The Water’s Edge

Living where I do, smack on the southeastern edge of the USA, sometimes the natural wonders of my front yard get overlooked and lost in the passing days and weeks. Most days here are sun-drenched, idyllic and colored by a wealth of seashore biology. Still, it’s easy to grow blasé and take it all for granted. But every now and then a wake up call opens my eyes afresh to the miracle of life along the ocean’s shore, and once more I stop to examine a small thing or two of beauty so special to my environment.

Walking the same stretch of white sand beach early every morning will over time blot out many of the details along that path. Oftentimes, eyes become set on the sand under your feet, and things outside that focus get fuzzy and indistinct. Surely not the best way to appreciate the blessing of water, sky and life that throbs all around you. It is after all, not a treadmill inside a walled room. And so I try to jerk myself out of those times when the ocean surroundings are lost to my inward focused reverie.

The sun was behind thick clouds when I began my walk this morning, and judging from the thin and watery light leaking from those clouds, you might have thought it earlier and the sun not yet over the horizon. But before I had covered half a mile, suddenly the sky did one of those Hollywood things with rays of sunlight bursting forth like the birth of a miracle. There must have been others like myself who were brought to a standstill, unable to ignore the play of light on clouds and ocean. The attached photo offers little more than a weak reflection of that splendid sight.

I was still thinking about that sunlight when my eye caught an odd shape just at the water’s edge. Dead fish, crabs, jellyfish and even the rare bird carcass are not unusual along this beach, but I was surprised by the sight of a baby hammerhead shark not long dead. This was a first for me, and I didn’t hesitate to examine the shark with a finger. The flesh was still soft and moist, which led me to think it was only recently dead. The body appeared to be undamaged and I wondered if it had been sick, or perhaps stranded when swimming too close to shore. Hammerhead sharks characteristically like warm shallow water—or so the book says.

You would think the sunlight and then the shark enough for one morning, but it wasn’t over yet. On the second half of my walk, I came upon five or six others stopped and looking intently at the sand about ten feet above the surf line. As I approached, I sort of expected to see something dead on the beach. Far from it. The attraction was a newly hatched sea turtle making his dash for the water. The nest was higher up the beach, and the tracks showed it was only one baby turtle from a nest of probably about 100 eggs. The predicted hatching window posted on the nest made it clear this one turtle was an early hatchling. Had the people not been gathered to watch, the turtle would have been savaged and eaten by a dozen or so gulls waiting at a short distance. But the turtle made it through his dangerous gauntlet and disappeared beneath the waves. Hopefully, he is now on his way to an offshore haven.

Not far from the end of my walk I came upon three snowy egrets looking for breakfast in the shallow water. These birds are not unusual in these parts, but you don’t often see three of them together. They appear to be solitary birds. I watched a child chase one of the birds for fifteen minutes, sure he was going to catch it. The egret seemed to laugh at the boy’s futile attempts, dodging away casually each time his inept stalker made a dash.

Sadie

We reached Sadie’s house in a downpour of rain. Great missiles of water striking at everything in a blinding torrent. Set back a ways on a green stretch of lawn empty of trees but clouded by sheets of rain, we could barely make out the house. Noise on the car roof was all but deafening, and for several minutes we sat frozen in the car, awed at the fury of something that looked like a monsoon plowing through the tropics. Windshield wipers were useless, adding more noise than visibility. Stranded behind rain frosted glass, there was a feeling of relief at being in a driveway and no longer on a blind street among moving cars. We sat in the car, waiting like temporary captives under the heavy drumming of Louisiana rain.

Sadie was our Aunt Sadie, living by herself in a big house, her husband passed on some years before and her ten children grown and scattered around the state. I was looking forward to spending some time with her, my memories of her full of laughter. According to Sadie, the youngest boy, Robert used to give her a hotfoot with Blue Diamond kitchen matches whenever she fell asleep on the sofa. Somewhere in the old stories was one about Sadie’s mother having a nervous breakdown and chewing the ends off her fingers, a gruesome tale from childhood never verified.

From outside the car, somewhere over by the house was a faraway shout broken up by the downpour of water.

“What the hell?”

