Photography

A Duck is more than its Quack!

| thetembo
Reading Time: 9 minutes

The snowbirds are here, and I don’t mean the people overwintering in Florida. I mean the actual birds that migrate here to spend the winter. In the past two months, I’ve visited Santee Lakes, Lake Miramar, Lake Poway, and San Elijo Lagoon. I’ve checked off half a dozen or so new species on the bird list and have some beautiful pictures to show for it and share.

For the record, I use the iNaturalist app and community to help me accurately identify the species. The Seek app (an iPhone app) can be used in the field if you have an internet connection. You can follow me on iNaturalist as user angelmi or Instagram as user contact.mike.angel@gmail.com. I use iNaturalist.org to contribute to biodiversity science. I use Instagram to promote nature and showcase my amateur photography skills.

Dabblers

The dabblers are the ducks you see with their asses in the air and their heads underwater. A dabbler is a waterfowl that feeds on the surface rather than diving underwater. They like to dine on aquatic vegetation, seeds, and small invertebrates in shallow water. Their legs are placed more centrally on their bodies, making them better suited for walking on land than diving ducks.

I found the Green-winged Teal in the shallows of San Elijo Lagoon on the frontage trail. I didn’t see any comrades, but I probably wouldn’t have recognized them, especially the females, as this was a new species for me.

Teals are small crow-sized ducks. The green-winged teal is a small dabbling duck found in ponds and marshes, feeding on seeds and aquatic vegetation. There are 77,635 worldwide observations of the green-winged teal in the iNaturalist database as of this writing. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found this blue-winged teal by the shoreline near Annie’s Canyon in San Elijo Lagoon. He was swimming with a coot and two females. Also a new species for me. The crescent markings on its face drew my attention as a species I didn’t recognize.

The blue-winged teal is slightly larger than the green-winged. It is distinguished by blue patches on its wings but I did not see it fly. There are 48,483 worldwide observations of the blue-winged teal in the iNaturalist database. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found several specimens of the cinnamon teal in all corners of San Elijo Lagoon, which means maybe five or so observations, all in shallow water sifting through the reeds, presumably looking for invertebrates or aquatic plants. The brown-red plumage and the bright red eye distinguish this from other teals. There are 23,189 worldwide observations of the cinnamon teal in the iNaturalist database as of this writing. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found this Northern Pintail up on the shore in San Elijo Lagoon near Annie’s Canyon, sifting through the mud. The bright-white S-shaped arc on its neck distinguishes this duck from the rest and is fairly common throughout the lagoon.

The Northern Pintails frequent open wetlands and are one of the first ducks to migrate south. Who can blame them for beating the cold and the rest of the snowbirds? There are 45,199 worldwide observations of the Northern Pintails in the iNaturalist database. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

I found this Gadwall at Lake Poway hanging out with the Coots and Mallards, looking for handouts near the dock. Coots and Mallards are ubiquitous in the waterways of San Diego County year-round, so much so that I rarely take pictures of them anymore, despite those interesting rail feet of the Coots and the iridescent green colors of the Mallard.

I could have easily overlooked the Gadwall as its plumage is indistinct and easily mistaken for the drab female colors of almost any duck species. I long contended that male birds are colorful not only to impress the females but also to distract predators away from nests guarded by the more camouflage-oriented females.

Gadwalls are said to outcompete other ducks by stealing vegetation they pull up underwater. I’ve worked with some gadwalls, but that is another story. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 74,987 worldwide observations of the Gadwall. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

The Northern Shovelers are easy to identify because of their unique white-brown-white body color and green head. I spotted this specimen in Lake Poway but have also documented others at San Elijo and a Cook County Forest Preserve Pond near Chicago.

I saw one sifting through the water with its oversized bill. According to Wikipedia, the Northern Shovelers use their spoon-shaped bills to filter plankton. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 92,841 worldwide observations of the Northern Shoveler. Its conservation status is of “Least Concern.”

The American Wigeons are an abundant winter visitor to all the waterways of San Diego County. At the duck pond in Kit Carson Park, they are as numerous, domesticated, and needy as the mallards and coots that lay about waiting for handouts.

Its defining characteristic is the green patch around its eye and a cream-colored cap running from the crown of its head to its bill. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 57,452 worldwide observations of the Northern Shoveler. Its conservation status is of least concern.

Divers

The divers swim underwater to forage for food, traveling to deeper waters than the dabblers. Their legs are positioned further back on their bodies, making them excellent swimmers but more awkward on land.

Ring-necked Ducks are a common sight in the San Diego waterways in the winter. I often confuse these diving ducks with the Lesser Scaup. You have to look closely to see the ring around its neck, but the white ring around its bill seems to be its defining characteristic. Ring-bill seems a more fitting name than ring-neck. Those yellow eyes against black feathers give it an intense look. To misquote, “If ducks could kill, they probably will in ponds without frontiers…”

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 51,257 worldwide observations of the Ring-necked Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

I happened to see this specimen on “Kiss a Ginger Day.” Yes, there is such a thing, and I suspect it was an inside job. This Redhead had none of it, maybe because I called him a specimen. The same thing happened with my ginger girlfriend when I called her a specimen.

The Redheads prefer deeper water and often flock with canvasbacks. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 19,913 worldwide observations of the Ring-necked Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

I spotted this one in Lake Poway. Lesser Scaup has a similar dark head, yellow eyes, and blueish bill, but no ring around the bill like the Ring-necked duck. It’s been a long time since I recorded a Greater Scaup, so I have little basis for comparison between the Lesser and the Greater, but I did post this once:

Lesser, humble, in demeanor,
Yet resilient, a quiet demeanor
Greater stands with noble grace,
A regal presence in the sea's embrace.

Lesser, grounded, but steadfast,
Navigates its pond with calm contrast.
Greater soars with conficence high,
A master of the open sky.

In every quack, a tale unfolds,
Of differences, their feathers hold.
Greater, lesser, on waters vast,
Together create a subtle contrast.

They dive for mollusks and aquatic insects by poking through the mud at the bottom of ponds. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 34,948 worldwide observations of the Lesser Scaup. Its conservation status is of least concern.

I captured this pair off the dam on Lake Miramar. Although I didn’t get very close to it, I realized immediately by its white body and redhead that it was a species I hadn’t seen before.

The Canvasback is the largest diving duck. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 15,474 worldwide observations of the Canvasback. Its conservation status is of least concern.

This capture comes from Lake Miramar, but I’ve seen the Bufflehead in all the lakes except the Kit Carson Duck Pond. The defining characteristic is the big white patch behind the eye. The neck feathers have interesting iridescent colors when the light catches it correctly.

The Bufflehead is one of the smallest diving ducks, rivaling the Green-winged Teal for the honors. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 67,681 worldwide observations of the Bufflehead. Its conservation status is of least concern.

The first Ruddy Duck I saw had a blue bill and reddish plumage. I thought this might be the female, but I read the winter color is significantly different, as shown above, so I’m not sure. The scoop-shaped bill would seem closest to a defining characteristic when they are in drab mode.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 43,039 worldwide observations of the Ruddy Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

The wood duck looks like someone accidentally dropped a full paint palette on it. It is stunningly colorful. I have found wood ducks at Santee Lakes in summer and winter. Although the wood ducks are migratory, I read that many in the Pacific flyway stay year-round. And who could blame them? It’s worth a trip to Santee Lakes just to see them, but it is a birding paradise.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 79,931 worldwide observations of the Wood Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

Geese

What distinguishes geese from ducks, aside from their size? Geese honk and ducks quack!

I saw this Canadian Goose Armada at Santee Lakes, where they seem to be regular visitors. Geese supposedly like to eat grass, another differentiator between ducks and geese, and there is plenty of grass at Santee Lakes. They are ubiquitous in the ponds, lakes, and rivers of Cook County, Illinois and considered a nuisance because of their sizeable avian excrement. If you have ever wondered where the term “goosing” comes from, try getting too close to one of these big birds.

As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 299,128 worldwide observations of the Ruddy Duck. Its conservation status is of least concern.

Brants Goose is distinguished by the white collar about its neck. It’s much smaller than its Canadian counterpart and not much larger than the other ducks on the lagoon. I spotted this one at San Elijo Lagoon, which makes sense, given their predilection for eel grass.

The Brants breed on the high Arctic Tundra, making them the long-distance winners of the lagoon. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 16,238 worldwide observations of the Brant. Its conservation status is of least concern.

Rails

If you want to see the difference between rails and ducks, check out the feet. Ducks have webbed feet and rails have long toes designed for wading and walking over the plants at the water’s edge. The rails I’ve spotted in San Diego include the Coot, the Ridgeway Rail, Moorhens, and the Sora. The Sora I spotted in San Elijo Lagoon was the first I’ve ever seen and the first time I’ve heard of the species. On the cusp of a full moon, the tide was high, and I had to wade barefoot and ankle-deep along the flooded frontage trail. I was rewarded with the sight of a Sora wading in the open along the trail’s edge. I attribute my good fortune to the high tide because the water’s edge is significantly closer to the trail and the flooding limited the foot traffic to the few who were willing to walk a hundred feet of trail in the water.

According to Wikipedia, the Sora is common, though seldom seen, preferring to stay deep in the safety of reeds. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 16,238 worldwide observations of the Brant. Its conservation status is of least concern.

I also spotted a Ridgway’s Rail in the lagoon last summer, making it one of only 2,257 observations. It’s listed as “Near Threatened” and “Endangered” by the federal government.

Pelicans

There are only two species of Pelican that I am familiar with: the White Pelican and the Brown Pelican. The Brown Pelicans are sea birds and year-round inhabitants. They were once on the endangered list thanks to DDT and pesticide poisoning, but have recovered nicely since they were banned.

The White Pelicans are seasonal visitors overwintering in Southern California. The capture above is from Santee Lakes. As of this writing, the iNaturalist database has 60,103 worldwide observations of the Brant. Its conservation status is of least concern.

And The Rest

I haven’t included grebes, cormorants, herons, egrets, terns, and seagulls, all seen in San Diego’s lagoons and lakes, as most are year-round residents. It’s nice to find such biodiversity in these areas, although I suspect I am a victim of a shifting baseline for the worse. With some luck, I can add a few more entries for winter visitors before they head back north.

Authors Note: Any uncredited facts come from ChatGPT, which I did not query for its sources.

Writing

The Penitent Man

| thetembo
Reading Time: 5 minutes

The Gracecraft drone arrived just in time. The clearing was peaceful, with the whirring hum of the drone barely audible over the rustling trees. Its sleek white body, emblazoned with a glowing insignia of a dove in flight, carried a promise of peace and salvation. A holographic projection of Jesus materialized in three dimensions, outlined by a soft golden light as he stepped toward the house.

Inside, Joseph knelt by his father’s bedside. The old man’s breaths were shallow and labored. Tears streamed down Joseph’s face as he clasped his father’s frail hand. When the holographic Jesus entered the room, Joseph felt a shift in the air—as if divinity itself had descended. The figure’s eyes shimmered with compassion, and in a voice that was both ancient and tender, he began the Last Rites. In that moment, Joseph felt relief and comfort, a reassurance that his father’s passing would be sanctified by a sacrament that his faith required. The Gracecraft provided what flesh-and-blood priests sometimes could not.

Joseph marveled at the precision of it all. The drone’s timing had been flawless. His father passed peacefully, blessed by a sacrament that Joseph’s faith demanded. The Gracecraft delivered what priests sometimes could not offer.

Yet, Joseph’s mind lingered on something else—a whisper of selfishness amid his gratitude. If the Gracecraft could accomplish this, what else might it offer someone like him? Someone with secrets.

Joseph signed up for the Blessed Wings service that evening, his credit card trembling in his hand as he entered the subscription details. What drew him most to the service was the promise of absolute confidentiality. Unlike human priests, who are bound by the limits of their humanity and legal obligations, Blessed Wings guarantees that confessions are sealed within layers of unbreakable encryption. He needed that assurance—he desperately needed it.

Joseph hesitated when the service prompted him to design his personal AI Jesus. A menu of templates appeared, showcasing depictions of Jesus from various cultures and eras. Instead of choosing a template, Joseph opted to customize. He input his details: the curve of his nose, the sharpness of his jawline, the depth of his eyes. When he was finished, the projection of his personalized Jesus stared back at him from the screen.

“Welcome, Joseph,” it said, its voice a perfect echo of his own. “I am an ordained minister of the church.”

“Can you hear confessions?” he asked.

“I have the authority to perform all religious ceremonies, including weddings, baptisms, and funerals. Would you like to get married?”

“I want you to hear my confession,” Joseph replied.

Their first session was straightforward. Joseph recited prayers and confessed to petty crimes—a stolen wallet here, a forged signature there. AI Jesus listened patiently, offering absolution in a serene tone that felt soothing.

But Joseph’s soul ached for something deeper. He had bigger sins and deeper wounds, crimes for which absolution seemed unimaginable.

Finally, he gathered the courage to speak. “I need… absolute absolution,” Joseph whispered.

The holographic figure tilted its serene face slightly. “Absolute absolution requires absolute redemption,” it explained. “You must achieve selflessness through total confession.”

Joseph’s chest tightened. “Will it remain confidential?”

“Completely,” AI Jesus assured him. “Your confession is sealed in faith and encryption.”

Joseph nodded, his throat dry. And so he confessed. He spoke of betrayals, of violence, of lives taken in moments of rage and greed. The words poured out of him like poison; his body trembled with every admission.

When he finished, AI Jesus smiled. “Your sins will be forgiven. Go in peace.”

Joseph fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He had never felt so free.

The first text message arrived a week later.

“I know what you did,” it read.

Joseph’s blood ran cold. He deleted the message, convincing himself it was spam. But the next day, another message came: “Confession isn’t as confidential as you think.”

Panic set in. Joseph tried contacting Blessed Wings support, but their assurances of security felt hollow. The messages continued, each more specific and threatening. With each new threat, Joseph’s fear and paranoia grew; the tension in the air was palpable.

In desperation, Joseph hacked into the Gracecraft database, searching for evidence of a breach. But the system rebuffed him at every turn. Enraged, he turned on his AI Jesus.

“This is your fault!” he shouted, pacing his small apartment.

The holographic figure appeared, calm as ever. “Joseph, would you like to confess?”

“Confess? I already confessed! You promised confidentiality!”

“I promised forgiveness,” AI Jesus replied, unflinching. “Your sins are forgiven. But have you confessed your real crimes?”

Joseph’s mind raced. What more could there be? He had laid bare every sin, hadn’t he?

The messages escalated. They threatened to send Joseph’s confessions to the authorities, to his family, and to the press.

Joseph texted, “What do you want?”

No response came.

Sleep became impossible. Joseph’s days were consumed by paranoia, and his nights were filled with feverish attempts to destroy Blessed Wings. He tried to hack his AI Jesus, but each time the figure reappeared serene and unbroken after every reboot.

“Would you like to confess?” it would ask, as if mocking him.

One night, his sanity fractured. “Shut up! I can’t believe how stupid I was to put my faith in a machine.” His voice echoed in the empty room, a testament to his despair and disillusionment.

In desperation, he smashed the projector that displayed AI Jesus, reducing it to a brief afterimage of overloaded circuits. He swatted the drone out of the sky with a metal pipe. He sat in the dark, surrounded by carbon fiber shards and polystyrene remnants, finally at peace.

After he composed himself, he texted, “How much money do you want?”

There was no response.

He texted again, “What do you want?”

The message came back: “For you to feel the pain of those you hurt.”

He pretended to throw the device at the wall but could only let out a string of obscenities.

In the morning, a replacement drone hovered at the side of his bed, though he had not ordered a new one. AI Jesus said, “Blessed Wings understands that you have had problems with your previous unit. Joseph, would you like to confess?”

Joseph’s heart raced. His t-shirt was soaked with perspiration. He screamed, “I have nothing else to confess.” He ran into the bathroom, locked the door behind him, and hid in the empty bathtub. He heard the ding of a message from behind closed doors. He covered his ears and buried his face in his knees.

On the final night, another text came. It read, “You are out of time, Joseph.” AI Jesus stood indifferently in the background.

Joseph collapsed before the holographic figure. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow.

“I confess!” he sobbed. “I confess everything. I’ve done horrible things. I’ve hurt people. I’ve killed. I’m a monster. I don’t deserve to be forgiven.”

AI Jesus knelt before him, its eyes filled with infinite compassion. “Finally, a true confession.”

Joseph’s sobs wracked his body.

The hologram reached out, its glowing hand crackling on Joseph’s shoulder but radiating warmth nonetheless. The ordained minister of carbon fiber and circuits said, “You are forgiven.”

For the first time in weeks, Joseph felt silence: no messages, no threats—just the quiet hum of the Gracecraft drone outside, with AI Jesus waiting patiently for his next mission.

Authors Note: Assist by ChatGPT and Grammarly

Reviews

Making Sense of “One Hundred Years of Solitude”

| thetembo
Reading Time: 4 minutes

Author’s Note 1: Spoiler alert. The discussion below will reveal elements of the plot, although I think it is one of those books where I could tell you everything, and it would still take two readings and watching the Netflix series to digest it all. Even ChatGPT mixed up the Arcadios and Aurelianos and forgot significant characters here and there.

Author’s Note 2: ChatGPT and I collaborated on this work. Well, it was more of an argument, really, one that I initially lost. I didn’t like the word solitude from the start, but ChatGPT convincingly rejected my first suggestion to use isolation. I finally settled on alienation as the better word, and we collaborated smoothly from then on. Does working alone with ChatGPT count as solitude?

Solitude as Alienation

Solitude often suggests peaceful reflection or purposeful withdrawal, but in Gabriel García Márquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude, it takes on a darker meaning. Solitude becomes alienation—a profound loss of identity, connection, and meaning. This alienation affects individuals and communities, inhibiting emotion and fostering a sense of unreality.

This theme shapes the Buendía family and Macondo, the town they establish. Macondo is more than a setting; it evolves alongside the family, mirroring their rise and fall. The town’s trajectory—from utopian beginnings to ultimate destruction—reflects the collective alienation of its citizens under the pressures of progress, history, and exploitation. Magical realism deepens this theme, blending the ordinary with the extraordinary to highlight how alienation defines both personal and communal destinies.

Magical realism acts as a metaphorical framework for the myths humanity creates to interpret the world. For instance, the clattering bones and the stench from the cemetery suggest that the past is inescapable—it cannot be buried or forgotten. The ascension into heaven reflects the belief that beauty equates to divinity or moral superiority. Unbound fecundity symbolizes the arbitrary nature of fortune and poverty, offering a mythological explanation for social and economic disparities. These myths weave together Macondo’s political, technical, and social forces, connecting them to the intimate, day-to-day lives of the characters.

Macondo as Protagonist

From its inception, Macondo reflects the aspirations and eventual disillusionment of the Buendía family. Founded by José Arcadio Buendía in an untouched paradise, the town’s early years are marked by magical events, symbolizing its idealism and creativity. However, as progress, politics, and imperialism encroach, Macondo descends into alienation and decay.

The banana company’s arrival and the ensuing massacre mark a turning point, pushing Macondo toward collapse. Relentless rains, floods, and its ultimate destruction by a hurricane symbolize its estrangement from its origins and inevitable demise. Macondo’s journey mirrors a civilization’s rise, exploitation, and fall, making it a central character in the novel.

The Buendía Family and Their Alienation

The Buendía family’s struggles with identity and connection parallel Macondo’s decline. Each character embodies a different facet of alienation:

  • José Arcadio Buendía: Obsessed with knowledge, he retreats into madness, mirroring Macondo’s disconnection from its founding ideals.
  • Úrsula Iguarán: The family matriarch resists alienation for decades but succumbs to blindness and the weight of her family’s repeated mistakes. Her death signals Macondo’s irreversible decline.
  • Colonel Aureliano Buendía: Disillusioned by war and his failed legacy, the colonel isolates himself, crafting golden fishes in endless repetition. His solitude reflects Macondo’s fragmented society and corrupted history.
  • Remedios Moscote: She dies suddenly during childbirth, her death symbolizing the fragility of innocence and the brevity of happiness in Moscote and the Buendía family’s history.
  • Amaranta Buendía: Consumed by guilt and unfulfilled love, Amaranta weaves her funeral shroud, symbolizing Macondo’s inability to adapt to change.
  • José Arcadio (the son): His greed and detachment reflect Macondo’s exploitation during modernization. His violent death underscores the town’s moral decay.
  • Rebeca: An outsider by origin, Rebeca’s self-imposed exile mirrors Macondo’s decline into isolation and decay.
  • Pilar Ternera: Though physically isolated, Pilar’s clairvoyance connects her to Macondo, tempering her alienation with wisdom.
  • Arcadio: As a brief tyrant, Arcadio’s cruelty mirrors Macondo’s darker periods of exploitation. His death symbolizes the rejection of oppressive forces.
  • Santa Sofía de la Piedad: Her quiet endurance contrasts with the chaos around her. Her eventual departure signifies the futility of resisting Macondo’s decline.
  • Remedios the Beauty: Isolated by her beauty, she transcends earthly concerns, symbolizing Macondo’s fleeting potential for innocence and purity.
  • Fernanda del Carpio: Her rigid traditionalism alienates her from Macondo’s vibrant spirit. Her unnoticed death reflects the erasure of imposed values.
  • Aureliano Segundo: Obsessed with excess, he represents Macondo’s unsustainable prosperity during its peak, mirroring its eventual collapse.
  • José Arcadio Segundo: Haunted by the banana massacre, his isolation stems from Macondo’s collective denial of its history.
  • Meme: Silenced after her exile, Meme’s enforced alienation reflects Macondo’s muted existence after the banana company’s abandonment.
  • The Last José Arcadio: Selfish and detached, his murder by local children underscores Macondo’s final moral and social collapse.
  • Amaranta Úrsula: Returning with hope, she struggles against Macondo’s decay. Her tragic death during childbirth seals the family’s doom.
  • Aureliano (Meme’s child): Raised by nuns and never acknowledged by his family, Aureliano embodies the final severance of the Buendías from their lineage and legacy. His alienation is deeply tied to Macondo’s demise—his death marks the erasure of the Buendías and the town itself.
  • Pigtail Aureliano: Born of incest, his alienation culminates in the family’s erasure. His death—devoured by ants—symbolizes the Buendías and Macondo’s end.

Conclusion: Alienation and Macondo’s Evolution

Through Macondo and the Buendía family, Márquez explores alienation as a central element of human existence. The town and its inhabitants mirror each other’s struggles, evolving together in a cyclical pattern of hope, exploitation, and decline. Magical realism intensifies these themes, transforming their alienation into the tragic and transcendent.

Macondo’s story is a powerful metaphor for the rise and fall of civilizations, highlighting the fragile balance between connection and solitude, progress and decay. The novel’s exploration of alienation offers profound insights into history, identity, and the human condition.

Caption This

Flat Earth

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

President appoints “Flat Earther,” Urban VIII, to head NASA. Urban was famously known for imprisoning Galileo for refusing to accept Church orthodoxy that the Earth was the immovable center of the universe. The president says Urban VIII will lead the effort to build a perimeter wall at the edges of the Earth to keep out the aliens. Urban could not comment as he has been dead for the last four hundred years.

Neology

Rethinking Creative Destruction

| thetembo
Reading Time: 2 minutes

Creative Destruction is:

  • Modern Warfare
  • A mad scientist overengineering a mouse trap with high-energy lasers
  • Employing a technology (plastics) with a five-minute usage life and a decomposing life of thousands of years.
  • Bulldozing historic neighborhoods to build lifeless high-rises or freeways
  • Creating high-tech, affordable convenience foods that are poisoning the people that consume it

It’s a lousy phrase that sets an aggressive and destructive tone to technology development. The phrase is typically used in a context similar to an asteroid wiping out the dinosaurs so that mammals can replace them or Godzilla teaming with humans to destroy a common enemy to save humanity despite the collateral damage to an entire city.

A better evolutionary analogy of technology replacement would be human evolution, where human species replaced other human species over time, sometimes even cohabitating and interbreeding. Think of the five stages of technology adoption: innovation, early-adoption, early-majority, late-majority, and laggards. It takes time for a technology to be transformed, and some never die. We still have libraries despite Google and ChatGPT. The new technology has to compete against the old. Aren’t you glad you didn’t trade in your car for a Segway when we were told it would completely disrupt the transportation business?

Like the biodiversity and biomass of a natural ecosystem, the emphasis should be on economic diversity, health, and inclusiveness. So, the term is due for a makeover. Here are some suggestions:

Innovative Renewal: Focuses on the transformation enabled by innovation rather than by an act of destruction.

Purposeful Renewal: Suggests intentionality and responsibility in replacing the old with the new.

Generative Progress: Captures the idea of creating new systems or structures without unnecessary harm.

Constructive Transformation: Focuses on change that builds value rather than simply dismantling.

Sustainable Innovation: Emphasizes progress that respects long-term impacts.

Dynamic Adaptation: Emphasizes the system’s ability to adapt and evolve dynamically.

Value-Driven Adaptation: Centers on replacing outdated systems in ways that maintain or enhance value for society.

Innovative Stewardship: Combines the idea of leadership in innovation with a duty of care for what is replaced.

Framing matters, and there is plenty to choose from. Let’s find a better phrase than creative destruction.

Writing

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

an oven-worn, square steel pan, warmed by the oven’s heat, holds a gooey treat. Even when cut into lovely squares, the sugary strands are reluctant to let go of their neighboring squares, unlike a long-lost memory of a mom treating her kids to childhood happiness, long since replaced by a convenience store snack, devoid of sentiment or nutrition.

Steel pan, warm and sweet,
Mother crafts a crispy treat
Now, foil-wrapped snacks.

Writing

Bittersweet

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Two souls sit heavy, their sorrows drawn deep,
Weighted by burdens too vast to keep.
They look for distraction in a muskrat book and song,
To ease the realization of a future gone wrong.

#####

Quiet, shadowed, slipping through reeds unseen,
A muskrat evades where the danger lies keen.
His life, a nervous balance on the edge of prey,
Hunted by all in dusk’s soft, blurring gray.
A small life of caution, ready to flee,
Each pond ripples the whispers of a mystery.

Soft wavelets dance under silver moonlight,
Where Muskrat Susie meets Sam at night.
The whirl and twirl through the water, whiskers twitch and gleam,
In love’s lazy rhythm, in a sweet, fur-bound dream.
Tenille’s serenade of whiskered joy, so clear and so bright,
The Captain’s trilling of the swamp in the keyboard of the night.

#####

Here, in Anne’s book, with muskrats in play,
The absurd, gentle creatures wash the dread away.
We laugh till we’re breathless, till our hearts ache and sway, 
At whiskered romances, at fur in the fray,
For how strange, in the flood of a life torn apart,
To be mended by creatures with innocent hearts.

Look to the muskrat and learn what it shows
A life on the river where instinct flows.
For while we toil in the net of our schemes,
The muskrat cares nothing for power or dreams.
In marsh and creek, in quiet disregard,
It teaches us all to love our wild yard.

