Marbled orbweaver

The clouds came in just as the earth’s shadow began its slow crawl across the moon. It was, I think, what they call a mackerel sky: high cumulo-nimbus clouds arranged like the scales on the belly of a fish. Every few minutes the moon would reappear in a crack between the clouds, and each time more of it would be gone.

More and more of the sky became occluded by clouds. By 10:20, when the eclipse reached totality, very few cracks still showed. Rather than abandon hope, though, I left my front porch, where I had been watching the show through the newly bare leaves of an elm, and went up in the field for an unobstructed view. The air was cold, but the ground retained some of the heat of the day; the longer I lay in the grass, the warmer it seemed. I watched as the cracks between the clouds grew larger and larger. Mackerel skies move with excruciating slowness. Above and to the west, the bands of stars grew larger.

At last, around eleven o’clock, the clouds thinned out enough to allow an unobstructed view of the eclipsed moon. Blood moon, some call it, and indeed, one does get the impression that one is seeing somehow inside it, as if with the x-ray vision of an ultrasound machine. What might this view of celestial entrails tell us? I thought of all the people around the hemisphere who must have been watching along with me, the myriad interpretations they would bring to this sight. How many otherwise ordinary life events would gain in significance merely by their conjunction with such an event?

For Red Sox fans, the symbolism of a baseball-white moon approximating their team colors on the very night they stormed to an historic World Series victory couldn’t be clearer. For them, the supposed maleficent aspect of the blood moon would seem like a blessing, for it always takes something like a curse to counter a curse. More political minded folks might prefer not to dwell on portents, and just enjoy the show. Who needs another baleful Mars!

Thinking about team colors, though, reminded me of the trite and obnoxious bumper sticker one often sees around Pennsylvania: “If God isn’t a Penn State fan, why is the sky blue and white?” It’s doubly obnoxious, I thought, because look at what Penn State has done to the dark night skies of my childhood! Due in part to the university’s strong, consistent support for I-99 – a highway designed to funnel traffic more quickly to Penn State football games – the sky to the northwest and southeast is ablaze with reflected light from several nearby freeway exits. The northeast portion of the sky harbors a dome of yellow light from the limestone quarry two miles away. This quarry now runs day and night to supply rock for the final sections of I-99, under construction north of here in a series of monstrous gashes along the crest of this same, poor ridge. Now these gashes have begun to bleed acid discharge into two watersheds, poisoning wells and killing wild trout. And last night, as on most other nights, the incessant beeping of quarry trucks marred what would otherwise be an otherworldly stillness. Fuck you, Penn State.

By 11:00, though, the din died down – only to resume again at 5:00 this morning. I sat out on the porch with my coffee a little past six, bathing in the light of the now-recovered moon – so bright it almost hurt to look. My last sight of the lunar eclipse before I went off to bed at 11:11 prompted this memo in my pocket notebook: “It makes me hungry!” I don’t believe I was consciously thinking salmon, peach, just feeling an unfocused but powerful longing to reach up and pull this strange circle down to my mouth. Now, as I write, I’m imagining it cold but sweet, and as prone to melt as ice cream in a cone. It’s not a bad thing for the pure and the aloof once in a while to take on an earthly stain.

Yesterday morning I found a female marbled orbweaver (Araneus marmoreus) spider dangling in the middle of the old, moss-covered woods road near the top of the field. Unlike many in her species who tend more toward yellow, hers was an abdomen that glowed a fervid orange. She had just completed the first, trail-spanning support strands preparatory to the real spinning, which would take place later in the day, if this source on the World Wide Web is to be believed:

[Marbled orbweaver] spiders build their web at dusk and either wait in the web or in a retreat near the web at night for prey to strike the web. Then the spider runs out and wraps the prey in silk. After the prey is immobilized, the prey is bitten and eventually eaten. Some individuals stay in their webs during the day, but this is not common. They typically rebuild their web each day, or at least the sticky spiral orb part.