Through the curtain of rain I could just see the figure of Sadie sloshing toward the car. She was partly obscured by a wind-whipped green and white golf umbrella, but as she got closer I could see a robust old woman, hair a fright, and wearing one of those old skirted bathing suits from the late 40s.

“Do you think she saw us drive up and then went and changed into her swimsuit?” Lillian wondered.

“That or she’s had it on all day. Either way I like it.”

Sadie got to the car with spare umbrellas, and we jumped out into ankle deep water, fought the umbrellas open and made a dash for the open garage. Sadie laughed all the way, shouting against the rain, “I shoulda come out in the boat!”

Inside the garage she took the sopping umbrellas, throwing them in a heap on the concrete floor. “Lordy, Lordy! Ya’ll ever seen such a rain? Come on inside, we can unload anything you got in the car later. Wilmore, what d’ya drink? I got just about anything. You want a highball?”

We sat around the kitchen table talking about the old neighborhood, family folk, who was where and what happened to this uncle or that cousin. Sadie going on about Aunt Flossie and her eyesight, and me off to the side taking the moment to sit and watch her talk.

Sadie had to be seventy-five and couldn’t fool anyone about that, but she was a hearty woman and still looked strong enough to hoe a row in her big backyard garden. She had all that white hair blown out in a firecracker style that made her look a little wild. Had a way of fluttering her fingers as she talked, gestures not particularly connected to the words you were hearing, but punctuation of a different kind. I decided the swimsuit must have been familiar clothing to her, because she was browned and tan all over from hours under the sun. I guessed it was a gardening outfit rather than rainy day wear. It had a vintage pattern of old steamships sailing around islands of bright tropical fruit and was beautiful.

“I s’ppose ya’ll hadn’t heard about Auntee’s boy. They got him wearing one of those police things around his ankle…drugs.”

Listening to Sadie talk, my thoughts went back to summers long ago at the house on Wabash. With supper done and the cool stretch of night ahead, out came the card table, and not ten minutes later two bridge partners walking up the porch steps swatting at June bugs. I never learned to play the game, but from what I gathered Sadie Gremillion and Bessie Odom were the two most sought after bridge partners. Bessie lived next door and was my friend Bootsie’s grandmother.

Even now bridge remains a mystery, but I learned to love the talk. How many nights, how many times the litany of bridge talk filled those after-supper hours. The four of them sitting around that rickety old stale green bridge table repeating what seemed to me like coded phrases.

“Bessie, you’ll never take a trick with that three of clubs.”

“Just hold on a minute and let me play my hand, Sadie. I had to slough that three of clubs.”

“And I thought I was the dummy. You gonna go down for sure, woman.”

“Ya’ll hush up. Let’s finish this rubber and have some coffee. I made lemon squares today ’cause I know Sadie loves ’em.” That was Mama, studying her cards, one hand held up in a familiar pose of balancing another inch long ash on her Philip Morris.

I could hear Sadie on the telephone in the other room talking to her son, Rodney. He was in the real estate business and Sadie was getting his take on the situation with our old house across town. A few minutes later she hung up the phone and came into the kitchen.

“Listen, I been talking to Rodney about this business. He said ya’ll oughta hold on awhile. Hold on and give him some time to see if anyone in the office is got any ideas about people looking to buy cheap over there. He said they’s people who buy cheap and then rebuild the house so they can sell it and make a little money. You might wanna give Rodney a little time to look around…can’t hurt, can it? You got three months ’fore the city’s gon’ get after you. Wilmore, you want something to eat?”

“You got any rhubarb or buttermilk pie?” I asked, looking over at Lillian.

“Sadie, don’t listen to him!”

“No, I ain’t got any that, but I got some apple pie. You want a slice?” She was already out of her chair and over at an old pie safe on the counter.

“No, Sadie. I’m starting to see double. I’m going to bed,” I said.

The sky was an early morning luminous gray when we pulled out of Sadie’s driveway not long after five o’clock, early start on a long drive back, sipping on Sadie’s send off of chicory-spiked Louisiane Coffee and heading east into a shimmer of sun creeping over the horizon.

