Patrick Egan's Blog, page 6

I Ride A Camel Through The Dunes And Ponder The Shape Of Things

Midnight at the oasis

Sing your camel to bed…

~~ Maria Muldaur Midnight at the Oasis

I did it. We did it. We were shown our camels, and without any instruction at all, we road off into the dunes. Our destination was our Dune Camp. I volunteered to be first to mount the dromedary assigned to me. It knelt. I approached from it’s left side and I swung my right leg up and over, and settled onto the ‘saddle’ of thick wool pads. I felt fine. I was ready to go, as soon as Mariam was on hers. I was ready. And then the command to “get up” was given. He unfolded his legs and stood. I swayed forward and backwards like a bronco rider in a Yuma rodeo. It was shocking to suddenly be what seemed like fourteen feet in the air. I felt for my neck. No cracks or fractures. Soon Mariam was up and on hers. Hassan, the driver grabbed a blue rope and we were off.

[Here are two desert travelers. Photo is mine.]

About thirty minutes into the ninety minute trip, I began to assess how my body was handling this totally unique experience. The first problem area were my inner thighs. This is typically ground zero for my frequent legs cramps. I was pressing my legs against the sides of my animal. I relaxed. My thighs screamed in pain. Not a 10 but a 8.9 on the legs discomfort scale. It wasn’t lethal, yet, so I began to feel more as ease, letting my legs hand free. I was sweet. I was until I got an urgent memo from my prostate.

What on earth are you doing to me? It said.

Just take it easy, it’ll be over soon. I said.

I have a vague idea what the prostate is made of, but after an hour of riding, I’m sure it was the consistency of coarse gravel. We rode on.

I began to relax enough to look out at the giant dune to my right. Smaller ones filled the medium distance. What did they remind me of? What sublime forms were manifested in those piles of sand?

A whale. The undulation of Mount Greylock in western New England inspired Herman Melville. He saw a whale. Was it a swell in the ocean? A roiling cumulus cloud? A reclining nude? A heap of stream-rounded pebbles or large boulders, the sharp edges taken away by the action of water?

[The alluring forms of the dunes. Photo is mine.]

I looked at the breaking clouds. The setting sun on the sand, the hues changing moment by moment. But most of all, I listened to the wind.

On a distant dune, the size of a small mountain, I could hear the sand-surfers and dune buggy riders shouting to each other. How could they prefer to hear their own voices rather than the wind?

Exuberance I can understand, but disrespect for a sacred and legendary place, I don’t really get.

After a dinner of Tangine Chicken, I sat beside a small fire and listened to music from the sub-Saharan tribes. I could feel the drums in my bones.

I will sleep well tonight.

At The Edge Of The Dunes: Changes Within And Without

[A moment of rest and a photo op on the way to the Sahara. The river Ziz. Photo is mine.]

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Turn and face the strange

Ch-ch-changes

Don’t want to be a richer man…

~~ David Bowie

Said our guide and driver, Kamal…

We’re coming to a tunnel. When we come out on the other side, we are officially in the Desert.

We passed through the tunnel and emerged not fifteen seconds later to the very same landscape. The same, except a Palm tree to my right. Another to my left. Trees, Palm trees. There were no clear indications that we had entered another biome. There were no changes. But, wait. Something in me was ever so slightly altered. It was in my mind like all good and bad thoughts and ideas. I somehow felt I had arrived at a destination that I had been seeking much of my adult life. I found a part of it in Death Valley, California, where I knelt on the salty sand of Bad Water and ran my fingers through the dust. I found another part of it in Zzyzx, California. (Only The Golden State would have a place name like that. Look up my blog post about it.) Joshua Tree provided yet another bit to the Big Search I was engaged in.

So, what was I looking for?

The answer would be found someplace in my childhood. My first cowboy movie? An old National Geographic Magazine article about Persia? Reading the tales of The Arabian Nights when I was camping on a glacier? Maybe the glacier, the Juneau Icefield, vast, clean, empty save for the surrounding mountains. The poems of Robert Service…verses about the Great Alone? It was all there in my head. But all those places I’ve mentioned were practice. As important and awesome they were, it was rehearsal.

Our car pulled into the Hotel Xaluca in Erfoud, Morocco. It resembled adobe but was made of sand, salt and clay and I was grateful. Six hours, a painful back, a need to pee…I was grateful we had arrived. Today, September 21, we go into a camp among the dunes. Yes, the Dunes of the Sahara. Just typing it, whispering it, saying it aloud, it brings a tingle to my sore back. It fills me with anticipation. What is out there? What is there besides more grains of sand than any other place on earth?

There is a Moroccan folktale:

At first the earth was all green with plants of every kind. Pools. Springs. All the people treated each other with kindness and honesty. Respect for all. Love for all.

Then one day someone wanted something that belonged to a neighbor, so he took it. God saw this and called all the people together. One of you, he said, wronged another. Every time some one does this, I will drop a grain of sand.

That’s nothing, the people said. It’s only sand. A tiny grain of sand.

Soon, harmful acts were committed, people were hurt. And the grains added up.

Today, I will face the Sahara. I will be walking on the grains of sand…the penance for the uncountable ways one person hurts another. A blow to the head by a fist, a gun, a knife, a sword, a landmine, a poison, a bomb or a lie.

I will take a small glass vial of Saharan sand home with me. It will sit on n my bookcase and remind me of the beauty, solitude, and starkness of the desert. And I will think about not harming another living thing.

A Photo Gallery:

[We arrive at our hotel. Video is mine.]

[The walk to our room. Photo is mine.]

[Outside our room. Photo is mine.]

[Night = Weary and ready to dream away the dark hours. Photo is mine.]

Nothing Prepared Me For The Medina Of Fez

Leaving our hotel in Fez is an experience. We left our room and walked down a flight of stairs to a sitting room, a sofa with cushions. A baby grand piano is in the next room. Portraits of men in Fezs’ and women in veils. Soldiers with carbines and horses with elaborate saddles. In the third room, I pause. Every time since we’ve been here, I pause. A little anteroom to my left is where I want to spend the next seven years. If you know anything about me, you will understand. Look for yourself…

[I am Sherlock. My friend, Watson and I play chess and discuss the fate of mankind. Photo is mine.]

I enter the library and stand looking at the books, most in Arabic. To my right is a small room with a table and soft chairs. Here I take my meals. Further on I pass small fountains, the water dribbling from a spigot emerging from a facade of colorful tiles. In the next room I pause by a fountain in the floor, the pool brimming with rose petals. So this is where rosewater comes from…

[The sound of the water is hypnotic. Video is mine.]

Our main guide and driver was waiting. He introduced us to Mohamed, our local guide for Fez. We drove to our first stop. A tile factory. As in most places I’ve visited on this trip, I could have spent hours here. I will post photos and a description of how the decorative tiles (and a thousand other items) on a later blog where I will have more time to flesh it out. I am working on these posts late at night, after a day of heat, sweat and walking (and climbing countless stairs and more than a few ramps.

Here is a teaser:

[Try finding something like this at the Mall of America. And this is only one of a dozen showrooms. Photo credit: Mariam Voutsis.]

On to the Medina of Fez, more officially known as Fes el Bali. This is a very important place. It is the largest Medina in Morocco and is a UNESCO Heritage Site. It is very hard to describe what lies inside the gates of this sprawling market, holy site and homes for hundreds if not thousands of residents. A warren of kiosks, shops, factories, eateries and more.

[In reality, this map, though helpful to some, will not save even the locals from getting lost. I had absolutely no clue as to where I was, where we were going or how to exit. Photo is mine.]

The only thing missing was an Apple Store, but even one of those may be found somewhere around a corner or down an alley.

What follows is a photo gallery of a small sample of what I encountered this afternoon:

[Yes. A donkey. The other non-human creatures in the Medina are the cats. A lot of cats. Tiny kittens to scrawny Toms. Photo is mine.]

[So many alleys and lanes. Photo is mine.]

[The ubiquitous cat. Photo is mine.]

[In the corner of a room that housed an oven for baking bread, I found this stairway to somewhere. Photo is mine.]