Unfortunately, she had picked one of our most well traveled walking trails, used particularly heavily this time of year as the pace of the deer hunt picks up. I thought it would be a good idea to try and move her off the trail – discourage her now, if that were possible, rather than later. I broke the silk and swung her off to the side of the trail. She rappelled to the ground and crouched motionless, head and thorax tucked out of side beneath her huge abdomen. From a couple feet away, the spider looked like some kind of large, exotic seed lying among the equally bright fallen leaves. I crouched down to admire the filigreed pattern, which resembled nothing so much as a five-storied pagoda.

Normally I keep a respectful distance from spiders, but I couldn’t resist running one pinky gently over the surface of the abdomen. It felt deliciously smooth, even – what else? – silky.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Dave, you need a woman! But would you say that if I were a Red Sox fan, kneeling in the middle of a street in Boston with tears streaming down my face, thanksgiving on my lips? Satisfaction can take countless forms. Me, all I really want now is a bite of moon. Just one nibble! Then I’ll be happy, and the forces of evil can go ahead and swallow the rest of my sky.

The anatomy of perception (3)

Another blogger to respond to Susan’s question about the senses – “Which do you think is the most important?” – was Siona, of Nomen est Numen. She opted for touch. In a subsequent post, she expanded on the theme.

I should make it clear that these poems in the “expected voices” of others are entirely acts of my own imagination. If you want to know what Siona – or Dale, or Susan – really think, read their blogs (all highly recommended, by the way). I hope it’s obvious that what I am trying to do here is extract details from various narratives that advance my own argument (such as it is). This very process of selection means that the “I” of these poems is really more me than anyone else.

Once again, the epigraph is from Pascal. (Tomorrow’s section should make it clear why I am using his writing in this context.)

3.

We think we are playing on ordinary organs when playing upon man. Men are organs, it is true, but odd, changeable, variable, with pipes not arranged in proper order. Those who know how to play on ordinary organs will not produce harmonies on these.

I am
all mem-
brane
it’s true

the brain itself
is an open
wound
folded
into a fist

skinny? but
skin’s at
a minimum on
someone
as thin
as me

bony, yes –
except this
skeleton has been
so brutal
bruising
my starved
flesh

back when I was
my own
demon lover
when I wanted
to feel
nothing-
ness

but recovery has
turned me out-
side in
a Möbius strip

I can shut
my eyes
& read the
world’s Braille
from within
the world

run your fingers
down along
my spine

do you feel how
my whole
body
blinks?

The red menace

Overcast at dawn. The backing-up beeping of distant quarry trucks mingles with the cheeps and chirps of finches in the yard. A Carolina wren’s inquisitive trill. Qui vive? Not who lives but who goes. Who goes there?

Last night listening to Henry Thomas, strange East Texas bluesman with a penny whistle: “I’m going where I never get hoodooed.” Is there really such a place? If someone walks on the site of your future grave, they say, you’ll feel the chill regardless of the miles in between.

The aspen leaves have reached their peak of color, that incandescent red-tinged gold. Yesterday afternoon I sat on my porch watching them make conversation with the wind and realized I didn’t have any better words for it than that. The aspens shimmered – or shimmied – and dive-bombing ladybugs filled the air.

It was the first day of the annual Asian ladybug invasion. This forced to me to become unusually attentive to my person, brushing the beetles from beard, hair or rim of glasses several times a minute. I was agog – as I always am at first – by the tremendous variation in size, color and number of spots exhibited by this one species. They run the gamut from light orange to deep red, and from no spots to more than twenty. Here’s one on my leg that’s twice the diameter of a pencil eraser; that one on the porch railing is barely as big as a drop of blood.

But it seems that the price for such variability – surely an index of the species’ tremendous adaptability – has been a precipitous drop in native ladybug diversity here in the east. Out-competed by the hordes of aliens, which have been temporarily freed from the checks of their native parasites and diseases, our own ladybug species are disappearing. There are (or were) something like 450 species of ladybug beetles native to the U.S. east of the Mississippi. How many will survive?

I try to recall the last time I saw one of those classic, two-spot ladybugs that used to be so common when I was a kid. Those were the ones we most often sang the morbid little nursery rhyme to: Your house is on fire, your children are gone! They flew away, all right, and they might never come back.

