Category Archives: writing

Sunset, moon, and whales

Indira Ganesan, Humpback fin, 2014

Indira Ganesan, Humpback fin, 2014

 It was a perfect outing.  The Center for Coastal a studies held a sunset/moonrise whale watch the other night.  I attended with friends, met other friends on board,  and had friendly conversation throughout, interspersed with gasps of amazement as whales waved, rolled, and breached before our eyes.

we could on this trip never see all of a whale, only parts.  First, a flipper, a back, then a blowhole, and a tummy.  One mother appeared to train her young calf on how to slap the water and roll effectively.  Later, as the moon rose, a magnificent, as if overcome by the beauty or energy of the tides, as if moon-caught, moon-cow, breached the water, again and again.  I didn’t.t see his tail emerge, only most of its thirty-five or thirty-six foot body, and then with a splash of sea spray, the tail flicked and disappeared back into the sea.

if I am in the little plane from the Cape to Boston, I try to spot the whales.  I imagine them as large shadows.  Only once did I see one, and now I can’t recall if I just saw the blowhole spray, or if a part of it emerged.  There is so much we cannot fully see, and we are so much like the story of the three blind men touching an elephant and deducing that it’s part was the whole.

When we left the boat, we walked in and out of stores, and walked through the summer crowds.  On occasion, we would stop what we were doing, and exclaim, ” we saw whales!” We did.  We saw whales, a magnificent sight. We saw whales.

Indira Ganesan, whale spotting,2014

Indira Ganesan, whale spotting,2014

Indira Ganesan, Up!, 2014

Indira Ganesan, Up!, 2014

Indira Ganesan, splash, 2014

Indira Ganesan, splash, 2014

Indira Ganesan, adieu, 2014

Indira Ganesan, adieu, 2014

Indira Ganesan, That Moon, 2014

Indira Ganesan, That Moon, 2014

World Cup; Quidditch

Wildflowers© Jinyoung Lee | Dreamstime Stock Photos

Wildflowers© Jinyoung Lee | Dreamstime Stock Photos

Let me be honest: I am not a contact sports fan.  American football makes me think of brain injury, and hockey makes me think of ice blades slashing faces.  To be even more honest, I do not really think of contact sports.  Ann Coulter’s recent statements, baffling as always, about how the good sportsmanship displayed by soccer teams upends the spirit of competitive sports made me especially happy to watch a few games this weekend.  Brazil vs Columbia and Netherlands vs Costa Rico.

I watched with family who were more interested than me, but the enthusiasm is infectious. It is hard not to root for the small soccer ball driven towards the goal. The first game brought the heartbreak of smashed ribs, and Brazil’s loss of a star player. The second was a firm stalemate until the penalty kicks.

That was how I meant to start the post this week, but my ideas fizzled out. That was all I watched of the World Cup, proportionately hardly worth many more paragraphs. I did though finish all of the second Robert Galbraith ( who the world knows as JK Rowling. Does everyone know that as RG she sold about 1500 copies of her book until her identity was revealed? Doesn’t quite seem fair, but then after reading most of a borrowed copy, I found myself downloading a copy to finish. The upshot was that it was a not really very good read, but strangely compelling.

World Cup, Quidditch; Quidditch, World Cup.

The clamor of morning birds

 

Indira Ganesan, dawn/sunset, 2014

Indira Ganesan, dawn/sunset, 2014

 

At three? At four? When do the summer time birds begin their strident songs, their call to territory, food, enemies? It is as if I am in a jungle full of toucans, parrots, and peacocks, but it is the call of owls, finches, cardinals, and jays outside. Just now, they have quieted, but it is a  trick, for they begin again, warbling as the sun rises, as my coffee gets cold.  The birds wake the cats who in turn wake me.  I tell the cats it is too early for food, but they ignore my logic. They want to eat birds, I suppose, and poke me.  It is hours before the Sunday Times’ arrival.  In the early light, I decide to identify the tall, strong grass that has been rising steadily on the balcony.  It is quack grass.  Of course it is.  A noisome sound, an irritant to sleep. In the end, they will win, with luck, the birds and the weeds, while insomnia will fell us. Best have another cup in the face of it.