So, that was my few hours in the Medina of Fez. I cannot show all the photos and videos or share all the impressions and thoughts; I’m still sore from the walking and trying to call after Mariam and our guide to please hold up for a minute while I get just another photo or buy just one more sweet almond treat.

All I could say was, Hey, hold up, please. I need this.

And I did. And they did.

If I Only Had A Brain: Between The Blue City And Fez We Find A Roman City

[Chefchaouen. The Blue City. It was blindingly bright when I took this photo. Consequently, the blue color of the city washed out. So I edited it a little on my iPhone to bring out the color. Even so, the photo does not do justice to the view I had with my eyes. Photo is mine.]

What a beautiful city. Just look at that blue.

~~ Patrick Egan (2024)

We’re in Fez and I just ate brains. They (it?) was an appetizer so it isn’t that important. The brains from what is not something I wish to discuss. I don’t like organ meat in general so this was a real stab in the dark. I’ll make it very simple: They were just about what I expected brains to taste like, even more so. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?

We left The Blue City just before noon. The walk down the hill, through the narrow alleys and around several corners was not nearly as bad as the walk up to our hotel the day before. This was mostly due to the fact that we had two porters carrying our luggage, not one. It made a world of difference. We aren’t traveling with too much stuff, but you buy a postcard here and a refrigerator magnet there, it adds up. Kamal, our guide and driver, headed south, away from the Mediterranean and toward the Sahara. The road was uneven and bumpy and my back is paying the price as I type this. I sat and stared out of the window, keeping my head under the AC. The view slowly changed into a more arid landscape. Vast orchards of Olive trees and crops that I couldn’t identify.

[The rolling fields. Crops, orchards and donkeys. Photo is mine.]

We made a few short stops for air, gas, water and a restroom. Our first and only stop was roughly halfway from The Blue City to Fez. We turned right and drove a few miles to a dusty parking lot. Small tour busses and cars were scattered about. I headed to the loo while our guide bought the tickets. We stood in the shade of a mimosa trees…and there it was. The Roman city of Volubilis. Settled 200 years B.C., it was an important outpost. Until it wasn’t. They only stayed 600 years, which isn’t a long time considering how far and powerful the hand of Roman extended.

[Volubilis. The Roman city. Built at a crossroads. Abandoned by the Romans around 300 A.D. Photo is mine.]

[A mosaic of a juggler riding a donkey backwards. Funny then and funny now. Photo is mine.]

[The Basilica in Volubilis. Later a governmental center. Photo is mine.]

I limped back to the car holding Mariam’s forearm for balance. I was hot and tired, needing a Tylenol more than I needed water. Actually, I needed both. So I had both. Another two hours would put us in Fez. Here we will rest for two nights. There is a big day tomorrow, Thursday, September 19. We will be visiting a tannery, the medina (one of the oldest and a UNESCO Heritage Site). I will be taking photos and videos. Maybe I might even figure out how my new GoPro Hero 11 works.

After the brains, I had Chicken Tagine. Mariam had Veal Shank with Eggplant.

Mariam loves eggplant. I’m undecided about the brains.

The Door To Africa: Tangier in Half a Day

[Mariam at the view point of the place where the Atlantic meets the Mediterranean. Tangier, Morocco. Photo is mine.]

It you see her, say hello

She might be in Tangier

She left here last early spring

Is livin’ there, I hear

~~ Bob Dylan

We’re at dinner in our hotel, The Royal Tulip. No other people, no couples, no families. Maybe the restaurant on the second floor draws diners away…it certainly isn’t the food which we find very good. Very possibly the cause could be the background music. It’s quiet. Low. And it consists of the shortest audio loop I have ever heard. Best guess is 8.7 seconds. Then the insipid melody begins again. I hope they keep the knives away from me, because I’m likely to cut my wrists to put an end to listening to it. Don’t misunderstand. The hotel is excellent. Clean and modern. It’s just the person who chose the tape that I have an issue with. Rest of it? 4 stars from me.

So we eat in silence, sort of. Now I have the chance to think about what I’ve seen in the last few hours on a tour of this city.

The flight from Paris was pleasingly brief, less than three hours. That’s a big plus for me because the Jet Blue flight from JFK to Paris was downright dreadful. I love Blue, but my legs and body clearly did not.