The red maple trees next to the driveway colored up and dropped their leaves in the space of only a few days, all of which were foggy and rainy. This is turning into one of those autumns where the best foliage displays are under one’s feet. I find myself craving the glossy sound of a banjo.

Yesterday I was listening to Public Enemy’s 1991 album Fear of a Black Planet. Like the Bible, their lyrics admit of multiple readings, and seem eerily prophetic. Brain game, intellectual Vietnam . . . Welcome to the terrordome.

When the temperature drops below 57 degrees F., the ladybugs stop flying. Late in the afternoon, a couple field crickets start up – I had just been wondering if I’d hear any more from their tribe this year. The air is heavy: good for carrying odors, bad for sounds. The train whistle blowing the Plummer’s Hollow crossing sounds as if it could be five miles away. The knocking of the rails as the freight cars pass over could be anything, I think – even the mountain’s own, faint pulse.

A pileated woodpecker calls from one of the trees in the yard, that mechanical laughter, a prehistoric sound. I catch a glimpse of his flaming crest as he circles a tall locust, probing for ants.

Gray November looms. This could be one of the last warm afternoons of the year. Feeling at peace with myself and the world, whence this sudden urge to get out the rifle and look for something, anything to shoot?

The anatomy of perception (2)

This entry is part 2 of 5 in the series Anatomy of Perception

 

For this section, I borrowed a story from Dale, who was responding in turn to Susan’s question about the senses. Once again, the epigraph is from Pascal, and the subject, as in Dale’s story, is the late critic Cleanth Brooks.

UPDATE: Lines 5-8 of second stanza rewritten (10/31) in response to an objection from Dale (see comments).

2.

Having assurance only because we see with our whole sight, it puts us into surprise and suspense when another with his whole sight sees the opposite . . . For we must prefer our own lights to those of so many others, and that is bold and difficult.

When the scholar’s eyesight fades,
what good are his books?
His library turns as unreadable
as Lascaux: scriptless drama of shapes
on the walls of a cave, the artifice
unglossed within the viscera
where the quarry – tissue
of allusions
– still bristles
with bookmarks. That flux of the world
of becoming:
to capture is
to kill it. Decipherment leads to loss.
The dance must be primary, he wrote.

I acted briefly as amanuensis,
lent him my eyes for a paper he had to give.
Bending to my task, I felt
of little use, a cheap fiction.
My West Coast accent flattened
the words he loved, robbed them
of shadows – like trading embossed
leather covers for a paperback spine.
Perhaps he sensed, even then, the germ
I carried on my youthful breath,
insidious as any misty paraphrase,
corrosive as hope.

Hot raccoon sex

Raccoons tend to have either a polygynous or a promiscuous mating system, or some combination of the two. In a polygynous system, a male mates with at least two females. Various forms of polygyny exist, ranging from relatively loose arrangements in which males mate with a number of females seemingly at random, to more organized structures such as those in which a male actively defends a harem within a defined space. Certainly, the raccoon engages in a loose form of this mating system. In fact, its social structure seems so loosely organized in some populations that it has been described as promiscuous. In promiscuous mating, males and females may each couple with various partners throughout the breeding system. This often happens in such a haphazard manner that it is difficult to even characterize this behavior as belonging to a particular system. Again, the raccoon’s mating arrangements may vary between the two systems, even concurrently within the same area, depending on the degree to which a male, or perhaps a group of males, has exclusive mating rights to the females in its home range. –Samuel I. Zeveloff, Raccoons: A Natural History, Smithsonian Institution Press, 2002

Dontcha just love the way animal behaviorists describe behaviors they don’t understand as “haphazard”? And what’s up with “mating rights”? One would have thought only humans were so unevolved as to regard females as property!

