Bill the Astronomer

Bill the Astronomer

Bill is an astronomer.  He used to hang out in the campsite space next to one of the campground hosts. His site looked out at the eastern sky, over a flat expanse of the prairie. Late at night while the campground was quiet Bill would be out in front of his RV looking through his telescope. 3:00 a.m. he would be gazing into the black, diamond studded sky while the rest of the people in the campground would be snoring in our RV’s/trailers/tents. He was usually gone (into his own bed) before the sun was barely over the straight line of the horizon. He’d have the curtains pulled and be asleep just at the time most folks were starting to light their Coleman stoves, boil water for coffee and get bacon popping in pans. You generally wouldn’t see him again until the early afternoon at which time he’d be back in the same lawn chair writing, reading, but mostly talking up the night-sky thing with anyone who’d listen or, even more optimistically, someone who’d maybe come out and get a look through the telescope along with him at 3:00 am. I tried it a couple of times-got up and walked over to his site to look through the lonely occular of his big ol’ telescope and stare up at the pin holes of light in the ink-black Florida sky. Bill would tell you all about the planets and the stars and the spinning orbits of satellites and glowing rocks burning up in the atmosphere of the Earth. To me, and most of the other people who came to see the “show” at 3:00 in the morning, it was pretty boring. But to Bill it was heaven.

The night sky was a real big deal with Bill. And, apparently, with other people as well. Years ago Bill was the only guy in the campground that I knew of that was interested in star gazing, as they call it. He was attracted to the Prairie because there is little in the way of ambient light which disturbed his view of the sky. Now various parks are giving official designations for certified night skies, which means, I think, somebody comes out and does a bunch of measurements. They must figure out how much outside light there is from surrounding communities, shopping centers, auto and truck traffic…etc. and how much it interferes with the ability to view the night sky. And,then they assign a number to what they find and certify the site as 80% or 90 % dark or something like that so that other stargazers will have a reason to come out to the parks and look at the night sky. For most of us looking up at the sky is two or three minutes of amazement and beauty. “Oh, Wow! Wouldja take a look at that moon?” or “I can hardly believe how beautiful it is out here. You can see so clear! And I have never seen so many stars…!” But for the real star-gazers, if they have got a place where there is a “dark sky” rating it means traveling there JUST to see the sky. To bring a shit-load of computer and telescopic equipment plus all the regular camping gear, and setting it all up and waiting for the darkness to prove itself worthy of that 87% rating. Like I said, Bill and all the other star-gazing folks really love that 3:00 am celestial show. Now it’s not just Bill in the spot next to the campground host anymore. He no longer waits for the unsuspecting neophyte to fall into his 3:00 am trap! Star gazing folks from all over the world come to the Prairie for the special star-gazing amenities. The Department of Outdoor Recreation put up a bunch of money and went and filled and leveled a separate area of the prairie grass and built eight new campsites just for the star-gazers. A place off to the side, away from the family camping and the equestrian camping-a good hike from the bathrooms too, I might add-just for the purpose of star-gazing.

That new area has different rules so you can’t stay there unless you’re willing to do without any lights at night. No TVs or kitchen lights or even flashlights-except for the kind with the hopeless red lights that you can barely even see anything with. You could walk into the mouth of a waiting alligator with one of those kinda flashlights. Useless! Up there on the “Astropad” ( which is the name for the new section of dark, dedicated camping sites) late in the late night/ early morning hours the “Astronuts” (which is the name which all the other campers in the campground call the sky-gazers)can be found staring out into the heavens. There may not be any lights allowed but the evening is alive with the sound of the frogs and alligators croaking, a little bit of music from someones trailer, the “swoosh” of a beer being popped and the movement of men and women and equipment being aimed into the sky. It might not be for everyone, this sky watching, but for Bill and the people like him, it is everything. And the rest of us, asleep in our bunks, the hush of the Prairie and the black sky await the arrival of the sun.

Bill was given a special status in the campground, that of resident astronomer and he gave daytime lectures complete with a slide show and early evening talks as the moon would rise and the stars would present themselves. He was passionate about his hobby and you could feel his passion. He wasn’t at the Prairie the last time I went camping there. I was told he moved to Arizona. But the Astropad is still there. It is a testament to the folks like Bill who love their hobby and love the outdoors. Thanks Bill, for turning me on to the sky.

Going for an even Year...

I am celebrating an anniversary. It has been 9 months since anyone has "commented" on any of my posts. I plan to keep posting regardless for about three more months and see if I can make it an even Year! After that I think I will hang it up and just rant on F.B. like most everybody else. I think the "blog" is pretty much dead as a personal expression of creativity and expression anyway, so no big loss. The "blog" has been supplanted by the video and the "conversation" on public forums like F.B. and Twitter.
Too all my faithful "followers" (all 11 of you), I love you and miss you already. If you need to reach me leave me a voice mail-Oh! Wait! No one listens to those anymore either. So, send me a message and as soon as I am done making my daily diary entry or watching TV I will try you back.
Best,
Camerabanger (Oh, Wait, maybe I should change that to iPhoneBanger?)