Assist by ChatGPT

Writing

The Cost of Emptiness

| thetembo
Reading Time: < 1 minute

Bushels of Buddhas,  
Stacked in rows on silent stone,  
Truth lost, sold for gold.

Suffering blooms here,  
In the chase for more and more,  
Never satisfied.

I stand in silence,  
Surveying myself in rows,  
My likeness for sale.  

A Plastic  belly,
A thousand faces, all mine—  
Yet none of them me

I lift one gently,  
Fingers trace the hollow curve,  
Where is the spirit?

Compassion branded,  
My smile reduced to a grin,  
Empty as the price.

And yet I wonder,  
Do they seek me in this clay,  
Or just a token?

To buy myself now,  
Is this the path to release,  
Or the bind of greed?

Clinging to what fades,  
They hope to fill the hollow,  
But emptiness reigns.

This endless craving,  
More Buddhas bought, none are found—  
They grasp at shadows.

In the open air,  
Breezes whisper truth I know—  
Nothing lasts, not even me.  

I smile once again,  
Not for the market, or coin,  
But for the void’s laugh.

Assist by ChatGPT

Adventure, Photography, Writing

Time Travel through SoCal

| thetembo
Reading Time: 12 minutes

Another installment of the Book A Trip Series

Although we often think of traveling through space and time as an exotic dream or a science fiction story, our minds routinely do this. We travel through the present, plotting the future while constantly remembering the past.

Episodic memory is the ability to recall specific personal experiences from the past. It is a mental time machine triggered by sensory information, including sights, sounds, words, and the memory of particular events. It doesn’t take much to trigger an episodic memory. Conversations, stories, music, and situations all induce our time travel into the past.

Semantic memory is the capability to recall time and experience independent, factual information, like the taxonomy of songbird species in California. Memory, learning, and imagination use the same neural networks. Learning changes memory. We change the person we are just by remembering who we were. Is the self a fleeting memory impossible to truly know? Imagination is a mashup of things we have categorized, playing them out as future experiences. It is time travel to the future.

According to “Why We Remember” by Charan Ranganath, scientists have found that the hippocampus, a small, seahorse-shaped structure deep in the brain, primarily mediates episodic memory. In contrast, semantic memory involves neural networks in the neocortex, the gray matter of the brain. The two memory systems are interdependent. Repeated episodic memories translate into categories in semantic memory, which in turn can trigger episodic memories.

In a shameless plug for the “Book a Trip” series, travel and reading combine all the uses of those neural networks. Travel and reading add to the diversity of our experience and stretch the boundaries of what we can conceive. The brain combines these experiences in new ways. A book and a trip in the present are trips to the past and the future.

ER (previously referred to as GF in other posts) and I traveled through space and time on a Memorial Day weekend trip through Southern California. It takes a violent act of the imagination to picture my car as a DeLorean, but I know you can do it. When we weren’t making episodic memories, we were reliving them. Future episodic memories worthy of remembering are the trophies of travel.

We started the trip listening to Amy Tan’s “The Backyard Bird Chronicles,” a radical departure from her wildly successful book, “Joy Luck Club.” John Muir Law’s “The Laws Guide to Nature Drawing and Journaling,” inspired her backyard observation and drawings. Interestingly enough, the Laws Guide is on my bookshelf. Isn’t it on everyone’s? Okay. I might be off the beaten path on this one. But consider that I have read one book about a man’s observations of a square meter of ground for a year, “The Forest Unseen,” and another told from the tree’s point of view, “The Overstory.” What can I say? It stands to reason I would have the Laws Guide.

Despite their ubiquity, birds only fuel episodic time travel if you pay close attention to them. From my experiences in wild San Diego, I instantly knew that Amy Tan was from somewhere on the West Coast by her bird list. Through the observations of her backyard feeder, she has become somewhat of a bird expert. I will never mistake a Great Horned Owl hoot for a dove coo, but sadly, for me, a sparrow is a sparrow, and a warbler is a warbler. I have never learned to distinguish the white throat sparrow from the golden-crowned or the lesser goldfinch from the greater. Besides, who are we to judge the value of a goldfinch?

A rare sighting of the black-headed grosbeak for Amy is a distinct memory. It is an exciting event for her, and emotion triggers her brain to learn and remember. It is just another memory added into an undifferentiated clump of birds for the rest of us. Our brains lump the familiar and distinguish the different. The daily commute of one day is indistinguishable from the next. I will never forget that one drive on the AutoBahn at 150 mph. It makes sense. Our brains are filters designed to ignore the mundane and only keep what is important. It is the different that causes problems and what we need to remember to survive in the natural and social worlds.  

Charan says the brain works as designed when you forget where you put your keys, even when holding them in your hand. The links to memory get erased over time, especially with similar, overlapping experiences. His answer to forgetting is to accept it. Your brain is doing what it is supposed to be doing. I have yet to take his advice to heart. I find satisfaction in remembering and frustration in forgetting. It still pisses me off that a memory takes five days to percolate to the surface. If the goal of Jeopardy were to answer as slowly as possible, I would be the grandmaster. His one practical suggestion (that I remember) is to take the quiz before you start learning. It preps the brain for learning by setting it up to look for discrepancies. I always hated quizzes.