Though a naturalist should always beware of excessive anthropomorphizing, I think it’s worth remembering that, in many ways, raccoons do resemble human beings. They are highly adaptive and omnivorous. They have binocular vision and an exceedingly well-developed sense of touch. Though their forepaws are not quite as sensitive and dexterous as the hands of primates, they do come close – to the consternation of humans who find themselves limited in their ability to lock coons out of something they want access to. They have highly developed vocabularies, as one would expect for creatures with strong social bonds between mothers and offspring. Some researchers feel they are right behind primates in the complexity and flexibility of their associations. They use communal latrines, and they love garbage.

Although some males commonly mate with several females each spring, pair bonds between individuals may still occur in some areas. On the other hand, though a male and female may even den together throughout the winter and bond with one another a month before mating, the female may still breed with several males.
(Ibid.)

Bitch.

After the mating period, no associations between males and females are apparent, and the males provide no assistance in rearing the cubs.
(Ibid.)

Assholes.

As is true of many carnivores, including canids and pinnipeds, the erectile tissue of the penis is reduced and its function supplanted by a penis bone, the baculum. In the raccoon, the baculum is long and curved, which helps the male maintain vaginal penetration. Mating, which occurs between January and March, immediately after emergence from winter sleep, may last an hour or more.
–John O. Whitaker, Jr., and William J. Hamilton, Jr., Mammals of the Eastern United States, Cornell University Press, 1998

Eyewitness accounts of raccoons fucking are rare, due to their human-like preference for the privacy of a den. Here’s one description I found:

A pair of copulating raccoons was observed on February 26, 1954, at the Campbell Farm from 9:05 a.m. to 10:01 a.m. The morning was cloudy (five-tenths [i.e., half?] of sky covered), chilly (estimated to be between 35 and 40 F.), and with a breeze of approximately 15 miles per hour. A young female weighing approximately 10 pounds, and an older male weighing approximately 15 pounds, were in a small grove of saplings on the south bank of the Wakarusa River.

Shrill cries uttered by the female were heard first at 9:05 a.m.; the animals were seen first at 9:09 a.m. when the male, mounted on the female, was tightly holding her in a semi-crouched position with his forelegs immediately in front of her hind legs, and his hind feet were on the ground between hers. He was making rhythmic copulatory movements, consisting of a slow inward motion (requiring three or four seconds) in which he seemed to thrust his penis deeply into the female’s vagina, and a faster outward motion (less than one second) as the penis was withdrawn partway and at which time the male’s pelvis was elevated and the forepart of his body brought forward and downward. The penis is inserted in the vagina in such a way that the baculum is hooked over the pelvic bone of the female, probably assuring his position on the female [reference omitted]. At each of the quick withdrawing motions the female uttered a sharp rattling cry and often attempted to bite the male by turning her head upward. Her actions frequently caused the pair to lose their footing and fall, the male always holding his position.

At 9:17, the male ceased the thrusting movements, and at 9:19 he began jerking movements, from one side to the other, roughly pulling the hindquarters of the female with him, causing her to utter a short cry. This activity caused the pair to move in a circle with heads toward its center. The vigorous thrusting movements were resumed at 9:29, and at 9:42, the cries of the female diminished except for an occasional whimper. Copulatory movements ceased at 9:46, at which time the pair settled slowly to the ground. The forepart of the male was down with his head over the left side of the female and his hindquarters conspicuously high. Less than two minutes later, the male again was dragging the female in a space approximately ten feet in diameter. At 9:51, thrusting movements, slower than those previously noted, were resumed. The rate of these movements was soon doubled but this time the withdrawing motion of the male was less vigorous and the female was not crying out. These movements were interrupted three times by the male by short circular movements. At 10:01, the male suddenly slipped away from the female and ran rapidly southward. The female hesitated a few seconds, then slowly walked eastward, and entered a ground den.
–Howard J. Stains, The Raccoon in Kansas, State Biological Survey [Lawrence, KS], 1956

Despite the humorously clinical language, in the absence of fuller information on the emotional lives of these animals, it is almost impossible to avoid bias in a description like this. Does the female utter “cries” and “whimpers,” or are they really “screams” and “moans”? Stains said the female “often attempted to bite the male,” but what did he actually observe? Was this behavior agonistic, as he seems to imply, or playful?