We deplaned onto the tarmac. The air was warm and thick with moisture. Sort of like Florida in August. We met Kamal and our immersion began. We drove around to various viewpoints to look at Europe, eight miles away. But, for me anyway, the real adventure began when we entered the Casbah and headed for the Medina.

I found myself in another world. Tiny shops. Old men sewing. Stitching. Women in Burqas sitting silently in the shadows, selling figs. The children flying by on scooters. Tourists looking dazed and couples looking very much in love. We pass through their world, it’s quiet chaos. An energy that does not sound like a middle school at recess. But it seems like it should be noisier. I don’t know which way to turn. What to look at? Where can I sit and rest?

Most people, a mix of residents and tourists, walk and look. But not me. I want to taste the little finger of a brown candy, smell the incense, eat a date, feel the pile of soap that sits in a tub like uber-thick honey, but darker, browner. I put my finger into a heap of green henna. I lean over to smell the Verbana, the yellow spices, the red ones and the black ones.

I’m suffering from sensory overload. My back hurts and it’s getting darker in the narrow passageways.

There will be more souks in the days to come. At the end of the trip, the medina in Marrakesh is legendary. I can’t wait.

We exit onto a busy street, pedestrians fighting cars and motor scooters. I recall a dream I had about thirty years ago. I had done this before. In my dream. Almost the exact scene plays out once again as it did before. It’s very curious.

Down the steps to the courtyard of the Hotel Continental. I look out over the harbor.

The Full Moon is high in the sky.

Tomorrow we drive south.

[I capture Mariam unawares as I snap photos. Photo is mine.]

[A shop of fine wood designs. Photo is mine.]

[An Angel’s Trumpet tree. Photo is mine.]

[The Full Moon over the harbor of Tangier. Photo is mine.]

[An extra bonus. At one of the stops on our tour, we found a small park where some men were playing music and dancing. Video is mine.]

Paris Inhabits Me, But Must Free Me To Wander The Dunes

[A Gargoyle contemplates Paris from Notre Dame Cathedral. Charles Laughton, in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, 1939, says to the figure: “Why am I not made of stone like this statue?” Source: Google Search]

“Paris…is loath to surrender itself to people who are in a hurry; it belongs to the dreamers…”

~~Julian Green

“We’ll always have Paris.”

~~Rick Blaine (Spoken by Humphrey Bogart)

Mariam and I were sitting at a cafe on the Rue de Rennes when it began to rain, pouring really. Then the drops turned into hail. The BB sized ice hit the Vespas, the bicycles, the tops of umbrellas. And they fell into the wine in the glasses of the unprepared customers who were too slow to shift to an inner table. We were safe. Dry. Happy.

I began to think of other visits here. My first time was forty-nine years ago. I was so young and so full of exuberance, it was almost like that trip was made by someone else, a stranger. It was really me, though. But in a sense, it wasn’t. I am not that young man. I am someone totally different. Different ideas, needs, interests and beliefs. A young man walked with a spring in his step along the Champ-Elysees. An old man with a leg prone to cramps walks the nave of the Pantheon.

It’s me and it isn’t me.

But Paris, different in the new storefronts and restaurants, never seems to change its true nature. The low buildings, the wide boulevards, the cathedrals and the museums remain as I saw them a half century ago.

We leave our hotel on Rue de l’Abbe Gregoire and begin the walk to the Latin Quarter. Perhaps even ending up at Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, located just across the Seine from Notre Dame.

But, I have a few stops along the way.

In my favorite park, Jardin du Luxembourg, one can rent a small wooden sail boat for € 6 for a half an hour. I was tempted. But I had another place I needed to visit. We walked around the pool and climbed a few steps. My quiet place, brimming with classical beauty. The Medici Fountain.

The Medici Fountain. Built around 1630, it was sculptured by Auguste Ottin and commissioned by Marie de Medici, the widow of King Henry IV of France. Video is mine.

[Within steps of the sailboats, the flowers line the lawns and fill the large urns. Photo is mine.]