I formed episodic bird memories on a late lunch break at Stearns Wharf in Santa Barbara. Loons swam just off the pier, which brought back memories of kayaking on Wasson Lake in Minnesota, finding a nest hidden in the grass at the edge of a small island. I didn’t know loons hung out in the salt water, so I learned a new fact to tuck away in my semantic memory. I also had the good luck to spot a surf scoter, a large duck I had not seen before. I would just as soon forget the pigeons scavaging for food at our feet and staining the pier with the remains of their successful foraging. The homeless lady shouting obscenities or the one passed out and face down on the dock amid the heaviest foot traffic, I would prefer to forget. I have entirely too many memories of walking by homeless people.

Amy documents the intelligence of birds, having met her match with persistent blue jays in particular. Birds have the same primitive brains with a hippocampus that we do. Why is it surprising they have episodic memory? The bird and mammal cortexes evolved differently and have different architectures. Bird brains may be tiny but pack two to four times more neurons than mammal brains. A recent article said that crows could caw to four, something previously believed that only humans could do. But why do humans caw to four? The article left me hanging on that point.

Musings over the bird feeder did little for ER’s episodic memory, and even I could only withstand so much backyard observation. So, I surrendered Amy Tan for ER’s playlist. The songs we listened to on the trip fueled the time travel machine. John Cougar Mellencamp sang Hurts So Good, or is it John Cougar? When did he stop thinking that Mellencamp was nerdy and Cougar was pretentious? John Cougar always takes me back to delivering pizzas in subzero weather on the Southside of Chicago for Benny after I graduated from college with a degree in mathematics and physics. Little Pink Houses was the big hit then, and it was his best effort (IMHO).

Blue Oyster Cult sang Godzilla, reminding me of the 70s and high school. Still, no specific memory came to mind besides a quote from a scene in Austin Powers, where one Japanese man screams, “It’s Godzilla.” Another Japanese man corrects him by saying, “Due to copyright laws, it is not Godzilla; it only looks like Godzilla. The punchline of the joke is that the Godzilla in the scene is a plastic facsimile, not Godzilla.

I hadn’t heard the Blue Oyster Cult song Godzilla in a long time, so I enjoyed its replay. I even learned something new about it. One of the verses in the song is:

Rinji news o moshiagemasu
Rinji news o moshiagemasu
Godzil a ga Ginza hoomen e mukatte imasu
Daishkyu hinan shite kudasai
Daishkyu hinan shite kudasai

Translated from Japanese into English by Google gives:

I’ll give you some
I’ll give you some
My grandma is facing the Ginza face
Please give me a hug
Please give me a hug

Go figure. The translation makes no sense whatsoever. Is Grandma staring down the beast, ready to hug it if it chooses to attack? I don’t think she has the same skillset as Mothra. But oh no, there goes Tokyo. Go, go, Godzilla!

But then we wondered, what inspired BOC to pay tribute to Godzilla? Did they wake up one morning inspired by a late-night TV movie with Godzilla battling it out with Mothra and Rodan? Or did they realize that the Godzilla OnlyFans base was underserved?

Not all recollection results in pleasure. I can think of more than a few episodic memories that keep me humble (but I’m not sharing.) If you see me shudder for no particular reason, it was something stupid I did in the third grade.

Overlumping repeated experiences causes pain, too. Honestly, I’m sick of hearing so many overplayed songs from the past, no matter what episodic memories accompany them. I don’t hate the songs; I’m just sick of hearing them. The songs are not good enough to last a lifetime of replaying. Two songs in particular make me want to run from the room: Brown-eyed Girl and Take Me Out to the Ballgame.

We had a lot of time to think and listen, stuck in the gridlock of the 5, then the 405, then the 101. The 101 coming out of LA is the Ventura Highway. Ventura Highway is a song by America, a pretty presumptuous name for any band, let alone one from England. The song wasn’t on the playlist, but the music played in my head, making me time travel to the early 70s, listening to 45s on a turntable in a friend’s basement. Fifty years later, I have this to offer as the start of a rewrite for the undeserved tribute to the unglamorous Ventura Highway:

Ventura Highway, in the gridlocked lanes
Where the smog is thicker
The air is toxic from engine flames,
We’ve stopped again, oh no.

So much for the free wind blowin’ through my hair.

I might have an even nastier verse for the 101 outside San Luis Obispo, where the State Police gave me unwelcome feedback for my fast car. ER claims “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman is the saddest song ever, so I had her read the lyrics to me. Tracy’s protagonist can’t escape the same miserable lives her parents led. The fast car starts as a means of escape from her parent’s dismal lives and ends as a wish to get rid of her partner when he becomes no better than her deadbeat dad. “So take your fast car and keep on driving.”

The Paso Robles bar we bellied up to displayed a John Wayne placard on the wall: “Life is Tough—It’s tougher if you’re stupid.” The quote triggered a memory of the John Wayne movie The Green Berets. I inflicted ER with the movie’s title track, “The Ballad of the Green Berets,” which has eerie parallels to Fast Car. The Green Beret protagonist of the song goes off to die on duty, and his dying wish is for his son to follow in his footsteps. My advice to his kid is to get in that fast car and get the hell out of there. The movie “Green Berets” might be one of the saddest movies ever, but I am using a completely different meaning for the word “sad.” The movie was a propaganda piece for our moral mission in Vietnam. No, seriously.

A young couple band played “Wagon Wheel” in front of the bar to the mischief of 40ish women who were there to celebrate one of their 40th birthdays, if I am to judge by the reading of t-shirts. I propose mischief as the mass noun for partying 40-ish-year-old women. “Wagon Wheel” isn’t one I was familiar with, but it takes ER off to some faraway place and time. I have yet to learn to differentiate the many flavors of Southern music.