Brains in a Bottle (2007)

Brains in a Bottle

I was there Thursday—you were there the day before.  I suppose it was just not meant to be.  I mean I thought I was clear on the time and the day of the week and you sounded confident that the little coffee shop would be impossible to miss and it was!  It was.  A dandy little coffee shop with very hip Philly type art students sketching away and sipping coffee.  I knew I was in the right place.  I just knew it.  But after a half an hour I began to have my doubts.  

I decided to check a half a block away at Starbucks though I was perfectly sure you had said the word “Starbucks” with such disdain.  Could I have been wrong?  I decided to check anyway.  There were perfectly hip people in Starbucks They were a tad older—graying actually--but in earlier lives they had been “sketchers” as well.  Now, instead of sketch books they had shopping bags and leotard tops with table cloth looking skirts wrapped around themselves.  They were waiting for husbands. The husbands were parking the cars on the side streets--fine gray Mercedes autos-- but would be back in a few moments to have a coffee and decide where to have dinner.  None of them looked like you.  I suppose.  I have no idea what you look like but I found myself guessing that none of them could be you.

I tried to calculate your age by recalling all the things you had told me about your children.  One was in college—or was it two?  And you’ve talked about your husband as well but there were no clues there.  I had spoken to him over the phone and he had an older voice.  Yours sounded much younger that one time we talked.  I looked at all the women’s faces and their bodies at the tables in Starbucks…none of them could have been you.  It was more likely, I decided, that you’d be at the first place.  I went back there again.

I took a seat outside prepared to order a coffee I didn’t want if the waitress insisted.  She never even came over.  No one else sat outdoors.  The hip people stayed inside where it was cool and the soft music played.  Eventually I was joined by a man with a ponytail and a tee shirt with a Grateful Dead Rose.  He took up a seat a foot or two to the south.  He had been inside buying a cup of coffee which he’d brought outside to drink.  “Have you been here long?  I asked.  About nineteen years he replied.  No, I mean in the coffee shop.  Oh! I thought you meant in this part of Philly.  Before that I lived in Manayunk and for a while in Germantown.  I thought that was what you wanted to know.  No, I said, have you seen a blond woman (you’d sent me a lot of ‘blond jokes’ in your e-mails -which I read sometime- so I guessed you were blond) waiting here in the past half-hour?  No, sorry, he said.  I used to live around here, I said.  507 South Street.  Long time ago.  It’s a Greek place now.  Yes, I know.  I don’t like Greek food, he said.  

We watched the parade of people pass north and south along fourth street and I began to have my doubts again.  I began to wonder about Starbucks again.  I was so comfortable in the cushion chair in the shade in front of this little, hip place that I dreaded having to move—to check out Starbucks again.  But I felt compelled.  I leaned my weight over my stiff legs and pushed myself up out of the chair.  My feet were swollen and hurt me but I slid away on them towards Starbucks.  I’ll keep my eyes peeled, he said.  Thanks, I said.

There was a woman in the bright sun in a chair drinking an iced drink.  I circled her and decided to take a shot.  Age about right, blond, seemed to be waiting for something—maybe me.  Are you ______  ______? I asked.  She looked puzzled and I knew right away it was not you.  There was no easy way out.  I almost bowed and backed away apologizing for any mistake I had made.  She followed me with her eyes and head and kept me in her sites until she was sure I was no longer a threat.   I was outside her sphere.

I looked for someplace else to rest.  A comfortable chair in the shade like at the hip place down the street.  There were plenty but I knew this was not the place to wait for you and I was becoming too nervous for coffee.  A few minutes later—after checking the inside, and second floor seating and the outside tables I fled Starbucks for the comfort of my chair down at the hip place.  The ponytail was gone and you never came.  I was sure.  I didn’t have any doubt.  I would have known you if I’d seen you, no matter how little information I had about your physical appearance.  I just would have known.  

Some day, in the future, we may not have bodies any more.  Our heads—maybe our very brains—will be kept in bottles like bell jars and our thoughts will be transmitted like tip-tapping electrical impulses to machines that might talk for us.  Well not talking exactly but communicating without the indelicacy of lips or the imperfection of mere words.  Perhaps we will float in warm scented oil and dream in our bottles on shelves.  Each of us an address on a jar in a city full of shelves,  in a country full of buildings.  Printed circuits will carry our thoughts to a jar in Missouri or a soul-mate on a shelf # 1222 in Breecher, Kansas.  We will dream of families and cars breaking down and tattoos and whether or not short skirts will be the rage next season.   It will all seem real to us.  There will be no anxiety.  There will be no fat bodies or gray hair or fights for parking spaces.  There will be no Starbucks or missed appointments or tired feet or comfortable seats in hip coffee shops.  No disappointing let downs or internet relationships to live up to or down to.  Just brains in bottles.