But the observer can hardly help it if he reflects the unconscious biases of his culture. The perception of the male as active, aggressive initiator and female as largely passive responder is built right into the language and mental imagery we use for sex: we tend to picture the vagina as a hole, an empty space waiting to be filled, rather than (for example) a powerful ring of muscles, or a dense matrix (Latin for “womb”) of interlocking, life-giving organs and tissues. One can only wonder how a scientifically trained observer from, say, Borneo – where sex practices strongly emphasize female pleasure, and favor plateaus rather than climactic peaks – would have interpreted this same copulation.

Needless to say, the term “promiscuous” is also far from neutral in its connotations. But there’s no doubt male raccoons get around. I got this nifty snapshot from my neighbor a while back; I’m not sure where it originated.

Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us

This survey wouldn’t be complete without a mention of the many cultural uses of raccoon penis bones: as amulets, as jewelry – even as pipe cleaners. This seems to go back to the Indians.

[In 1649, Finnish naturalist Peter Kalm wrote] that the raccoon’s oddly curved penis bone – which Linnaeus had noticed while dissecting his pet – was hailed by the Indians as the perfect tool for cleaning their tobacco pipes.
–Virginia C. Holmgren, Raccoons: In Folklore, History, and Today’s Backyards, Capra Press [Santa Barbara], 1990

According to my brother Mark, a cultural geographer and Latin Americanist, the use of raccoon baculums as love charms occurs as far south as Central America. The commercial Lucky Mojo website includes a brief essay (or extended catalog copy) on the subject. The author, catherine yronwode, cites her own experience in the Ozarks, and offers a helpful list of vernacular names: love bone, pecker bone, coon dong, possum prick, Texas toothpick and mountain man toothpick. Yronwode stresses their use as love charms and good-luck charms – but of course, part of her aim is to sell the things. To me, the most interesting anecdote was this one:

Early in 1996, my co-worker Susie Bosselmann came into my office and saw my stuff and — to my surprise, as she is a very “fussy” person who abhors bugs and spiders — she said, “Ooh, lookie! You’ve got coon dongs!” She was pointing to the penis bones Larry and Barry had sent to me.

Susie is in her 60s and she grew up in Oklahoma, an area contiguous with Missouri and Texas. I had thought that the wearing of raccoon penis bones was limited to the Midwest, but she expanded my horizons when she said that she and her husband had recently been at a gun show in Kentucky and had seen “a beautiful coon dong necklace, with hundreds of ’em strung together, just like a Cherokee Indian ceremonial necklace.” She would have bought it but it was too expensive, she said. I asked her why someone would make a coon dong necklace, and she said, “Well, what ELSE can ya do with ’em?”

I think the raccoons might have a few ideas about that.

The anatomy of perception (1)

This entry is part 1 of 5 in the series Anatomy of Perception

 

This begins a brief series on the anatomy and phenomenology of perception, using quotes from Blaise Pascal, Pensées: Thoughts on Religion and other subjects, translated by William Finlayson Trotter. The original suggestion to discuss the senses (which I refuse to try and enumerate, by the way) came from a post at Susan’s blog, so it seems only appropriate that I begin there, with all due apologies for this attempt to speak in her voice. (Susan has shown herself to be a quite competent poet in her own right.)

I expect the series to last the rest of the week. The final sections are at present still in a very rough state.

1.

Let us imagine a body full of thinking members.

The uterus knew what I
& the doctor did not.
It threatened mutiny.

The mind is more than brain,
I’d say, the body’s
a net of nerves,

which makes the womb a net
within a net. Mine wasn’t
about to let its catch be killed

when the baby still sat
ass-downward & they talked
about turning it. Something,

everything said NO.
I chose the Caesarian.
When they went in, they found me

so deformed, they took
pictures. The baby had sat
the only way she could fit

& turning her would’ve killed her,
ruptured the uterus. Call it
instinct, sixth sense.

I opted for mild sedation,
& if they’d let me
I would’ve watched. I was

that detached. Only
the thought of the turning
made my insides flip.