EcoLit 313

My latest observation at the Miller Memorial bench really put into perspective how isolated the spot really was. True for the most part the spot and the surrounding area was not as lonely as it had been.  Seeing how it was early afternoon on a day with fairly warm weather for an October day, I saw plenty more hikers, dog walkers, and runners (especially one who streaked across my field of vision 4 times in a 20 minute period) than there had been on my previous observation periods. Yet while it was more common to see people nearby than before, surprisingly there were huge spans of time where I was completely alone in the area and quite frankly enjoyed it. It was quiet and peaceful and made it hard to believe I was close to a busy road nearby and with a hugely populated college campus no more than a football field behind me. I was not only one who seemed to finally accept this spot as a quiet little bubble to get away from it all. When I first arrived, there was another observer, a local resident it seemed like, on a bench nearby, and it was only my arrival that forced him to reevaluate his position and leave, his content isolation apparently shattered by myself. But for me the highlight of the hour ( and perhaps of all my observations so far) was seeing a fox move out of the bushes bordering the Nature Trail and quietly slip back in after a few minutes.

In our representations of this campus, our images were starkly bare of humans. Usually from my spot near the end of senior row I can watch a trickle of people either making the trek up-campus from Brecon or down-campus to the gym or Park.

Perhaps the week before break at 7am was not the best time for this site-sit experiment, but as ekthorp said when she held onto her decision to have class outside, I wanted to stick to my plan.

So here is a view of human activity from my site-sit. People were staying on the sidewalks, following the man-made paths and giving me what felt like a distant vantage point. My photo quality is testament to that, although it works to my advantage for maintaining the anonymity of my subjects.

The squirrels and I were in cahoots here; they, unconcerned with me and my stillness on the bench, kept their distance from the people passing by, just as I did. Watching.

At 7:43am the lampposts all blinked off in unison and I noticed that the foggy mist had lifted considerably. 

I felt voyeuristic at first, but then realized that although these people were not looking at me, they could be. I wasn’t hidden, peering out at them; they just weren't looking.

I have to say that I got bored with the people. They were just going. The squirrels were doing. Although I don’t know how many people would want to watch the trees, the bench, the grass, and me just being. 

[more from Through the Looking Glass:]

   "What sort of insects do you rejoice in, where you come from?" the Gnat inquired.

   "I don't rejoice in insects at all," Alice explained, "because I'm rather afraid of them -- at least the large kinds. But I can tell you the names of some of them."

   "Of course they answer to their names?" the Gnat remarked carelessly.

   "I never knew them to do it."

   "What's the use of their having names," the Gnat said, "if they won't answer to them?"

   "No use to them," said Alice; "but it's useful to the people that name them, I suppose. If not, why do things have names at all?"

   "I can't say," said the Gnat. "In the wood down there, they've got no names -- however, go on with your list of insects." 

   "Well, there's the Horse-fly," Alice began, counting off the names on her fingers.

   "All right," said the Gnat: "half-way up that bush, you'll see a Rocking-horse-fly, if you look. It's made entirely of wood, and gets about by swinging itself from branch to branch."

   "What does it live on?" Alice asked, with great curiosity.

   "Sap and sawdust," said the Gnat. "Go on with the list."

  "O Tiger-lily," said Alice, addressing herself to one that was waving gracefully about in the wind, "I wish you could talk!"

   "We can talk," said the Tiger-lily: "when there's anybody worth talking to."

   Alice was so astonished that she couldn't speak for a minute: it quite seemed to take her breath away. At length, as the Tiger-lily only went on waving about, she spoke again, in a timid voice -- almost in a whisper. "And can allthe flowers talk?"

   "As well as you can," said the Tiger-lily. "And a great deal louder."

   "It isn't manners for us to begin, you know," said the Rose, "and I really was wondering when you'd speak! Said I to myself. "Her face has got some sense in it, though it's not a clever one!' Still you're the right colour, and that goes a long way."

   "I don't care about the colour," the Tiger-lily remarked. "If only her petals curled up a little more, she'd be all right."

Henry Takes a Walk: A Thoreauvian Storybook
 
Written by: Emma Thorp
Illustrated by: Sara Gladwin
 
Henry began to walk at the top of the long hill above the pond. Directions and destinations were not on his mind. He decided to see where this grassy slope would lead.
 
Henry wandered along side the pond’s banks, wondering where the ripples came from below the surface.
 
Several flat, gray paths lead him to a white house hidden among a green jungle. Instead of going through the front door, he followed a steep slope down to a small, muddy bank by a trickling creek.
 

Someone was leaning over the creek, watching the water skim over the slippery pebbles
Henry knelt down beside Someone, as they stared at the water’s clear surface. They wondered where it came from, and where it was in such a rush to get going.

 

Original Paragraph (from "Wandering & Wondering," Section IV): I've been thinking about Yeat's poem, Adam's Curse. Just those few lines - about our labor to be beautiful, the construction of beauty. More specifically, I'm thinking about the post-Garden of Eden collapse, of how, in Genesis, all of Creation becomes wild, is infected with sin. It's uncontrolled, it's imperfect and strange. And the human relationship with nature is uncertain, there is a divide. Thrown out of the Garden, we must work the land in order to produce anything beautiful. We must re-define beauty for ourselves - we must re-create whatever we think beauty should be.

Notes/analysis: Since the paper was called “Wandering and Wondering,” I tried to enact those things in my style of writing – not landing on any one point of view or type of writing, not drawing definite conclusions, but leaving room for changes. With this being a series of observations – not personal reflection – I lost a directed commitment to one view over another. So now I’m struggling with deciding on the ‘genre’ for this piece/paragraph. I think it is more tragic than comedic – with the “we” positioned as a kind of hero, a portion of the “Created” that is actively working against “division.”

Difficult To Be Really Present With a Headache

ORIGINAL VERSION: GENRE: NONFICTION

I'm currently sitting on the third step from the front of the fountain at taft garden. I have never noticed these peculiar bugs before but they are tiny, tiny flies or mosquitoes of a creamy tan color. They are floating so gracefully, so carefree, gliding around in circles. I wonder if they have any agenda or if they are simply enjoying themselves, enjoying their life. They don't seem in pursuit of anything but rather just trailling around and around in a random motion. But of course I'm not certain. The sun is peeking through the clouds, trying to force its way through so that although the light around me is a grey-white, I still cannot comfortably look up because the sun is still bright. Maybe I could find a deeper meaning in that. I wish I could but at the moment, it is difficult for me to be truly present because all I can feel is either

To examine the genre of my written Thoreuvian Walk is difficult. I don't know whether I can quite name it in a specific genre. It is not a tragedy, it's not a comedy. Is a reflection a genre? I think my "walk" is still quite like a pastoral, but it does explore partially the idea of the hidden and the parts of the earth that are difficult to navigate. So maybe it's slightly Gary Snyder-esque? That's what I will call it now, a pastoral with hints of Gary Snyder. So now to write it into a different genre. Not sure what to call it? Not exactly a tragedy, but sort of leaning toward it.

Original: