Sometimes we go where the wind blows and sometimes we stand in defiance of it.

I’m too tired, too angry, too beleaguered to have much thought at the moment.  Like the people in that sailboat, right now I’m at the mercy of my own tumultuous winds.

My blogging hiatus didn’t exactly last two weeks as you can no doubt tell.

No reason in particular other than I’m on call this weekend and felt like posting.

Of course, I’m on call every other weekend for the foreseeable future and am beginning to grow enraged at the work situation.

Still, it pays the bills.

Surprising me from the same shadowy, shielded, shrouded bend in one of the creeks leading to Sunset Bay, the banks of which I often walk during visits to White Rock Lake, two different species of heron gifted me with brief encounters before dashing away in response to my sudden arrival.

I discovered both on two separate days yet in the same location, a spot cloaked by verdant foliage concealing a plethora of perches for such creatures.  My clumsy stumbling through the trees sent both avians into immediate escape and proffered me only the briefest of opportunities to capture the moments.

Serenely stoic within a spot of shade, this green heron (Butorides virescens) wisely stood its ground without moving as I first approached.  Truth be told, I walked toward the bank of the creek without realizing the bird likewise kept an eye on me.

Most vertebrates with which I have had encounters appear fully capable of knowing when stillness is called for, something tendered evidently and conspicuously in those times when they realize they have not yet been spotted—or at least are not being watched directly.  Walk by without meeting their gaze and they are more likely to stand their ground, to remain motionless until you pass, and that even if you are passing within a breath of their position.  This is true even if you stop moving.

Yet set your eyes upon them and they will respond.  What innate awareness of covert calm when necessary, and what immediate enactment of essential evasion when circumstances warrant.  These are gifts we humans too often fail to fully comprehend and appreciate.

My path took me quite near the heron as it stood upon a fallen tree that bridged the creek from shore to shore.  I stopped beneath a pair of trees before turning toward its position.  That’s when I spied it.

The time it took for the bird to know the game was up can be measured in the time it took me to press the button on the camera.  It immediately turned and hopped across several branches, the crest on its head rising to full staff just before the creature took to wings and disappeared into the dense woodlands opposite my position.

Since then I have made it a point of trying to remain visibly unaware and uninterested in wildlife as I attempt to photograph it.  This does not always work well—or at all.  I find indirect photography a far more challenging proposition than is its direct counterpart.  Let’s face it: Often it’s quite necessary to actually look at what you’re trying to digitally capture.

Another challenge with unplanned nature photography stems from not always being prepared for the moment.  As I generally venture out with no predefined plans as to what I am looking for or where I am going, preparing the camera for these unexpected shots is impossible.  Whether the wrong settings, the wrong lens or the wrong filters, or a combination of the three, sometimes it’s necessary to ignore the mental instruction to fiddle with the camera first before taking a photo.  It’s a point-and-shoot world, I’m afraid, and that means I can’t always memorialize the experience with the quality I would prefer.

Days later but in the exact same spot, this yellow-crowned night-heron (Nyctanassa violacea) never flinched as I walked by.  My feet traced the very edge of the creek’s bank as I attempted nonchalance for the bird’s sake.  I slowed, fiddled with the camera a bit as I watched it peripherally, then stopped, turned, focused and took the picture in one quick fluid motion.

Both herons immediately took flight and vanished into the confluence.

Unbeknownst to me, two yellow-crowned night-herons had been perched there, the one I could see and another expertly hidden amongst branches so full of greenery as to offer impenetrable armor against prying eyes.  However, the second avian enjoyed a hiding place much closer to my position than the one I could see.  It behooved the winged beauty to flee with its friend lest my sudden halt and interest mean more than snapping a photo.

I watched the two of them fly low over the water before making a graceful turn up and into the trees.  It was then a third of their kind dove down from the branches a stone’s throw from my location and made a sweeping move to follow the first two, its raspy call filling the air perhaps as a warning to others.