“Lillian, how long you gonna stay behind this truck? Go over it. Go under it, but get around it somehow.”

It was an old line of our Daddy Clyde’s dredged up from a long-ago family vacation, when we drove those southern roads in a black 1948 Chevrolet.

Hobby Box 17

The eagerly awaited new issue of Stationery Hobby Box (Shumi no bungu bako), volume 17 arrived today from a friend in Tokyo. The cover story this time is (roughly translated) ‘Cool Pens and Notebooks We Want to Try Right Now,’ The fountain pen featured in the center of the cover is a new model from Montblanc, the Meisterstück Diamond, a treasure in two sizes for those willing to dig deep into their wallet.

Feature articles in this issue include one on notebooks, pens and ink for work, a beautiful page on the Pelikan 100 series, an Herbin story on the new 1670 ink, and including a fold-out color chart, a long article on the world of nibs, and several pages on Mina Ishiwatari, President of Hoppy Beverage Company. Ms Ishiwatari is featured because she owns a collection of 250 fountain pens, writes a daily blog in longhand with pen and ink, choosing the pen and ink that suits her mood each time. Have a look here. I chose two pages from the Ishiwatari article to scan, partially because one page shows two new limited edition Iroshizuku inks, edo-murasaki and shimbashi-iro. There is a third limited edition color called fukagawa-nezu. Samples of the murasaki and fukagawa above are from The Laurel Tree blog. To my eyes, the fukagawa-nezu is a must have.

The current issue is the first to include an advertisement related to Apple's iPad. A company named Mejin Takuya is now making an iPad leather slipcase that comes in fourteen colors. If I’m converting the yen to dollar rate correctly, this little luxury item sells for $425, only $74 less than the iPad.

The article on fountain pen nibs around the world is twelve pages of stunning detail. From a brief look, the writer and photographer don’t seem to have left out much.

Little surprise to find another article on the acclaimed “God of Fountain Pens” Nobuyoshi Nagahara, and the fadeless beauty of his Naginata nibs. This is a man who has been making nibs for Sailor over the past sixty-four years.

Also included in this quarter’s issue is information and photographs of ten different notebooks, diaries, planners and sketchbooks. This line up, though beautiful in design and layout, is a little disappointing in that none of the featured products come in a blank page alternative, except for the Drawing Block sketchbooks. Life is offering a new hardbound journal that looks good, but also has lined pages.

In an earlier post on Stationery Hobby Box, I bemoaned the fact that eighty percent of the stationery goods showcased in the magazine are too expensive for my budget, but the presentations alone are a pleasure to ogle and wish for. This magazine is exceptional in the quality of its writing, photography, layout and design, and to me worth its $17 price tag.

For those interested in further sample pages from Stationery Hobby Box, there are some earlier posts here:

June 5

March 21

December 23, ’09

Woody in Barcelona

Until yesterday, it must have been years that I hadn’t seen a Woody Allen movie, and probably would have been longer had I noticed his name on the DVD box I picked up at the library. Hard to remember now which one it was that finally turned me off Woody Allen movies. If I recall accurately, it was a string of ‘written by-directed by’ Woody Allen pictures made in the 1990s, full of his familiar Jewish angst and paranoia, and the overly nervous tics that define his type of New Yorker—It was these things that ultimately drove me away.

Without giving it much thought I checked out from the library a movie on DVD of something called Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Never occurred to me that it was a movie written and directed by Woody Allen and I was completely surprised when his name popped up on the opening credits. For a moment there I worried that I might not last through ninety minutes of Mr Allen’s mannerisms and directorial trademarks. Thank goodness he kept himself out of the acting this time. The only hint of his usual tricks in Vicky Cristina Barcelona is the occasional scene in which the actors talk over each other in quick improvisational-like dialogue. This time he wisely kept it to a minimum. Perhaps he realized with the actors he had that noisy, naturalistic chatter-acting was unnecessary. Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz, Scarlett Johansson, Rebecca Hall and Patricia Clarkson are each special and wonderful in this romantic comedy with complications.

