Entries Tagged 'me' ↓

On Saturday, with Julie ensconced in her studio all day, I decided to go for a walk in the woods at Mason Neck. This has recently become one of my favorite places to wander around - there’s a good view of the Potomac on one end and many lovely wooded trails going through the park.

Julie and I have gone on many walks there of late. But while we’ve wandered several of the paths, I’ve never managed to find the elusive Eagle’s Spur, a trail that supposedly leads to an overlook of Kane’s Creek. The trails near there are not well marked, and Julie is always resistant to striking off into the trees.  For some strange reason, she doesn’t much enjoy wandering off the path into unmarked woods. I just can’t figure out why.

I arrived at the park at around 3:30, complete with two apples, an orange, and a compass that Julie gave me for Christmas. I picked up a copy of the trail map (available from a link here, for those who care to play along at home), and I was off.

I missed one turning, wandered in a small loop, and finally found my way to the Eagle Spur trail. The joining point between it and Kane’s Creek Trail is hard to spot, which explains why we had never found it before. But once I wandered in the woods a little near where I thought it would be, the trees opened up into a neat little path, nicely blazed with white reflectors set every fifty feet or so.

The trail is a nice one, with several little hills, a number of small wooden bridges over marshy lowland, and lots of twists and turns through the woods. At the end it comes to a little stand overlooking a creek populated by several ducks. I quite enjoyed the walk.

But when I reached the end, the only marked route was to return the way I came, and I am not one to meekly retrace my own steps. So instead, I looked at the map, saw that the creek led to the Potomac, and the Potomac led to open parkland, and figured, hey, how hard can it be to find my way out? So, taking advantage of Julie’s absence (because she would not have approved this plan), I set out through the woods.

The sun was getting low in the sky, which was rather convenient, as my path was towards the southwest. At that time of day, at this time of year, it was a simple matter of walking straight at the sun. Well, simple if it weren’t for the swampy inlets that were in my way. I had to detour around them, staying to the hills overlooking the water.

After a while, the ground looked a lot dryer. So I came down off the ridge towards a little valley that led towards the southwest to another hill. Unfortunately, though, it turned out that the valley floor was covered with thick mud camouflaged by a layer of grass. I discovered this when, on taking my second step, both legs sunk down knee deep.

Standing there in the muck, I had a little thinking to do. Perhaps I had come down from the hill too soon. Perhaps, even, I should have stayed on the path, though since the trail was a good ten minutes behind me through unmarked woods, it was probably too late to have that thought. But in any event, it was time for a tactical retreat. So I lifted my leg and, with a little struggle against the suction, pulled my foot out of the mud.

Alas, while my foot came up, my shoe did not follow.  I stood there on one foot, and while I will admit that thoughts of quicksand crossed my mind, I did not dwell on them.  Instead, my mind filled with visions of a two mile barefoot hike through unmarked woods.  That didn’t seem like a terribly good option, so I reached down into the mud, into the hole left by my foot, and retrieved my rather mucky shoe with my now slightly less mucky arm.

After a little trouble getting my other foot and shoe up, I struck for high ground.  Once things were dry, I paused to put my shoes back on.  There was no real difficulty with that, though I did have the rather uncomfortable feeling of having decaying leaves surrounding my socks for the rest of the day.  But not being the sort to let a little thing like sludgy stockings bother me, I looked for a way around the bog back towards civilization.

It was now around 4:15, and the park gates were due to be locked at 5:30.  More importantly, the sun was getting low in the sky, and while my new compass includes a LED light, I did not relish the thought of a midnight stroll through unmarked paths.  And yet, I was not completely without resources.  One apple still remained, so I would not go hungry.  I had my compass and a map of the trails, though half of the map was decaying from where the mud splattered on it.  Most vital of all, I still had my native wits to guide me.

Of course, since it was my wits that had gotten me into this mess in the first place, some might say that they should not be counted as an asset.

After circling the muck some more, I found a spot that looked crossable. It was definitely moist, but there were tussocks that I might stand on.  At least, that’s how it appeared at first glance, but a closer examination, taken when I was halfway across, cast some doubts on that view.  In short, once again I was knee deep in bog.

I was tired of making like a frog (knee deep, get it?), so I decided to spread my weight a bit and ended up crawling out over the mud. I managed to avoid losing my shoes this time, though, so I felt I was doing well.I worked my way up the hill through some pretty thick underbrush, barely managing to avoid getting all scratched. The terrain was clearer at the top of the ridge, and I did my best to work in roughly the right direction. Before long, I noticed that there was a bit of a path through the trees. Soon after that, I spotted a white reflector blazing the way. Somehow, I had found my way back to the original trail. This time, I resisted the urge to avoid the beaten path.

I hiked back out to my car, covered with mud and grinning like a loon over my adventure. And thinking about Julie. I’m not quite ready to admit that she is right to always stay on the trail. But I will say that maybe, in some specific circumstances, she might have a point.

