Impetuous Translations

Cycles

BBC News last night showed a brief clip speculating on the negative effects we humans might have this year on the North American monarch butterfly population. As part of the story, the reporter detailed the amazing migration of these butterflies, which come from as far as Canada to the same small forest in Michoacan, Mexico in late fall every year. This year, and in previous five year intervals, the butterflies have done so in incredible numbers despite the best efforts of humans to systematically destroy their habitat. 

What's spectacular about the monarchs' annual return to the Michoacan forest is that their life cycle, on average, is two months. This means that the butterflies leading the migration home are operating on built-in instinct rather than familiarity with their destination. Though scientists know a lot about the migration patterns, the real questions of why they migrate and how they know where they are going remains a mystery.  The forest where they return every year is technically no more home to them than any of the thousands of miles in between their starting and final resting points.

I've spent more than 15 years tracking the monarchs from afar, and one year from close-by on a visit to the forest. I'd like to chalk up this longstanding fascination with their migration to the nerdy scientist in me, but in many ways, I think of it as being as close to a spiritual journey as I'll ever believe to have witnessed. The migration is my annual indulgence to question the power of destiny and fate as it battles out logic and fact. What better way to start the new year, really?

Who says Christmas doesn't come from a store?

Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before!
“Maybe Christmas,” he thought, “doesn’t come from a store.”
“Maybe Christmas…perhaps…means a little bit more!”

The Grinch has obviously never been to High Street Kensington's Whole Foods Market the day before Christmas. Candy canes, Georgia pecan pie, and my favorite Napa Valley wine.

Glory be to the food god on High. Happy holidays to everyone else!

London on sale

With the pound falling precipitously against the Euro, the mainland continental conquerors, as they're affectionately know here, can be seen entering in droves into the most English of stores like Marks & Spencers and Fortnum & Mason this Christmas season. They buy, buy, buy while Londoners sell, sell, sell.

Not too long ago, this frenzy occurred across the pond and somewhat in reverse. Then, the English bought, bought, bought while the Americans sold, sold, sold. I'm not a very bitter person, but once in a while it's nice to see the UK citizenry finally get a taste of its own medicine. Misery loves company, I suppose.

 

An epilogue for yesterday

The First Day of Winter

On the first day of winter,
the earth awakens to the cold touch of itself.
Snow knows no other recourse except
this falling, this sudden letting go
over the small gnomed bushes, all the emptying trees.
Snow puts beauty back into the withered and malnourished,
into the death-wish of nature and the deliberate way
winter insists on nothing less than deference.
waiting all its life, snow says, "Let me cover you."

-   Laura Lush

Wherein...

My good friends and colleagues point out that the New Year is always a good time to start working on one's issues.

 

When the rhythm fades

I'm sure, like all proud fathers, my dad can remember exactly how old I was when I pitched this amazing no-hitter in one of the final games of my high-school championship softball tournaments. I might have been a sophomore, but maybe I was a senior.

It was a long time ago either way to still remember the incredible rhythm of that game; Of the step onto the mound over six innings, the feel of the dirt on my heel as I pivoted backwards, the wind as it whipped in my ear while my arm windmilled round, the exacting precision in the snap release of the ball, and the sound of the ball's slap against the catcher's glove seconds later. It was musical and I could hear the beat if only for that game. It's fair to say that while I was a decent pitcher, I wasn't destined to throw a no-hitter like that one again. The rhythm had come on quick and strong and then faded as if it never existed in the first place.

I think about that game and what followed after it a lot for two reasons. First, because I remember how great it was to be in that moment, to have the beat of the game seduce you. Second, I remember it for the feeling of dread after each pitch because I knew how tenuous that beat was.

The process of writing my dissertation, which I began a few months back in earnest, is starting to feel a lot like that game. From feedback on early drafts and other papers, the rhythm and the flow of words seem happily close to perfect, but like the next pitch, I wonder which good sentence or paragraph will be my last. Right now, much like I did some twenty years ago, I'm just praying I make it through the game before the rhythm fades.

Care to hazard a guess?

Just time for a brief post tonight as it's late here in London and I've had a long day writing SCIENTIFIC THINGS OF IMPORTANCE in preparation for submitting my PhD upgrade report at the end of this month.

As a result, will cut to the chase and ask whether anyone cares to hazard a guess what this environmental service company's founder could have possibly been thinking about when choosing the name Agent Orange to represent his business?

From the Agent Orange website (I kid you not):

Agent Orange Enterprises Ltd
http://www.aoe.uk.com/index.html

Agent Orange deals with all aspects of Environmental Services
in Greater London and the Home Counties

Why should you use Agent Orange?

» Free quotes delivered swiftly
» Photographic reports with every job
» Competitive pricing
» Fast response times
» Unrivalled work quality
» Affiliated professionalism
» Friendly, genuine client care
» Enthusiastic, trained staff
» Military organisation
» Extensive experience
» Legendary Health & Safety culture
» Glowing references
» Heroic dependability
» Olympic flexibility
» Titanic capability

 

For better or for worse, I guess Agent Orange has achieved some level of brand recognition among potential clients. I saw the company van roaming a back street on my way to work some 18 hours earlier and I'm still wondering, W.T.F. 

KRG Historical Revisionism

From this evening on, I will remember last night's field trip to KRG for its stunning venue, good-looking, fabulous and fun company, and rocking house music only.

To keep this vision intact, I will forget the number of seriously drunk women who, with one misplaced step, turned their shoes into weapons, that there are still men out there who try to pick up women by tossing out cheesy winks, and the lingering 'what was I thinking' feeling the morning after when contemplating my beverage intake of white wine, mulled wine, champagne, gin and tonic, and amaretto sour.

A perfect evening indeed. Starting now.

Practicing my pose

As many of you know, I'm looking forward tonight to what could be called my first real night of clubbing in London. A friend has invited a group (I call it his harem, but anyhow) to the Kensington Roof Gardens.

I'm geeky enough to have first heard about the Gardens because of, well, the gardens. Apparently though, after 10:30, the venue turns into a Richard Branson Virgin-sponsored member's only nightclub. I'm putting up the club promo material so you can see just what the evening might entail.

Work colleagues and I have been having a great time practicing the model's pose all day. Watch out folks, I'm about to become one of London's "beautiful elite." You can say you knew me when...

Would it, could it, ever be?

I would happily settle down in the suburbs, transform myself into a stay-at-home mom, and fix my husband a pre-dinner martini while massaging his feet, if only he'd ask...

My one, my only, my dashing and ever-so-clever, special prosecutor.