Author: girl

Caspian Tern

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Yesterday I returned to the pond for the first time in a couple of weeks. In a stroke of luck, I timed my arrival to coincide with the presence of a single Caspian Tern, a bird I’d never seen before. Although I don’t always, this time I had my binoculars and Peterson’s with me. The time it took the tern to catch something to eat—about four or five dives, with some circling in between—was just long enough for me to positively identify it. Once it had the fish, it circled to eat it and then left, flying higher until I couldn’t see which direction it was heading.

It had barely gone when I noticed something odd swimming around out in the middle of the pond. At first I thought it was a small duck, but the trusty binoculars revealed it to be the head of a mammal. I was pretty sure that it wasn’t an otter—the head was too large and square for what I remembered of otters from my many early-childhood visits to Shedd. It seemed unlikely that it was a beaver, and peering at photos once I got home led to the conclusion that it was a muskrat. I don’t know if it’ll stick around; I hadn’t seen it before this weekend.

In addition to those two unusual sightings, I saw several regular favorites: red-winged blackbirds (both male and female), ducks, song sparrows, and a downy woodpecker. I also saw the pair of Canada geese that I saw on my most recent prior visit, and it looks like they’re nesting (one was in the same spot on the island as last time; the other was keeping a pretty close eye on the muskrat). I look forward to seeing the goslings later in the year.

Ever since the years when Trumpet of the Swan was one of my favorite books, I’ve hoped to be able to see birds actually hatching. I’ve never wanted to get too close to their nests, though. Maybe this year—with the nest visible, but not accessible—the timing will be right and I’ll get lucky.

Caspian Tern

Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell

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I had no idea what to expect from Cloud Atlas before I started reading it, and that’s the way I recommend experiencing the book. It’s a novel with striking similarities to Never Let Me Go, one of which is the pleasure of letting it unfold as it will, with no knowledge going into the reading of it. High praise, indeed, as Kazuo Ishiguro is one of my favorite authors, and I consider Never Let Me Go to be one of, if not the, best of his novels (The Unconsoled being the other main contender for that position). These are the type of book to savor as one goes, that leave the reader mulling the intricacies long after completing the novel. The less one knows about the content, the better, so I shall constrain my comments, and not mention the plot as such at all.

Not mentioning the plot leaves me with the writing itself. The writing itself is lovely; I agree with the critics that David Mitchell has a powerful command of the English language in written form. Each part of the book is lyrical and engaging in itself; taken together, the whole is an intricate puzzle. I had mixed reactions to the structure of the book. In the first half, the shifts are slightly jarring, but the lyrical prose draws you quickly and easily into each new segment. Once you know what to expect, each transition is a bit more smooth than the previous one. Still, I found the ending weak, and some of that was due to the constraint of the structure as established earlier on. Perhaps Mitchell is making a meta-point about history, and how we can only go as far as the foundation we’ve laid for ourselves in the past, that the limitations of the endings — of each segment, and the novel as a whole — bear out. Barring that, I’d say that the structure becomes less clever and more contrived through the second half of the book, and the engaging narratives get somewhat lost in the drive to wrap up. At the risk of giving away plot, the reliance on deaths as the vehicles for the end of narratives, a la Stephen King, contributed to my sense that the weak ending was simply weak, and not meant to be part of a grander commentary on the repetitive and inherently pointless nature of both novels and human history.

All that being said, the ending is not so weak as to diminish the general excellence of the book; it is one of the best I’ve read this year.

Cloud Atlas, by David Mitchell

Die Walküre

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This week we saw the Washington National Opera‘s performance of Wagner‘s Die Walküre at the Kennedy Center. Or, I should say, we saw most of the production. Despite our best efforts, Wagner defeated us.

Last year, we saw our first Wagner production, Parsifal performed by the Kirov Opera Company, also at the Kennedy Center. As relative novices to the world of opera fandom, we certainly weren’t representative of the usual Wagner-going crowd. We chose Parsifal in order to see the Kirov company perform, as well as for the music itself. Certainly Parsifal is not, erm, the most engaging story ever told on the stage. At that performance, we wavered early on and nearly left at the first intermission: the combined effect of the sonorous score, the slow and dull plot, and being seated behind an entire row of overly perfumed ladies of a certain age almost got the better of us. We rallied, though, and moved to the handicapped seating area, which was thankfully empty. From there, we stayed for the remaining two acts, enjoyed the music, and, in the end, patted ourselves on the back for our dedication and endurance.