In any event, that was my weekend adventure.  Because while I went for a little walk on Sunday, it was in the tame environs of a shopping mall.

I had to, after all.  I needed a new pair of shoes.

Sloth is not usually one of my vices.  But this week, well…

This past week, here at the beach, a typical day would go something like this:

9: Wake up.   Lie around in bed, talking to Julie.

9:30: Eat breakfast while reading a book and looking out over the bay.

10:00: Read while sitting on the deck.

11:00 Time for the late-morning nap.

12:30: Lunch!

1:00 Short walk on the beach (optional)

2:00 Sit on the deck and read.

3:30 Afternoon nap

5:30 Check email.

6:00 Dinner!

6:30 Read

8:00 Short walk on the beach.

8:30 Read

11:00 Go to bed.

When I comment on how little I’m doing, Julie usually responds, “Well, you probably need it.”  And boy, do I!

Anyway, I don’t want you to think I did absolutely nothing this week.  I went out sailing a couple of times.  (The wind wasn’t great, but there were dolphins in the bay one day, and the girls and I sailed with them.)  I played some RockBand with the family.  I even made it out to Mathews to see a movie one day.  And did I mention all those naps I managed to have?

Okay, so maybe I didn’t do much.  And it was everything I hoped it would be.

I view art of all sorts as having a temperature. Whether painting, sculpture, literature, theater, cinema, or music, art can be coolly cerebral or hotly passionate.

Consider, for example, the Mona Lisa.

The most famous painting in the world, she is cool and comforting, her beauty lying in the subtle blend of colors and  mysterious smile. Something to contemplate in serenity matching the subject.

Contrast that with the statue of Cupid and Psyche, a neighbor of the Mona Lisa in the Louvre:

There’s nothing cool or subtle about that sculpture. It’s hot and passionate, and one glimpse can set your heart racing, even as the hearts of the depicted lovers do.

In general, I much prefer hot art.  (And, in fact, Cupid and Psyche was my favorites of the pieces that I saw in the Louvre.)  I prefer romantic symphonies to chamber music, hot rock to cool jazz, the ragings of King Lear to the musings of Hamlet.  I want art that reaches deep into my soul and calls on me to bay passionately at the moon.

A case in point: Friday evening, I went to the National Symphony’s performance of Mahler’s Second Symphony.  This has been one of my favorite pieces of music since the first time I heard it, back when I was in college.  Back then, Julie and I decided on the spur of the moment to go listen to the Symphony.  Mahler was playing, and I had heard good things about Mahler.  (Yeah, I know, a wonderful combination of arrogance and ignorance.  What can I say, I was an undergraduate at the time.)  We stood in line waiting to buy tickets when an older man came up to us and asked in a disgruntled voice, “Are you buying tickets to tonight’s symphony?”  When we said yes, he said, “Don’t bother,” and thrust into my hands two excellent tickets.  I can only assume that someone had stood him up, leaving him with two tickets and a bad attitude.  But whatever the back story, it added a bit of magic to our evening.

As it did this past Friday, on my first listening the music overwhelmed me.  The symphony is big - between orchestra, chorus, and soloists, it takes something like 250 musicians to perform.  It goes from a dramatic and stormy first movement to a transcendent chorale finale that is the music I imagine sung by the angels as one ascends into heaven.

Which makes it, perhaps, my favorite piece of music to listen to when I am in a bad mood.  Because as the stormy first movement plays, I find myself wrapped up in the music as it expresses the gloom in my soul.  But then, the music climbs out of the depths and reaches for the heavens, and I find my spirit reaching with it.

Mahler called it his Resurrection Symphony.  For me, the symphony lives up to its name.

I finished off the Sharpe’s Rifles series.  Nothing much to add to the previous notes on them - all good, quick reads without a whole lot of depth.

I’ve moved on to read Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World by Jack Weatherford.  This is a biography of Genghis Khan, that continue past Genghis’s death to cover the subsequent history of the Mongol empire.  A fascinating read, but it does stray a bit into hagiography.  It makes a big deal about the more enlightened aspects of Genghis Khan’s rule (forbidding torture, allowing religious freedom to his subjects) while glossing over some of his harsher policies (mostly, the tendency towards widespread slaughter of the ruling elite of any nation that he conquered, and the enslavement of the common people in such nations).  It mentions those things, but tends to excuse them by comparing them favorably with the practices of the Europeans at the time.

Still, it’s a fascinating portrait of a fascinating person.  And one whose rise to power is stunning.

I always find it interesting to consider the difference between someone’s life from the low point to the high.  Up until this time, the broadest range of low-to-high in my knowledge was Adolph Hitler, who went from being homeless in Austria to ruling all of Europe.  (And this should not in any way be considered praise of Hitler, who was, of course, astonishingly evil in his methods and policies and not at all worthy of admiration.)