My point is actually not to review the film, or tell the story, but more to applaud Mr Allen for his choice of music. After seeing the movie I went straight to Borders for a soundtrack CD. Since the entire picture is set in Barcelona, the obvious choice was a background of Spanish music. In the soundtrack liner notes Mr Allen writes, ‘I nosed around and picked up a few stray items here and there and by compiling the tunes of a few known players and composers with the tunes of relative unknowns, found myself with one of the most lovely scores in all of my films.’ I might agree with this last statement, and add that while his movies have often had components I didn’t care for, the music in any Woody Allen film I’ve ever seen has always been the strongpoint.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona is a delight, and definitely a memorable work among the long list of Woody Allen films. If nothing else, get your hands on the soundtrack. It’s one I predict you’ll want to play again and again.

Anoche cuando dormía

It often happens that when we least expect it, the day brings if not a revelation, then some incident, some words or thoughts that stick with us, provoking us to think on a deeper level—which then sends us back to replay or read again those words whose first contact scorched us with their heat.

Antonio Machado (1875-1939) was born in Seville and is acknowledged as Spain’s finest poet of the early twentieth century. I have a collection of Machado’s poems, and a second collection of different poets which includes one of his poems, one titled, “Last Night as I was Sleeping.” This is a poem which stung me with its power, not to mention the fine translation from the original Spanish by Robert Bly.

LAST NIGHT AS I WAS SLEEPING

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart.

And the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun because it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,

I dreamt—marvelous error!—

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.

The emotion is similar to a mystic’s ecstatic experience. Machado discovers three delights in his heart, which seem to expand his being with a joy that fills everything. Notice the phrases, ‘breaking out’ and ‘secret aqueduct’ and ‘water of new life.’ These are all familiar to mystical ecstasy. He discovers a liquid that warms the heart, filling him with a new sense of life. Water from this spring that fills his heart has a sweetness that is later reflected in the sweet honey of golden bees that transforms all failure into triumph. There is next a light and warmth that seeps into his body, a fiery sun. Easy to imagine that with these discoveries coursing through his heart, he imagines it is God finding space there. Look closely and you will see that it resonates with the first line of Matthew 5:14, ‘Ye are the light of the world…’

The second line of the poem includes a key phrase that can be troublesome in going from Spanish to English. The original line in Spanish reads, bendita ilusión, and is translated by Bly as ‘marvelous error.’ On first reading this can be confusing. Another translation by Alan S Trueblood treats the line as ‘blessed illusion.’ Bly’s 'marvelous error’ is I think, meant to exclaim something like, ‘Can this really be happening?’ which avoids the use of ‘illusion,’ a word carrying the aura of 'self-deception’ or ‘fantasy.’ My guess is, the Spanish ‘ilusión’ is not synonymous with the English ‘illusion.’ I like to think the meaning is in a clumsy fashion something like, ‘I dreamt—or could it be real!—’

“Last Night as I was Sleeping” was written in 1903. It is translated and recited by American poet, Robert Bly. The film below is by Four Seasons Productions.

The two collections of poetry mentioned above are here and here.

Tea Time

Looking at one of my bookmarked websites a couple of years back, I saw this inviting description of a particular time in the workday…

‘Here at the nib works around three thirty each afternoon, we set aside all the focus and diligence required to outfit or restore pens and nibs. The sound of the tea kettle announces a time to slow down, and once the tea has brewed, we settle into conversation, discussing everything from books to politics, movies, friendship. Tea Time is the opposite of coffee time, it is the time to take time, not to regret its passing. The Tea Time fountain pen is an ideal pen with which to slow down, to allow thoughts to steep. A steaming cup of tea, a piece of good paper, your favorite ink and who knows what good ideas will flow from your hand.’

It felt almost as though the writer of these lines had me in mind while composing an effective introduction and stirring interest in a new fountain pen. The pen being introduced was a collaborative effort by Bexley Pens and Classic Fountain Pens, Inc of Los Angeles, a limited edition model named the Tea Time Limited Edition 2008.

The idea behind the design harkened back to the look of the 1920s and 30s, namely simple, clean lines in a hefty size. Bexley and CFP together settled on an odd number of pens produced, fifty-one of them with gold trim, twenty-nine with silver trim. Both models have a barrel of terracotta red, with black tip and cap. Apart from the trim, the pens are the same.

