Jack and the Beanstalk

The beans have been eaten to the point of extinction by something as yet unidentified. Perhaps Jack's mother, to keep him more earthbound. But some of the corn is over 11 feet high. I believe this is the corn I was given on that trip to the strip-mining sites in Kentucky last Fall. It's decorative (red and brown), not especially edible. But I need to find to what that means.

Last year crows ate the cobs straight off the plant. Despite the drought, and the soil problem, we are getting some serious produce, thanks to the regular afternoon rain. I plucked my first cantaloupe today, and cannot wait to test the idea that ripening on the vine really does make a difference, that locovor is not just a slogan.

There are more seeds sprouting in the nursery, and despite the bare patches, this whole network of raised beds will be full - probably with too many tomatoes. But I can never get enough.

And here's a shot of the garden from the gate.

Out with the old, in with the new

One old billy died last week (see Bye Bye Billy, below). He was an individual goat, this goat not that goat, and not just part of a flow of goatiness. With spectacles I can almost imagine him reading up on the variety of peach tree I had planted, and making some suggestions for future plantings. He did look wise. But here he is, half submerged in the water. Did he get stuck in the mud, fall over and drowned? Or did he have heat stroke, and died looking for something cool? Here is a sad image.

So Billy was not just a transient goat-phase. His loss is real. And yet, a few days ago, look what appears! A new kid on the block, brimming with bounce, a life that did not exist at all before. And now?

We can't just say he's a replacement for the old dead goat. And yet we do say - "Life goes on." Is that just a way of coping with death?

Goats and the Moral Vortex

I met neighbors Bob, Carol and their family at the weekend at the local Goat Show in Woodbury. Half way through had won a third prize. All the goats looked great - groomed and super clean. I wondered what the criteria fort excellence were. Well, they are meat goats, so what counts apparently is shape that reflects meat. I lamented my own decline in goat herd numbers, and my need for some new genes. I was told I could perhaps buy a new nanny for $80. Background: recently dead Billy in the lake, plus loss of one day old kid. But yesterday I spotted a mew kid on the block, all jumping around with his Mom. I abandoned plans to put both up in the barn, and let them wander off. So far so good. Dad seems to be hanging out with them too. How does he know he's Dad? I assume he's top goat and can claim them all. When I find myself hoping the new'un is a girl, I think about the effect of China's one child policy in which girl babies are often aborted. Am I playing the same game? I spend so much time and effort protecting fruit trees against goats and goats against predators. And their guardians (dogs) against ticks. Why? Perhaps they are symbols of the Other, with their destructiveness the best evidence of their not being reducible to my needs etc.

AnimalArtists in Residence

I am reading Ranciere's The Emancipated Spectator, in which he wrestles with the problem, especially in theatre, of reducing the spectator to being the passive victim of illusion on the part of those who know better, continuing a line of argument that breaks with Althusser's vanguardism in the name of a certain equality. This equality welcomes an ever broader sense of The People, and the possibilities of their participation in thinking, art, power etc. I am coming see something friends have long pressed - the importance of providing people with opportunities not just to walk and gawk, but also to shape and make. The WordPoem project works like that. Liz and Lauren led the way last week with their Swing Break installation (see attached)- notionally for humans but actually more adapted to the weight of dryads and fairies. I could direct wanderers to supplies of naturally occurring materials, and perhaps supply string, nails that sort of thing.

To which, I add, do non-humans get a look-in? In my work on Bangladeshi sandcrabs I explored the question of whether animals (incl insects, crustacea) could be said to be artists. At the vary least, contemplating this question can open up the question in new ways. There are two obvious ways this could work. First one could document existing animal art, perhaps commenting on its status. Second, one could try to encourage it by facilitating favorable conditions. So far, the best examples I have are from mudwasps, which have colonized both inside and outside the cob sauna. Inside they have built organ pipes. Outside, they have constructed burrows in the cob that look like the spray pattern of a shotgun. I am reminded of Jencks tolerance of the moles in his Garden of Cosmic Speculation. I want to go beyond toleration to celebration. Are they not artists in residence?