— — — — — — — — — —

A note on the last photo:

Visible behind the heron is a fishing bobber held in the trees by a frightening amount of tangled line.  I find it disconcerting and deplorable.  Such hazards pose significant threats to the wildlife in the area.

Perhaps you remember the plastic ring tabs around this duck’s head which it suffered with for many months before finally disappearing.

So much human garbage and debris wind up in the lake.  Although I never have found the heart to photograph and share images of the carnage it leaves behind, I would need many more hands if I were to count on my fingers the number of walks I’ve taken which yielded some horrific find, such as a raccoon dead at the water’s edge with fishing line wrapped around its feet, a baby duck still and lifeless with a broken bottle stabbed into its bosom, and a snapping turtle starved to death with a fisher’s hook fastening its jaws permanently closed.  I could go on.

Truth be told, not a walk goes by when I don’t see more and more inhumanity measured in litter.  All the death and suffering it causes here is nothing more than a microscopic example of the macroscopic terrors we unleash worldwide.  Our species is brutish, heartless, troglodytic.

Exuviae remind me that life transforms into something else.

Rain reminds me that rejuvenation lies just beyond every horizon.

Even the smallest of streams reminds me that everything is on its way to someplace else.

Sunsets remind me that all things end.

It is of endings that I wish to speak.

Temporary endings, but endings nonetheless.

Working a schedule of twelve days on, two days off, twelve days on, two days off, and so on ad nauseam…  That’s my life at the moment.

I need time to focus on other things.  Finding a new job, for instance, and relocating, not to mention The Kids and work on Dreamdarkers.

For at least the next two weeks I intend to step away from blogging in its totality so that I might seek those answers which escape me at present.

This is not permanent.  Consider it a furlough, a sabbatical.

More important matters require my attention.  They deserve as much.

Grendel

Loki

Kako

Kazon

Vazra

Larenti

al-Zill

Collectively taking their leave…

Tomorrow will be the end of blogging here at xenogere, and that includes xenogere unseen.

Stay tuned…

Afar and adrift, distant and mournful, a song familiar to me rests uncomfortably deep within, a lamentation tickling my ears until I can stand it no further.

Yet always I must listen still.

Always afar, always mournful, this sweet melody belongs to gentle souls who speak in tears from great distances both near and far.

Yet always afield do their voices sound.

Sweeter nonetheless when close afar, always afar, this soul betwixt sorrow and mine own soul, forever reaching into me to that place where memories live, regrets stand tall, sadness shines brightly, emotions run free.

Yet always I strain to hear one more chorus, one more refrain, for the essence within me needs as much.

Cooing as though life slips away or heart bleeds, what sad language passes betwixt such creatures to my soul rings of loss, of heartache, of mourning, and at all times these voices seem faraway, remote, removed, even more so in some strange way when standing within the same breath as I.

Yet always afar…

[mourning dove (Zenaida macroura)]

You shall no doubt think me insane…

Meet Buddy.

Buddy is a male cicada-killer wasp (Sphecius speciosus) who just this morning decided my patio fence made the perfect territorial perch from which to survey his kingdom and search for mates.

Buddy is a friend.

After just a few minutes of spending time with him, he began trusting me such that he would perch on me, rest on the fence right next to me, fly about in front of the camera as I moved it to and fro, and not flee when I moved around—including putting the camera within a breath of his position so I could try some very close macro shots.

Unfortunately for him, our relationship will only last another month or so at best, and much less than that if he’s already mated at least once or if he succumbs to a predator.

Chills ran up and down my spine the first time he landed on me.  Not because I feared he might sting me; males of this species have a false stinger that serves only one purpose: mating.

The moment of overwhelming emotion stemmed from two great truths.  First, such a moment might never happen again after I relocate since I know of no such colony near where I intend to live in the Piney Woods.  Second, having gone through this same trust-building process with this species, I know Buddy will not forget that he is safe with me, on me, around me, and now so long as he is alive he will continually demonstrate this same level of comfort and confidence while in my presence.