Exiting the jardin at one of the eastern gates, we are confronted by the classical lines of the Pantheon. The history of the building reads like a novel. In 507, King Clovis founded a basilica which was to be the final resting place of his wife, Clotilde. Later, in 512, Genevieve, who fought against the invading barbarians, was buried on this site. Saint Genevieve just happens to be the patron saint of Paris, no insignificant woman was she. Large murals of Clovis and Genevieve adorn the interior. The Pantheon went through numerous permutations during the following centuries. In the end, it is a museum, a monument and a resting place for illustrious French. In the crypts below, down the spiral staircase, one finds the tombs of Voltaire, Emile Zola, Alexander Dumas, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Marie and Pierre Curie and Josephine Baker, an American dancer and performer (who danced naked on the Paris stage) among others.

[The tomb of Josephine Baker. Her story is worth a read. Shunned by many in America, she became a legend in Paris. Photo is mine.]

Back up the winding stairs, where the transept meets the nave, is Foucault’s Pendulum. A ball is suspended from a very long cable and swings slowly, as pendulums do. This simple device proves and displays the fact that the earth rotates. Nothing new to us, but in 1851, it was quite revolutionary.

It’s hypnotic. Staring at the swinging ball, I very nearly fell into a regression of my childhood years. Oh well.

A day passed while we rested, giving me an opportunity to make a deal with the Demon of Old Men’s Afflictions. We skipped any talk about blue pills and went straight to a dialogue about my L4 & L5 fusion. Enough, I said. Give me relief and I will return the favor, Okay, he said. You have to not go too deep into Pilates. It’s a strange world in there. I said I had no problem with that. I felt better. I needed to because I had a destination that was waiting for me.

Mariam and I spent 37 euros for two all-day passes on the Metro. I knew the route. I knew where I was going. I had serious business in what could arguably be one of the most famous cemeteries in the world. Say it with me: Pere Lachaise.

[Click below…]

[Click below…]

Now we are at the end. The time in Paris is drawing to a close. Seventy-two hours will find Mariam and me in a new continent, a new city and facing new experiences. Very new indeed. Instead of gardens, grass and cathedrals there will be sand dunes, orange trees and Mosques. The weather will not be cool and rainy (no hail storms) but dry and warm in the day. And, at night, the Moroccan sky will fill with stars the numbers of which will be unlike anything you can see from the banks of the Hudson River.

We’ll need company on the next segment of our journey. Interested? I will be meeting you at the Marrakesh souk, behind the lemon tree, near the snake charmer and close to the vats of spices. I’ll be wearing my red fez. I will be tanned from the Saharan sun. I will have a smile on my face and I will have a story or three to tell.

See you below the 75th parallel.

Flairgate

[Source: Google Search]

The pen is mightier than the sword, and considerably easier to write with.

~~Anon

I found myself propped up in bed this very morning, earlier than usual due to my extreme level of anxiety in anticipation of our upcoming trip to Europe and points beyond. After a quarter of a glass of Cold Brew, and while rubbing the remnants of a visit by the Sandman from my eyes, I reached for my iPhone to get a dose of dreadful news…an everyday event during these troubling days. I glanced at a few news items and read a movie review. While scrolling toward the Sunday crossword, I stumbled across a Wirecutter article. In case your are not a dutiful reader of The Old Gray Lady, this feature is their product testing and recommendation piece. The headline caught my eye.
We Sent Ralph Nader Some of Our Favorite Pens. He Dismissed Them All.

The article was much longer than most product investigations I’ve read. The essence is as follows:

Ralph Nader sent a box of Paper Mate Flair Felt Tip Pens to the Times office asking for help. He claimed that his pen of choice, the Flair, was drying out too quickly. His query set in motion an extensive dive down a rabbit hole of product development and scrutiny that, frankly, read like a John Le Carre novel. I was fascinated, not because I was too worried about Mr. Nader’s plight, but something flickered in my memory bank. But, first, Nader’s question…

The staff of Wirecutter began an investigation into the Flair that could fairly be compared to something from CSI. There were several theories put forth about why his pens were drying out. So, the pens were examined by CT Scans, ink analysis, climate and weather information of Washington, DC (where Mr. Nader lives and works), and eBay purchases of mint condition old Flairs. The questions led them to interview product engineers, ink chemists and even a German contact who was the only person to comment for the record.