Interaction with, and feedback from customers led CFP to ask Bexley to give the pen a thick gripping section, and the result is a large grip 11.9 mm in diameter. The pen weighs 21.8 grams and is 5.17 inches long closed, and 6.69 inches posted. You might have seen another Bexley, the Poseidon with these same measurements.

Each pen is engraved with ‘Classic Fountain Pens 2008 Tea Time 09/29’ (the 09/29 is the number on my own pen). CFP offered the full range of Bexley nibs with this design, including fine, medium, broad and stub.

On what is a less than positive note, I have never felt completely satisfied with either nib (broad) or converter, both of which John Mottishaw at CFP would likely be happy to adjust, I’m sure. The broad nib writes dry with one ink and wet with another. The feeling is that this nib is especially sensitive to ink and reacts differently depending on the ink. We expect this in some degree in some of our pens, but there’s too much of it in my Bexley Tea Time 2008.

The converter that came with my pen is defective. It doesn’t take a firm bite or grip on the injection valve above the nib, and this makes drawing ink up into the converter troublesome. I usually opt for filling the converter manually with a small syringe.

But the pen is a good-looking one, and feels comfortable in the hand. I do enjoy using it from time to time, and always enjoy looking at it on a table, or laying atop a book. If I had it to do over, I would choose a medium nib. Bexley and CFP have collaborated on subsequent limited edition designs since release of the now sold out Tea Time, each bearing strong resemblance to their initial 2008 release. You might want to take a look at the White Tea, the Green Tea and Mandarin Tea designs, all on view at the CFP website link above.

Finger Food

In a dark room, “human” body parts lay stacked on shelves and hang from meat hooks. First thought is that you’ve stumbled into the lair of a serial killer, but in fact, it’s a bakery. What looks very much like rotting body parts are actually the bread sculptures of 28 year-old Thai art student, Kittiwat Unarrom. The artist-baker studied fine arts, mastered painting, sculpture and other media, then went back to his family roots finding fame and a true passion for his artwork. He uses dough as his medium, and has made a name for himself with edible baked goods molded to look like bloody body parts, including heads, arms, feet and legs. Realistic is an understatement. Kittiwat’s creations are so lifelike they look like something that might have been nicked from a crime scene or a forensics lab. To achieve a horribly authentic aesthetic of dismembered human body parts covered in blood, and packaged like meats in a supermarket, Kittiwat spent time studying anatomy and visiting forensic museums while working at the same time in his bakery to improve the taste of his artwork.

In 2008, Kittiwat baked fresh heads for the audience to eat at his Body and the Dead exhibition. One visitor to the exhibition said the tiny heads smelled and tasted fantastic, though it was a slightly uncomfortable sensation if you looked into the eyes before biting into the head. “The first series I did was edible, but not delicious. I don’t want my art to be merely an object of art without audience involvement. I try hard to make the baked art more and more flavorful,” says Kittiwat. Along with edible human heads crafted from dough, chocolate, raisins and cashews, Kittiwat makes human arms, feet, as well as chicken and pig parts. In creating realistic art of human parts, Kittiwat uses anatomy books and his vivid memories of visiting a forensics museum.

“My family is in the bakery business and I learned to bake when I was about ten. I want to speak out about my religious beliefs and dough can say it all. Baking human parts can show the viewer how transient bread and life are. But really, bread is still bread no matter how it looks.”

“I don’t think art should exist only in galleries or museums. I want to see my art in other venues. Every day when I bake, ideas come to me on how to use dough to make art. My next pieces will not be related to the human body as I want to do something different.”

No doubt the YouTube clip below was a special showing arranged to film his work, but interested bread and art connoisseurs should not bother making the trip to Ratchaburi, north of Bangkok to buy a freshly baked severed head. The family bakery produces only ordinary bread.

Curious about this art-bread? If you happen to be in Bangkok for the next week or so, you can check out a retrospective of Kittiwat’s 2008 Body and the Dead exhibition at Bangkok’s Whitespace Gallery, scheduled to run through August 8.