One interesting piece of this series is that it shows the moderately small size of this species’ males.  They are larger than the females of other wasp species (save that of the tarantula hawk), but now consider this: this male’s female counterparts are nearly twice as large as he is, something I tried to capture with this series of photos showing a mating pair of cicada killers.

I intend to visit with Buddy a few more times today before sunlight reaches the patio.  These wasps tend to vanish for a noon siesta and relocate to shadier spots as the sun heads toward the western horizon.  He will no doubt claim other territory later today, after which I might not see him again—at least knowingly, that is, as many dozens of males now encircle the house on three sides.

— — — — — — — — — —

Notes:

[1] While at first it was rather difficult to capture images of him on my hand, he quickly became tolerant of the camera and my shifting and moving.  Nevertheless, this kind of photography is complicated.  The camera could only be an arm’s length from my hand since I had to see what I was shooting and had to work the controls.  I’m thrilled some of the photos turned out to be presentable.

[2] These photos were all taken prior to 10 am, and all on the west side of the xenogere homestead (that’s where the patio is).  Therefore, the only light I had was indirect sunlight.  That’s why the photos aren’t of the best quality, and that’s also why I used the flash several times—something I’m oftentimes loathe to do.

[3] One thing this series demonstrates is what I have always maintained about these wasps: they are docile, gentle giants.  Even the females will perch upon me momentarily, although that happens maybe once per season as they spend their time mating, building nests, hunting and eating.  The responsibility for future generations rests entirely on their tireless labor, so it behooves them to remain busy throughout their short lives.  Even so, one would have to brutalize a female to invoke a sting.  They truly are even-tempered creatures who will treat us humans with the same respect with which we treat them.

[4] I am not advocating that you run outside and start manhandling every insect you see.  One should never touch an insect unless it’s already known to be safe or is understood well enough to be safe.  There are caterpillars that can deliver stings worse than any wasp; there are centipedes that cause death; there are beetles that can pass along disease as well as a painful bite, let alone burning the skin like flame; there are ants whose sting is said to feel like a gunshot (aptly named the bullet ant); and the list goes on.  While my love of insects constantly pushes me to understand them and appreciate them, I would never handle one without knowing it to be safe either because it has no defense or because its nature is understood well enough to render that defense non-threatening.

[5] As for navel-gazing, I wonder if I love this species so vehemently as part of facing my worst fear: being stung by ants or wasps, and bees to a lesser degree.  My allergy to the former outstrips the latter by orders of magnitude, yet all three represent an immediate and deadly threat to me should I be the subject of one or more stings (one is bad enough; more than that and exponentially I become less able to recover).  As one of the largest wasps in the world, this docile species grants me a tremendous reassurance that respect is the first step toward ensuring I am not victimized.  I might have chosen a smaller cousin, sure, but that’s like facing a fear of drowning by filling a sink and splashing a bit of that water on our faces.  I consider that cheating.  Then again, my love of insects is unequaled by the rest of nature (which I love greatly, so that says something); it is perhaps with a sense of irony that the most dangerous thing to me in the common world is also the dearest to my heart.

[6] Coaxing Buddy to land on me the first time was key to ensuring he would do it again and again.  That single act bridged the distance between us and allowed him to see me as something other than a threat.  I used the same method I’ve used year after year to accomplish the same thing; it relies on understanding the species, understanding their behavior, understanding why they do what they do, understanding at least partially how they see and face the world around them.  Five years of close study and interaction make this possible, not to mention a great deal of research.

[7] I named him because it seemed agreeable that I call him something after our comradeship burgeoned, developing from suspicion to trust in the short time I spent with him this morning.  After all, I did speak to him as he flitted about, darted after everything that moved, and time and again returned to perch on me somewhere (one time doing so on my cheek!).  If we’re to be friends, ‘hey you’ seems a rather unfriendly way to address each other.

[8] The title is not of my own making.  That’s another story I hope to share soon.  Let me just admit this: I was called a ‘wasp whisperer’ by two college kids who were terrified of these creatures.  Simply terrified…

[9] Again, thank Mom for my love of insects.  Plain and simple, she has been, is, and always will be the reason I find such joy and comfort in these animals.  Were it not for her, I’d probably run screaming like a child when one approached me, which would make me very much like most other people on the planet.

[Loki]

Induced to blog as often as possible by nothing less mundane than excuses heaped upon excuses slathered atop yet more excuses, I considered more often than not of late the immediate demise of this journal and its offspring.

Instead, like so many times before—but this time with far more fervency than previous considerations, I am committing myself to certain rules that must be adhered to if I am to finish Dreamdarkers, End of the Warm Season, the other novels I wish to write, and all while addressing my relocation away from Dallas to the Piney Woods of East Texas.

xenogere will be first and foremost a less frequent destination, fare being proffered every two or three days at most, more frequently from time to time if circumstances warrant.  This begins immediately.  (Keep in mind that I will be apt to post more often while on call for work since that task makes it impossible to focus on any serious writing efforts.)

With push technology (RSS) now defining the blogosphere and all other corners of Web 2.0, I doubt the change will impact many.

xenogere unseen will continue in the same spirit with which it began: I will post there when I have something to share.  That determination rests entirely on how much time I think is needed to tender something.

Another piece of this is a further reduction in the number of blogs I read.  I hate to leave behind any of them; doing so is necessary though, and will take place.  Basically, this is a subjective endeavor and cannot be defined by any set rules.  What goes will go and what stays will stay.

— — — — — — — — — —

The cicada killer numbers are greatly reduced this year.  I suspect this has much to do with the monsoon season we experienced last year.  So much rain for so many months diminished the number of cicadas, and that in turn reduced the number of wasp offspring buried for this summer’s spell.

They still swarm with great presence, just not as great as so many summers before.  Likewise, the song of cicadas appears drastically lessened now, a sign that the annual species suffered under the constant deluges that besieged our state throughout most of their usual period in 2007.

Climactic decreases notwithstanding, the wasp colony fully stretches around three sides of the house, from the north corner of the garage on the east side to the north corner of the patio on the west side, consuming three full quarters of the perimeter.  I intend to enjoy this marvel of nature as much as possible since I fear I may never wallow in their company again, what with my relocation taking me to places where I have never seen their kind.

— — — — — — — — — —

I don’t feel well again.  Or still.  It doesn’t help that I worked until three this morning and am so tired that I can barely stand.

What’s up with that?

— — — — — — — — — —

I shall miss this place, this magical realm wherein I lose myself all too easily, this fantastic oasis of nature so neatly contained by urban sprawl and city landscapes.

Memories immemorial surround it, memories new and old.  Too long have I dwelt here.  And too little time have I spent amongst the beauty that defines this space.

Yet right there, just beyond a stone’s throw rests that which I hope to escape.

Ah, how I shall miss this place.

— — — — — — — — — —

Many things must be left behind, like relatively short commutes to visit loved ones, quick jaunts to see those who care for The Kids, all a metropolitan area provides for those in need…  The list goes on.

— — — — — — — — — —

Can one truly survive when the nearest liquor store is 30 minutes away?

— — — — — — — — — —

No matter how many times I tell myself it pays the bills, I hate my job.  Too many times have I considered giving notice—or no notice—just to get out of there.

It won’t be missed.  At all.

The people?  Yes, at least some of them, but not the environment, not the work, not the hours, not the pay, not the callous disregard, not the token gestures, not any of it.

I despise it.  I intend to make that clear in my closing remarks.

— — — — — — — — — —

How will they deal with this?  The Kids, I mean.

How do I move then almost 200 miles?  How do I ensure their continued well-being given so many health concerns?  How do I provide the kind of home they deserve and need whilst tossing away the comforts of a now-life for the promise of a then-life?