Here is a brief look at some very revealing images of the pens (the parent company of Paper Mate claims that there is really no difference in the design or manufacturing of the pens).

Stay with me.

[Fig. 1. Was the point protector switch the reason for the premature drying of the pens? Source: NY Times.]

[Fig. 2. A scanned image of Flair pens from 1966 to last year. Was it the plastic? Source: NY Times.]

[Fig. 3. A very revealing sample of the way that the pens write, even after all these years. Source: NY Times.]

What’s the reason for Mr. Nader’s problem? In short, it’s a combination of quite a few variables. I would suggest that you read the article. You won’t be sorry.

So, what’s all this have to do with me? In turns out, a lot. It’s a story of a last camping trip for a beloved brother, a tent, a young boy with a great deal of imagination and energy, a father’s guilt and final forgiveness.

The year was 1994. My older brother, Chris, had been diagnosed with cancer. The prognosis was not good. So, Mariam, myself, my son Brian, Chris’ son, Michael and daughter, Elizabeth and my other brother, Dan went on a canoe camping trip to Long Pond in the Adirondacks. It was a favorite place of Chris. We had a large site. It was needed. It had to accommodate at least four tents. And this is where the Flair connection enters.

I was a faithful user of this felt tip pen for many of my earlier years in teaching. Bold writing. Bold marks…B+ C- A+, etc. It was my go to pen and I had packed a dozen of them for the trip (I was trying to keep a diary). Brian came to me and asked if I could find something for him to use as a sword. He was into Light Sabers at the time. He wanted to use a stick. I had the eternal paternal image/fear of him poking his eye out with said stick, so I said no, I had something better.

I handed him a Flair or two. Soon he disappeared into our 4-person tent. Room to stand for a seven-year-old. While the rest of us sat around the campfire one afternoon, I heard the swish sound he was making as he fought Darth Vader.

When I checked on him in the tent he seemed tired from all the swishing. I turned to unzip the door when I noticed something on the inside nylon wall of the tent. There were ink splatters.

It was then that I made the dreadful mistake of doubting the veracity of my son. And I still have nightmares about it to this day.

“Where did these marks come from, Brian?”

“I don’t know.”

“But they weren’t here before. Only after you were playing.”

“I didn’t make them.”

“You had to have made them. You were the only one in here.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Be honest with me, Brian. Did you do this?”

“No.”

To my everlasting shame, I didn’t believe him.

“What were you using to play with?”

“This.” He showed me a black Flair.

I thought, how could this be? It’s a felt tip. If it were a fountain pen, that’s another story.

Years passed. When he was a teenager, I brought up the story. We laughed. But I continued to feel the grinding painful guilt of not trusting my son. I found an old Flair I had tucked away somewhere and somehow I discovered that one could indeed swing (or swish) the pen and the ink would fly out!

He was right.

I have apologized multiple times to him and he says that I should forget all about it. It was nothing, he says.

But, my heart has an ever so tiny crack in it…put there by the sadness a father feels when he has disappointed his son. I’ve been in that corner of Purgatory where fathers dwell when they felt they knew better. That tiny crack, imperceptible but present, cannot be covered.

Even by a black, eternally black ink of any pen, even the legendary Paper Mate Flair Pen.

A Final Word: A few weeks ago, Brian and his wife, Kristin, went camping with the old tent. He said the ink stains were still there.

After thirty years!

{Note: Please follow me on Facebook, My Website: http://www.patrickjegan.com and YouTube. A big trip looms and I’m armed with a Go Pro and I will soon know how to use it.}

My Misstep

To my readers: My most recent post about Plankton was totally awesome. The problem is that it went out into the world by mistake. It wasn’t proofread and it contains a few spelling errors. If you know me, none of this is surprising.

That’s what I get for pushing the “PUBLISH” key before I was ready. Please don’t leave me. Think of the kids.

So now I have a problem on my hands. My old template on WordPress is gone and can’t be used again because it is no longer supported by WordPress. I’m writing this on a blank page…no color, no nothin’. I hope it goes out and you are now reading this. But the way things are going these days, one never knows.