Compared to Parsifal, we imagined that attending Die Walküre would be a cakewalk. Well, not quite a cakewalk, but it had a lot more going for it: a more lively score, a more engaging plot, and Plácido Domingo singing Siegmund. All of these bonuses notwithstanding, the sheer length of the performance and extremely slow pacing combined with our end of the week fatigue to mean that we were ready to call it quits midway through. We chose to leave at the second intermission, having seen the stunning sets, heard the famous Domingo, and taken in the excellent performance by the orchestra. We were simply too tired to stay until the end and then face the metro trip home, and we didn’t want to try to slip out in the dark midway through the third act. As a result, we forewent hearing “Ride of the Valkyries” at the beginning of Act Three. The teaser in Act Two, when Brünnhilde first appears to the twins, will have to serve as our experience of hearing the piece performed live.

At this point, I think we’ll get back on the horse with another Verdi (we saw a touring production of La traviata at the Opernhaus Zürich in 1997) or maybe a Puccini, and slowly build up to facing Wagner again. Or, you know, just rest on our laurels with Parsifal and call it a draw.

Die Walküre

killing caterpillars, and other less than pleasant garden duties

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In general, I try to take the ‘live and let live’ approach to insects outside (mosquitoes being the obvious exception). Eastern tent caterpillars really creep me out, though. I don’t like the way they fall from the trees; even if they don’t fall on me, they make a disturbing plopping sound when they hit the ground plants. I especially don’t like the way that, no matter what I do, I invariably end up stepping on them (which is gross) because they are around in such abundance. Unfortunately for me, we have in our yard several cherry trees of the variety they love to eat. Which means, nests busting out all over the place.

This year, I decided to just bite the bullet, alienate my insect-protecting friends, and kill as many of them as I can before they mature. It seems less cruel to smash a nest full of itty bitty little caterpillars than run around stepping on them when they’re full grown. But that’s really just a post-hoc justification: I want as few of them around as possible, and killing them in the nests is the most effective way to make that happen (given that I neglected to try to seek out and remove the eggs during the winter; I’ll try that next year). I hope that if I remove the tents I can reach, my feathered friends will help by eating as many as they possibly can as they mature.

At any rate, we started that last night, pulling down (and in some cases pruning out) the limbs with tents we could reach with a ladder. Although it’s not the recommended approach, we burned the webbing and then pulled the mass out of the trees. I’m torn on whether to just cut back the limbs that are infested; one of the trees (the smallest and youngest) is close to the garage, and there’s a goodly chance it will need to be taken out when we repair the foundation. It’s tempting to just take it out now and be done with the caterpillar issue there, but it’s a nice little tree and I’m fond of it. Besides the creeping me out factor, I hate to see the caterpillars decimate the trees (even though I know intellectually that it doesn’t create long-term harm, as the trees generally refoliate without issue).

The caterpillar killing came at the end of a day of digging up onion grass (another exception to my general ‘live and let live’ approach, as it stings my eyes when I mow the lawn) and pruning deadwood out of the dogwood (I’m a bit concerned that the dogwood might be struggling with a fungus; a smaller one in our yard died off completely last year and will be the next thing we work on taking out). This year’s garden work seems to be clustering up around the theme of ‘remove all the stuff that’s died off or invaded due to years of neglect by the previous owners,’ with a sprinkling of ‘move plants that are in the completely wrong environment to a different part of the yard where they will get the sun (or lack thereof) that they need’ thrown in to keep things interesting.

Which is all to say, check back in a few years for photos of things actually growing: we’re not quite there yet.

killing caterpillars, and other less than pleasant garden duties

oil painting class

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The next step in my art-making plan is to learn how to use the oil paints that my grandfather gave me 18 months ago. After nearly forty years in their house, my grandparents moved into an apartment, and my grandfather passed along his easel, paints, and brushes to me. Since I haven’t had a painting class in over 15 years, I decided to find a beginning level course to sign up for.

The course I decided to take is through The Art League, which teaches out of The Torpedo Factory in Arlington. It’s quite a hike from my house, but it was the best option accessible by public transportation (oil painting classes at the county community centers in my area were all accessible only by car). The location is lovely, right on the river, with spacious and airy studios. An acquaintance took classes there several years ago and was quite pleased with the artists she met, so I’m looking forward to having a positive experience.

Of course, I’m experiencing the standard nervousness associated with starting something new, but I’m sure that will abate once the class starts next week. In the meantime, I’m gathering the required supplies. I’ll need to supplement the materials I have with some new ones, and I’m hoping to be able to find them all at the campus bookshop (much more easily accessible than the in-house store at The Torpedo Factory).

So, in a couple of months, I expect to have two small still life oil paintings on canvas, of which I also expect to be inordinately proud.

oil painting class