Mister Moonlight

. . . . Even full moonllight bathes the garden with only about one-half-millionth as much light as sunlight. This darkness brings subtle changes in our perceptions of the garden. There's not enough moonlight to activate the color sensing cones in our eyes, so the same garden that is in Technicolor in afternoon is in black and white at night. Not that it is any less appealing: What it lacks in colorful fun it gains in quiet elegance.
. . . . Without the distraction of color, mass and form are what catch our attention in the night garden. Forsythia, rhododendron, lilac and other shrubs that are dense with leaves take on a bold presence at night, joining other amorphous masses. . . . Walls and trees--every dense, three-dimensional form, in fact--also take on a bold presence in the silvery moonlight. Their forms might suggest alien creatures. They might guide our eyes or feet along in the dim lilght. And they might offer an earthbound anchor from night's awesome "big sky." . . . . For relief, step out into the moonlit garden and be greeted by serene, static masses. . . . everything visible in the moonlit garden seems larger than it does by day. By night, butterfly bushes will seem ready to embrace or envelop from all sides; an arbored entranceway to a vegetable garden feels like it towers overhead at night. . . . Among night's most hauntingly beautiful flowers are those whose pale trumpet shapes attract the pollinating bats and moths that go about their work only at night. Like their pollinators, some varieties of these flowers . . . open only at night, shyly folding up each morning. . . . The sweet fragrances wafted into the air by many night bloomers strengthen their allure to bats and moths. The perfumes alone might be sufficient enticement to bring you out into the garden at night, to enjoy, even in the absence of moonlight.
- - - -by Lee Reich of the Associated Press, in SF Chronicle Wed Aug. 24, 2009

The Philosophical Baby: What Children's Minds Tell Us About Truth, Love and the Meaning of Life

Excerpts from the review of this book authored by Alison Gopnik of Berkeley, reviewed by Mark Sloan, in a special to The Chronicle:
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Baby brains are very different from those of adults. The prefontal cortex--the center of such "adult" activities as thinking, planning and inhibiting thoughts that distract us from the task at hand--is much less developed, for example. As a result, babies are more impulsive, less-wired for inhibition and, Gopnick suggests, "aware of much more, much more intensely, then we are."
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She likens a bably's attention to a lantern, casting its light in all directions, illuminating the nooks and crannies of a strange, new world--perfect for learning a great deal in a short time. Adult attention, given our abjility to focus and shut out distractions, is more like a spotlight. We can write reports and meet deadlines like crazy, but we also miss a lot of interesting things going on around us. Babies, though, notice everything.
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It's that lantern-like conciousness that allows a baby to construct a mental map of her world and how it works. . . . Gopnik's research proves that even 1-year-olds are capable of counterfactual thought--that "coulda-woulda-shoulda" thinking that allows us to learn from experience, consider possibilities and change our future behavior accordingly.
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Humans have by far the longest childhood of any primate species. Gopnik presents compelling evidence that this period of extended helplessness is actually a key to our evolutionary success. Lantern consciousness, counterfactual thinking and imaginative play allow children to explore alternative worlds and scenarios. During this period of "paradoxically useful uselessness," children learn to see the world as it could be, and to make plans to create that world--skills that will be crucial in an ever-changing adult society. Play is indeed the work of childhood, and it has been since the dawn of Homo sapiens. . . Children, she writes, help provide answers to deep, meaning-of-life questions. They "put us in touch with important, real and universal aspects of the human condition," such as awe, magic, beauth and truth.
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Babies and children are our future, in more than the simple genetic sense. They will one day dramatically reshape our world, as every generation before them has done. We would be wise in this era of diminishing resources and test-obsessed education to provide them with the love, security and unstructured time they need to play, imagine and explore the vast range of human possibilities. Because the very people who will ultimately create the world of the future, "the explorers we set out there at the farthest edge," as Gopnik concludes in her moving final chapter, "look very much like our children."
---Sunday, August 16, 2009 San Francisco Chronicle

Laurel On Her Head--Induction of a Poet

Friends gathered to celebrate the 75th birthday of Diane de Prima, the city's fifth designated poet laureate.
(A man who is a friend) noting that de Prima will not be sworn in officially until February, performed his own version of an inaugural ceremony for the crowd. His ritual specificied that the laureate use "all of your power to guard, honor and propagate poetry of all kinds for all people in all walks of life, and remind them to celebrate the world in all its mystery."
A lush and full laurel wreath was placed upon the head of the poet, whose right hand lay upon a volume of the collected works of John Keats, and who accepted the honor "in the name of all the poets and all the alchemists of all time."
A long list of fellow poets was read, including Catullus, Ezra Pound and Michael McClure who was the city's fourth poet laureate. . . A slight breeze wafted through the studio, as poetry lovers found their natural post-ceremony affinity: Some hovered over a bountiful display of food, . . . others were at the windows, admiring the parade of antique cars. . .parked on Mission Street.
"There is no season that is not a season of song," the honoree had said in the ceremony. It was a great day for poetry.
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--from newspaper columnist, Leah Garchik on Thursday August 13, 2009

To The Edge Of The Universe

On a skyway,
A concrete flight
Through urban rooftops.
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The car and steering wheel
dissolve,
Into the Milky Way.
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A billion tiny stars
Streaking toward my windshield,
In the blackened starry sky.
I gasp.
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Further and further out,
The flight gains speed,
And light shifts,
To the red end of the spectrum.
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Farther still,
Where clusters fade away,
The void is called,
The Big Black Room.
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I nod acceptance,
But then, a big surprise!
Beyond The Big Black Room,
A Big White Room awaits!
A blinding light engulfs us all.
--Jim