Mariam and I are leaving on September 9th for a trip to Europe. I wanted to expand my blog page, try new things and add more layered content.

So, as I see it, one of two things will occur in the coming weeks:

-I find a new and better template to wow you, or…

-I publish new blogs in this style, which I find rather dull and unworthy of my breathtaking, fabulous, phenomenal and astonishing content.

I’m about to sail off into uncharteded waters, swimming against the tides, weathering the storms, tempting the fire of St. Elmo, and pleading with Poseidon to find me a safe secure harbor.

On the other hand, ships are safe in the harbor…but that’s not what ships are for. (Carsie Blanton).

Wish me luck and click the like button.

Pat

If You Can’t Be With the Plankton You Love, Then Love the Plankton You’re With.

[Plankton. Credit: Dr. D. P. Wilson.]

We cannot say I am not going to give a damn about phytoplankton. All these tiny mechanisms provide the preconditions of our planetary life. To say we do not care is to say in the most literal sense that “We Choose Death.”

~~Anon

In my long and storied career as a science teacher, I taught almost all the common topics found in the usual curriculums. The exceptions, of course, are the so-called hard sciences such as Physics and Chemistry (and AP Biology). That is because I never understood the fundamentals of these topics. Of course I know the Physics equation F=Ma. I mean, who doesn’t know that? That’s about all you need to know to get by teaching it for a semester. Same thing with Chemistry. If you know the basics of the Periodic Table, you’re good to make it until Thanksgiving vacation, at the very least. Then you have time to brush up on Titration and Molarity. AP Biology? The Krebs Cycle is good until Christmas. After that you’re on your own. Time to fire up ChatGBT to cough up a few dozen lesson plans.

But, I digress.

To parents: If you haven’t talked to your children about phytoplankton by the time they reach puberty, get with it.

To children: If you haven’t asked mom (or mom’s new boyfriend) about zooplankton, then man up and go for it.

So, let me help everyone out. The basics are quite simple. Plankton are tiny living things that drift around in the ocean. If they contain chlorofyll, they are Phytopankton. If they don’t, they are animal plankton–Zooplankton. There is third type, called Bacterioplankton. They live in the ocean as stated. I would add illustrations of each type, but in reality, they pretty much look like the photo shown above. Phytoplankton, however, would be greenish. They don’t need to feed on other types, they make their own food (photosynthesis).

[The various shapes of Plankton. Source: istockphoto.com]

There are other ways to classify plankton. One list: Marine, Freshwater, Aero and Geoplankton. These are a bit beyond the scope of this narrative. I suggest you Google these topics and read.

But, on a more serious and vital note, it is not hyperbole to state that plankton is the foundation of all life on earth. The entire food chain is dependent on these microorganisms. I’m a visual learner, so I would struggle to get through what I’m about to describe. Bear with me.

Phytoplankton are eaten by zooplankton. These, in turn, are eaten by Krill and Penguins. Following the Krill, they are consumed by Squid, Whales and Seagulls. This chain works its way into seafood that humans eat. And the amount of seafood that we are dining on is increasing at an alarming rate.

Time to leave the heavy science behind and appreciate the most odd and interesting facts about our little friends.

Some fun facts:

~The cell walls of plankton is made of silica. That’s glass.

~500,000,000 years ago, a bloom of plankton altered the earth’s atmosphere, making it oxygen-rich.

~The size of zooplankton can vary from microscopic to a giant jellyfish.

~The word plankton is from the Greek word meaning wanderer.

Plankton can also be awesome in its beauty. Here are two images of Bioluminescent plankton:

[From the Maldives. Source: istockphoto.com.]

[Again, the Maldives. Same source as above.]

I can only imagine what it must be like, standing on the beach shown above…at midnight…watching the stars and the luminous plankton dance, beneath the diamond sky with one hand twirling free…

And, finally, the famous White Cliffs of Dover, are made of uncountable bodies of plankton that had died and fell to the seafloor, and impossibly lifted with the earth’s crust to form this legendary landmark.

[The White Cliffs. Photo is mine.]