But Genghis Khan’s range was even greater.  In his youth, after his father was killed by enemies, the young Temujin (Genghis’s name before he became ruler of the Mongolians) and his family scrambled to achieve a bare subsistence.  At one point Temujin was captured by enemies and enslaved for a period.  From that low, he grew to conquer and rule one of the largest empires that the world has known, an empire that eventually stretched from the Pacific Ocean to the Mediterranean Sea.

I’m not quite finished with the book yet - while Genghis is long dead, the Mongol empire has yet to collapse.  But the book is an excellent read about a period of history that I little knew.

Springfield Mall, in Springfield, Virginia, fills a surprisingly large role in many of my memories.  My first date with Julie, my wife, was going to see “And Justice for All” in the movie theater there.  (Lousy movie.  Nice date.)  My most traumatic experience took place when I took my son to see “Bambi” there and a guy sitting a few rows behind us choked to death on a piece of popcorn.  And I have many fond memories of taking my kids there, to see movies or shopping.

Over the past few years, the mall has been in decline.  The movie theater is hardly worth going to - the seats are all springs and the aromas are far too strong.  There are more and more empty storefronts, and the shops that are left are weighted towards oriental kitsch shops.  (I bought daughter Kate a katana set for Christmas at one such shop, and the storekeeper complained about the declining quality of the mall.  When a kitschy katana-selling shopkeeper complains about the quality of a mall, you know it’s in bad shape.)

But this last weekend, the mall finally jumped the shark.

I stopped by to grab lunch at the food court.  I sat there, pleasantly reading as I ate, when at three locations spread out throughout the food court guys simultaneously stood up and started preaching at a full shout.  They told of a local revival, and promised free admission with the tickets being handed out by their collaborators.

I suppose Springfield Mall cannot be blamed for such offenses.  But I was disappointed that mall security did not quickly escort these solicitors from the premises.  And even more disappointed that none of the folks running food stands bothered to pick up a phone and call security.  If they don’t care about the quality of life in the mall, why should I?

Perhaps they will renovate the mall and it will come back from the dead.  But until then, I won’t be going there any more.  Goodbye Springfield Mall - I have many fond memories of you.  But no more, no more.

A cliche, I know.  But I’ve never had a year that so lived up the Dickens quote as 2007.  In this post, I’ll just list the most memorable events.  Later, I’ll come back and post general impressions.

2007 started for me in Cozumel in Mexico.  It was the first time we visited the tropics in six years.  I was reminded of how much I love swimming in warm waters over a coral reef.  A lovely trip, full of great memories and fine experiences.

In late January, Julie and I spent two weeks in India.  I saw some of the most beautiful things that I’ve ever seen, and some of the ugliest, often within a five minute walk of each other.  The Indian people are marvelous, the color of the country is breathtaking, and the Taj Mahal exceeds the hype - it’s the most beautiful man-made object that I’ve ever seen.  I saw many things that I will remember fondly forever.

In May, my son Andy graduated from college.  I am proud of how well he has done, what a fine independent young man he has become.  He is now living in Charlottesville, where he works programming computers for a psych professor.  If you’ve ever tried one of the implicit association tests, chances are you’ve used some of Andy’s code.

At the tail end of May, I left AOL after ten years.  I’m now working for Mixx, an Internet startup, as the CTO.  I should have done this years ago - start-up life is marvelous, things are always exciting, and I have a huge impact on what we’re doing.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this satisfied at work.

Over the summer, at our beach-house, I had two of the best sails I’ve ever had.  I crossed the bay on my Hobie Cat, something I’ve only done once before.  It’s around 14 miles each way, and pretty much the limit of what I’ll sail on that little boat.  And one day, while sailing with Kate and Diana, wild dolphins surrounded us off the shore at our beach house.  There were at least a dozen dolphins, including mothers and their babies, and we spent an hour sailing among them while they played with us.  What a beautiful time.

So much for the best of times.  In early September, my father was diagnosed with cancer.  Most of the fall was spent watching him, a vital man of 80, lose strength.  He died on December 9.  It’s still a little hard to believe how quickly it all went - this summer, at his 80th birthday, he was full of life.  I never would have guessed then that he would be gone by the end of the year.

But there were still a couple more trips.  We went up to New York to spend Thanksgiving with my sister Sara.  I got to see the Macy’s Parade in person - mobbed, but pretty neat.  No Broadway musicals, alas - the stage-hand strike saw to that.  But we did get to a fine off-Broadway production of Richard III.

A rather gloomy Christmas was brightened considerably with the news that my sister is expecting her first child, due in June.  It was about the only news that could bring joy to a difficult Christmas.  The wheel of life keeps turning.

And finally, we spent New Years Eve back in the tropics again, this time in Grand Caymans.

Quite the year.  Full of incredible highs and lows: it’s hard to believe that it all fit into 365 short days.  I doubt that 2008 will top it, and, frankly, I’m hoping that it won’t.

He is watching!