Going Japanese: Grow Your own Bamboo Fence

Some six years ago, we planted various kinds of bamboo down by the road. They are the spreading invasive sort. My theory was that I would in fact harvest them, making regular inroads into their invasiveness. This morning I started. They have started spreading up the hill away from the road, supplanting brambles (which is good), heading for the rocks where, I suspect, they will meet their match. The goats have resolved my dilemma over the sauna - whether to enclose it in a fenced garden or not. It seems a shame to do so just to enlarge the range of plants I can grow outside in planters without becoming immediate goat breakfast, but it has become clear that the shade of the sauna is a goat magnet, and their odiferous offerings are renewed on a daily basis. So, in keeping with the neo-Japanese theme, a bamboo fence is just what is called for. Google bamboo fence and images of two kinds appear - very close bound privacy screens, and much looser structures that will nonetheless keep out animals. The latter will suffice, and not give too enclosed a feel. Inside the new space will be limestone pavers, and tubs with scented plants: rosemary, basil, jasmine ... ideally hardly perennials. I cut about 50 tall bamboos, some 30' high. Now to trim and drag them back. Pictures soon. Suggestions for scented bushes?

In the Back of the Fridge

What if the mind were like the fridge? Lots of stuff that's lost its label, and got shoved to the back shelf. One day, time for a clean-out. Scary. Leftovers from that party. Was it THIS year or last? This jar smells good but what is it? How could that grey/green mold have grown so thick without being spotted - and what are those little beads on top. Will the mold spores still lurk if I really clean the fridge? If I want to take this process to heart existentially, is it enough to go through the pile of unfiled papers on my desk? Or experience and memory too? Therapy? Writing? Among the old jars, this time in the freezer, a mug with what looks like a Guinness crown of frozen foam on top. I am about to toss it when something stays my arm. Could this be .... an ancient sourdough starter. I leave it on the counter and forget it for days. The following week I press the crust gingerly and it rocks like a floating iceflow. Underneath bubbles of activity. I bring it to my nose: its the soughdough starter, brought over from Germany over 100 years ago, and mailed to me by a friend in New York 10 months ago. I have two wonderful new wwoofers, Liz and Lauren, recently released from Cornell and Bennington respectively. This morning, 15 hours later, we are wolfing on the best sourdough bread I can remember. Thanks Lauren (and Liz). We must learn how to feed the starter. Already, I am sure, new wild yeasts are knocking on the door, wondering if they can join the old band.

Bye Bye Billy (and an Armadillo)

I made some loud clicking sounds, and then whistled. But the white patch at the edge of the lake in the distance did not move. It was too far away to be clear what it was. But unless it was a couple of sunbathing herons, it seemed clear enough that something had died. The old billygoat's long white tongue was hanging out, its stomach was bloated, and the sound of the flies was overwhelming. Its huge baggy testicles were half-buried in the mud. Six black vultures lined up on the bank had slowly wafted away as I approached. The sun-soaked stench of death already suffused the air, suffocating any consolatory thoughts about cycles of nature. Carl Sagan suggests our deep connectedness to the stars by saying we are made of stardust. But the intensely invasive smell of a decaying body teaches another story. It marks an absolute difference between the living munching devilish goat and this rotting corpse. It may be turning back into stardust, taking a long detour through suppurating flesh, maggot nests, chemical decomposition and so on. But each one of the molecules that once made up that fine billy could have come from anywhere. What mattered was their combination, organization, and the dynamic directedness of the whole into which they were fused. The death stink is a cacophany of disintegration, breaking down complex forms into raw materials readied for reabsorption by the chain of life. But the goat had long since utterly gone. Living beings may well be shaped somewhat by the building blocks available, but the difference between a lump of coal and a carbon-based life form is absolute. The watery corpse at lakeside is a mere shadow of what once was. Not far away on this day of death I found my first armadillo, looking like a cross between an angel and a mega-rat. Covered in scaly armour, its leathery flanks encased folded-up limbs that seemed cupped together in prayer. Its insides had already been gutted. It was not clear why it had died - out there in the open on the straw-dry grass. I looked back at the goat. The vultures were already circling back. Walking away from this impromptu cemetery, I felt anew the strength in my legs, the air in my lungs, the thirst in my throat. And I thought about what it must be like to be trapped in a body (or soul) dedicated to an armored existence. I wondered how armadillos made love (and porcupines). Amour and armour! I thought of Wilhelm Reich, and the idea of psycho-somatic body armour, and its connection to fascism. This latter shows us that life itself can do deals with a certain 'death'. Nietzsche: "Man would rather will nothing than not will." This testifies to the power of life even as it betrays its highest possibilities.