So, go swim in the sea. Surf. Sail. Snorkel, Scuba, whatever. But, know your place in the vast scheme of things and appreciate the nearly infinite number of tiny drifting lifeforms that make your existence possible.

{Note: Most of the information in this post was taken from an article in the Weekend Edition of the Adirondack Daily Enterprise. Sat. August 31, 2024. The other bits were things I remembered from my storied days as a science teacher. }

Pareidolia Is Running Rampant!

[The Thinker. A tree somewhere. Source: Google Search.]

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

~~Edgar Allan Poe

{Note: This post is meant to highlight an interesting aspect of how some people perceive the world around them. In no way is it intended to disparage or ridicule anyone’s beliefs.}

I often dive into the corners of the internet when I get bored, or lazy, or just plain curious. I stumbled across a term, probably in some list of obscure and rarely-used words, that made me sit up and pay attention. The word Pareidolia is loosely defined as the perception of a recognizable image where none exists or is intended. In other words, some people see images that are meaningful to them…and only them. Think of how things were when we were young. The natural world provided imagery and visual icons that kept us on our backs in the grass of a backyard looking up. Yes, I’m referring to the hours staring at Cumulus and Cumulonimbus clouds that were more than just visible water vapor drifting across the azure sky. I used to see castles, dragons, horses, cats and people in the puffy clouds. Our imaginations knew no boundaries as we made worlds in the air above us.

Sometime in the early 1990s I asked a fellow teacher for a book recommendation. He said that he enjoyed Carl Hiaasen. Hiaasen is a columnist for a major Miami newspaper. He also wrote bestselling novels about the vagaries of Florida politics and business interests. The books were very funny (I recommend that you read one or two) and they sadly described the increasing destruction of the Florida habitats, swamps and wildlife in favor of big business. I lived in the state for a short time and can attest to the slow demise of the once beautiful natural places as condo construction was outpacing conservation. But that’s another story for another blog.

In one novel, Hiaasen describes how a guy looked at an oil stain in his driveway. He was convinced that the image of the Virgin Mary was obvious to all. And he became quite rich by charging people (pilgrims?) $15.00 to visit his house and see the miracle. I thought it was a very funny episode in the novel’s narrative. Then, recently, I came upon the aforementioned word and after doing a little searching, I found several images that were perfect examples of seeing something in everyday objects. I am going to share a few of these images. Some of them are interesting in their own right. Some are a bit of a stretch by any definition.

So, sit back and look these over. What do you see?

[I believe this is a Kit Kat bar. Some people see the face of Christ in the bitten off end. Source: Google Search.]

[This photo is of a building. Many claim that the reflection in the glass (I assume it’s glass) is that of Christ. Source: Google Search.]

[Still another image of the face of Christ. This time on a banana. Source: Google Search.]

[Probably the biggest stretch is seeing Christ’s face on a grilled cheese sandwich. Source: Google Search.]

These images were easy to find on the internet. The theme, of course, is religion. The next set of photos are taken from nature. This includes the Thinker Tree at the top of the post. Here are a few more:

[A smiley face on Mars? (it may be the moon, I lost track of the location). Source: Google Search.]

At this point, I should interject that as a long time science teacher, I do not find any significance in finding faces, etc., in natural formations. It’s geology. Here are two of the most famous examples of pareidolia that I could find. I’m sure you will recognize one or two.

[The Old Man in the Mountain. Located in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, this famous landmark collapsed on May 3, 2003. It’s a rock formation and nothing more. Source: Google Search.]

I’ve saved the best for last. This NASA photograph of a crater on Mars has been the stuff that has driven conspiracy theorists to new heights:

[The famous Face on Mars. No matter how many times NASA scientists have debunked the theories, it still trends on the Internet as an example of ET activity on the Red Planet. Don’t be fooled. When the same feature is photographed from a different angle or at another time of day, the face vanishes. Source: NASA.]

There you have it. My small collection of interesting photos. I know where I stand with all this. What about you, dear reader? What do you see? Can you trust your eyes? Do you have a vivid imagination?

I invite comments.

“Seen a horse? Of course I’ve seen a horse!”

[From The New Yorker. Aug. 12, 2024.]