Litterin'

Monday, January 22, 2018

Florida is not a very clean place. If I had to put a word to it “despoiled” would be the one. “Raped” might not be too bad either. Walking along a road around here in the morning with the sun peeking up over the top of the landscape and the fresh ocean breeze tousseling one’s hair is a joy until one looks down. The sandy soil is speckled with the basic colors of packaging, primary red, blue, yellow bottle tops, and foil-faced snack food wrappers reflecting the light. Bottles and cans of plastic and metal are everywhere. Also gigantic plastic cups. These held, on a one time basis, the “Big Gulps” from the Seven Eleven and not too far down the road from these plastic troughs one can expect to find the ubiquitous lid and drinking straw that makes it possible to consume a monstrous drink while driving. Pieces of old toys, hardware fallen off of cars and trucks, and the stains of the bodily fluids of those same vehicles leaking on the black top. There is scarcely an inch of ground that is un-scared by litter and waste.

And take care not to look up. The view up is not too much better than the view downwards. Plastic bags, not fruit, is what one is likely to find hanging from the sea grapes and oak trees. The plastic bag, which is a staple of the Publix/CVS/Walgreens/WalMart universe, is prone to escape and flies like the birds of paradise-up, up into the blue Florida sky and, either out to sea, or it nests in a tree. Snagged by a branch it lives on until the elements shred it and tear it and it finally comes down to join the rest of the immortal plastic on the road sides or the sandy vacant lots. This shredding, I believe, is what the plastic industry would have us believe is meant by “biodegradable” but really it is only evolved litter and blight. And “litter and blight” is being kind. Not to put too fine a point on it but those plastic products can kill long before they “degrade”. Wild animals mistakenly eat it and choke, get tangled in it and die. A bird caught in a knotted mess of mono-filament fishing line or a shredded plastic bag will not get loose. A turtle that eats a clear plastic sandwich bag that looks like a jelly fish will choke. But I digress. I was talking about filth and what an eye-sore it is and I am not a biologist so I will go back to my original thought.

While I am on the subject of filth, let me say that one must also be careful while looking up at that snagged WalMart shopping bag in the tree tops for a different reason. Dog Shit! It is everywhere. People in Florida don’t bother picking it up. And the places they have picked to bring their mastiffs and pit bulls to deposit that shit is the only open field in the area (except for the playground (where there seems to be a semblance of animal waste control) is the property where the water company has its wells. That logic or lack of logic is amazing! That is the place where our drinking water comes from!!! the perimeter of the well field is fenced in and dog owners come from all over the community to let their dogs shit there. I have, more than once, stepped in a huge pile of crap while walking there. I have never, ever seen any dog owners picking up their dogs shit there. Just let it rip and leave it be. Most owners will not pick it up off of peoples lawns either so the side of the road within leash reach is also shitty territory. Walk at your own peril. At the playground they do have a container where owners can deposit dog waste and they even provide plastic bags for the purpose of picking it up. I suppose where the children are concerned dog owners can be courteous, especially since it is an open space and everyone is watching while your dog squats. Who is going to ignore that social imperative? But no one is watching (or you think no one is watching!) while your dog does his business over the drinking water so what the hell!

I have seen evidence of some who put their dog waste into the little plastic bags from the playground and then, curiously, leave it along the side of the road or toss it into the bushes. The act of entombing shit in a plastic bag and then littering with the package is the ultimate illogical shitty act. Who’s going to pick that up? How long does the Plastic Industry Advisory Board predict that package will take to biodegrade?

So…what causes Florida (and probably other places as well) to treat their property and resources so poorly? First of all there is no reason for people to bring packaging (especially bottles and cans) in to recycle. There is no “bottle law” or deposit on the container. Other places that have a bottle law have people who profit, albeit marginally, by picking them up and cashing them in. Not here. Also, Litter laws are stupid and unenforced/unenforcable. Have you ever been or known anyone who has been, charged with littering? (except for Arlo Guthrie). In fact there are really good reasons for just tossing your crap out the window of your car. First, a neat person is only neat in his/her own car and neat people don’t want to ride around all day with the remains of a Pollo Tropical take out meal in the front seat with them. So they chuck it into the bushes when they’ve had their fill. Out of sight out of mind. Same goes for Burger King, Big Mac and Publix subs…The only driver who get pissed off at litter like that is one whose had it dumped in front of his house. That litter you can rest assured, will get cleaned up! Second, if you just finished a 16 oz. Tall boy of Bud Light you don’t want to get caught with the empty container in your vehicle. That could trigger a breath-O-lizer and a big fat problem with your driver’s license. Talk about incentives to litter. You can rest assured that Bud Light empty will be a projectile at the earliest opportunity. Add to the flying beer cans the stuff from kids who eat junk food on the way home from school or on the way to school from home…I mean kids, come on now. Dump the Big Gulp cup, top, straw, the Cheetos bag, the Jolly Rancher what ever ASAP before you reach the front door so Mom won’t pitch a fit! These are some of the great reasons to littler and you also know that Sheriff Dudley is not salivating to prosecute for littering .

Well, enough about this for now. I will try not to look down (or up) too much and just enjoy the sun and the air and the walk.