past decade or so. It's very interesting.

Caught on tape...! Poor Sarah Ferguson -- she's done it again. She was caught taking a bribe, offering access to Prince Andrew in exchange for money. She requested a payment of £500,000 and told a reporter for News of the World: "That opens up everything you would ever wish for and I can open any door you want and I will for you. Look after me and he'll look after you ... You'll get it back tenfold." I feel sorry for Fergie. I always liked her, and I preferred her to the melodramatic, histrionic, over-the-top Diana. Fergie is sort of a klutz, but rather loveable in her awkward way. Now, however, she just looks deceitful. This will be hard for her to live down. I guess celebrities are only as good as their last scandal. Right Tiger?

Well ... it's a slow weekend, and my brain is in vacation mode. Have a great weekend, everyone.

Synesthesia

Black Pouring Over Color
Jackson Pollock
1952

Much to my amazement, I discovered a few years ago that I have synesthesia. Oh, don't worry, it's not contagious. According to the University of Washington, synesthesia is described as a condition in which one sense (for example, hearing) is simultaneously perceived as if by one or more additional senses, such as sight. Another form of synesthesia joins objects such as letters, shapes, numbers or people's names with a sensory perception such as smell, color or flavor. The word synesthesia comes from two Greek words, syn (together) and aisthesis (perception). Therefore, synesthesia literally means "joined perception." In other words, I see numbers, letters of the alphabet, days of the week and months of the year as colors. For example, the letter "E" is royal blue, and the letter "Q" is a lovely powder blue. The number "7" is brown, and the number "8" is yellow. "Wednesday" is green, and "August" is a mellow orange. Each synesthete will experience a different color for different numbers and letters of the alphabet, but for some strange reason, most people with synesthesia will see the letter "A" as red. Yes, it is definitely red.

I also notice colors that don't "fit". For instance, my friend Russell once told me that he loved colored Christmas lights, but not the orange ones because they seemed out of place. I laughed, because I thought I was the only one who realized the orange lights don't fit. The blue, green, red, and yellow -- yes -- but not the orange ones. The orange Christmas lights have always seemed to not "fit" with the rest of the lights.

It is estimated that as many as 1 in 200 people have synesthesia, but the numbers may be higher, because many people have it and don't realize it. In addition, synesthetes tend to be:

● Left-handed: synesthetes are more likely to be left-handed than the general population.

● Neurologically normal: synesthetes are of normal (or possibly above average) intelligence, and standard neurological exams are normal.

● In the same family: synesthesia appears to be inherited in some fashion; it seems to be a dominant trait and it may be on the X-chromosome.

Some famous synesthetes are:

Leonard Bernstein
Duke Ellington
Franz Liszt
Tori Amos
Vladimir Nabokov
Billy Joel
Marilyn Monroe
David Hockney
Stevie Wonder
Douglas Coupland
Eddie Van Halen
Tilda Swinton
Paul Klee
Georgia O’Keeffe
Charles Baudelaire

How about you? What color is the number "3"? The letter "W"?

The Lost Art Of Writing...

Don't you just love getting little handwritten notes that arrive in the mail, in the writer's own handwriting? I sure do. Does anyone remember when it was de rigueur to send handwritten thank you notes? It was a lovely custom, and I'm so glad to see that some people still do it. Today I received a little thank you card from a certain well-mannered young lady, and the nicest thing about it was reading the message in her own handwriting.  It was wonderful.  Unfortunately, with emails, texting, instant messaging, Facebook, Twitter and all the other electronic messaging, the wonderful art of letter writing has all but disappeared.

"A person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill."  ~ Jane Austen

It has never been my habit to collect things -- I am the opposite of a hoarder -- but I have a dresser drawer full of handwritten notes that people have sent me, some of them from 30 years ago, including one from my father that is still rather special.  When I was a little girl, I had a pen pal in England, and I was always excited to receive a letter from my friend across the Atlantic Ocean.  I still remember her address.  I wonder what would happen if I were to send a letter there today.

"A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind alone without corporeal friend." ~Emily Dickinson

I always wanted to be one of those elegant women who had a beautiful writing desk, and monogrammed stationery, like Jacqueline Kennedy and her famous powder blue embossed letterhead.  I would sit at my writing desk and write -- with a fountain pen, of course -- lovely handwritten notes and invitations to soirées at my home.  And of course, people would write me back, with their RSVPs.

"Then there's the joy of getting your desk clean, and knowing that all your letters are answered, and you can see the wood on it again." ~Lady Bird Johnson

In her 1922 publication "Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics and at Home" Emily Post wrote a whole chapter on Notes and Shorter Letters. "In writing notes or letters, as in all other forms of social observance, the highest achievement is in giving the appearance of simplicity, naturalness and force."

"There must be millions of people all over the world who never get any love letters... I could be their leader." ~Charlie Brown

I'm going to keep my little note out where I can see it for a few days, and then I will put it with my collection of other special handwritten notes.  Have you written anyone a note today?

Pray For Rain...

Now that summer is officially here in Vancouver, it's also the start of the silly season, and everyone is pretending they're living in a beer commercial. Does art imitate life, or does life imitate art? I'm never too sure, especially with beer commercials. I live next door to a beer commerical. The women all run around in skimpy bikinis, and the men are all buff and drink beer, and they barbeque copious amounts of animal flesh over smoking grills, like ancient cave dwellers. *sigh* It's definitely a guy thing. The only problem is, their barbeque is right underneath my bedroom window. Last night I woke up at midnight with barbeque smoke pouring into my bedroom. *cough*

I love barbeque, but a little goes a long way, mainly because barbequed meat is a known carcinogen. According to the American Cancer Society, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs) form when fat from meat drips onto the charcoal. They then rise with the smoke and can get deposited on the food. Oh, yum... They can also form directly on the food as it is charred. The hotter the temperature and the longer the meat cooks, the more heterocyclic amines (HCAs)are formed.

Oh, doesn't that sound appetizing?

Apparently, in Canada, charcoal is now a restricted product under the Hazardous Products Act. According to the Canadian Department of Justice, charcoal briquettes in bags that are advertised, imported or sold in Canada must display a label warning of the potential hazards of the product.

Well, since beer and barbeque seems to be a summer ritual, this isn't going to go away any time soon. I just wish they'd move the #%*!%^#!& barbeque away from my bedroom window.

Pray for rain...

Welcome To Mr. Snail

Please welcome the newest addition to my tree house -- Mr. Snail. Isn't he a hoot? He's very curious and likes to check everything out. I think he's watching an ant inching its way across the deck. I share my tree house with raccoons, skunks, coyotes, crows, seagulls, Steller's jays, and all sorts of various birds and bees.

At least twice a day -- usually at 9:00 at night and 5:00 in the morning -- (*y-a-w-n*) -- the raccoons raid the crows' nests in the trees, setting up a cacophony of swearing and cursing from the crows. It usually lasts for about an hour or so, and last night I took a little video to share with you.



And now I had better get back outdoors and landscape my terrace before the broom takes root and starts to grow into a tree.