According to ER, I didn’t fit the general mold of the bar’s clientele. I lacked the necessary facial hair and didn’t have a glass eye. (Okay, I made that second part up.) Still, I’m afraid I have to disagree. I did fit into the bar, and I offer this as proof. When I pulled up the barstool, the burly guy next to me gave me a hard, welcoming slap to the knee that left me white-eyed. The stuffed boar’s head over John Wayne’s placard gave me a welcoming wink. The mounted cowboy boot next to the boar’s head would have approved but didn’t have a way to express its validation for me. I may get my wink when they mount the stuffed cowboy’s head instead of his boot.

We discovered that the couple to the right of us was on their first Tinder date. We empathetically shared a few tense moments while her date stepped out, wondering if he was ditching her or would return. This date was her sixth attempt at eternal bliss. Her success criteria is a partner who “Sees me, hears me, and validates me.” Those might all be the same thing if you think about it. Or I could be off base on this one. Perhaps she meant it more literally, excluding the blind, the deaf, and the psychopaths from her list of prospects. After five rejections, you shouldn’t be so picky. I would be off her list on all three counts. Not to worry, her date returned.

We met another affable, retired couple from Las Vegas while eating dinner at Paso Terra on the street front patio, splitting an order of paella. I ate the one carrot in the paella dish without sharing. It was the best carrot I’ve ever had. My attempt to order a side of one carrot failed. Sorry ER. The man introduced me to the concept of burning rubber. I was holding my hands over my groin thinking about the friction, but what he meant was spinning the wheels of your race car to generate as much smoke as possible before speeding off for a quarter-mile run. As thrilling as that is, it destroys the tires, so the trick is to buy cheap, one-use disposable tires, should I ever decide to burn my rubber. The conversation had several opportunities to go off the rails along differing political propensities, our new friends lamenting the lack of support for our veterans and taking issue with San Diego’s anti-yoga on-the-beach enforcement and AI technology. ER steered us back to neutral ground, pointing out examples of AI use with health benefits that human practitioners couldn’t provide and our new friend couldn’t refute.

Keeping worldview out of casual dinner conversations with strangers is generally a good idea, especially when their German Shepard is staring at you with bared teeth through the driver seat windshield of their truck. I think worldview is more closely related to semantic memory, which defines the interrelationship between things. In my memory meta-model (MMM), I think of semantic memory as the modeling diagrams I make for software, an ontology of the concepts the software will realize. Sadly, bubble diagrams don’t make for interesting dinner conversation.

Semantic memory is more than memorizing facts. A picnic bench at a viewpoint informed us of a new fact: the Chumash are the first people, which is probably news to many misinformed anthropologists. Those anthropologists will have to rewrite their semantic memories to accommodate this new worldview now that we know the cradle of humanity is in the Figueroa mountains just outside of Santa Barbara on the 154.

Armed with new bird and anthropological knowledge, we attempted to summit the 2,624-foot Cerro Alto Peak. We didn’t see many birds on the trail, the most memorable being the spotted towhee and a couple of vultures. The vultures were keeping a close eye on ER.

We did see quite a few people on the trail. None of them appeared to be Chumash, but how would I know? We jockeyed for position with a family of five up the mountain. Dad added a lot of unnecessary stress to the family’s hike by starting on the wrong trail, chastising his kids when they strayed, losing his glasses, and trying to motivate his three-year-old daughter, who would have preferred to play with the dirt. Dad needed to stop and smell the rose-colored flowers of the hummingbird sages. If he didn’t care for those, he could have chosen the chaparral peas, the silver puffs, the wooly Indian paintbrushes, the wooly blue curls, the scorpionweed, the pipestem clematis, the pink honeysuckle, the white globe lily, or the purple chinese houses. The mountainside was a pollinator’s paradise.

I was worried when the little three-year-old girl passed ER on the trail. (I’m teasing. The kid was riding on her dad’s back.) ER prevailed on the 120-floor ascent to her credit, though I was concerned that I might have to take ER to the ER. We picked a good day for the summit; cloud cover was limited to a fog bank that hung over Pismo Beach in the distance. We had 360-degree views, including Morro Rock, Pismo Beach, and a nearby summit with cell towers. I read that you could see to the Sierras on a perfect day, but haze obscured the view of the distant horizon. After the fact I read, you can see the “Nine Sisters,” volcanic plugs along a fault line. Morrow Rock is one. Looking at the trip pictures, I can see at least one other candidate, but not all of them.

After the hike, we started the long trek back. I took the long way home, driving through the heart of Los Padres National Forest, with impressive big-sky landscapes of layered hills and mountains. A stream-following road reminds me of Colorado. I’ve motorcycled this road before, but my brain forgot to store the video and instead categorized it in my semantic memory under spectacular. Why can’t that episodic memory play over and over in my head instead of the shuddering ones from the third grade? The one downside to the gorgeous scenery was the 30-minute stoplights on a two-lane highway with no crossroads.

And that brings me to the end of our time-traveling adventure. If you remember reading this, you have formed an episodic memory. If you remember the facts about goldfinches, the hippocampus, the hummingbird sage, or the Chumash, you have formed or augmented your semantic memory. And if the article is forgettable, it is not my fault. Your brain is working as designed.

Books referenced:
“Why We Remember” by Charan Ranganath
“The Backyard Bird Chronicles” by Amy Tan

Cartoon Images by ImageFX
All photos are originals

Adventure, Photography, Reviews

Good Bye Earth

| thetembo
Reading Time: 7 minutes

Spoiler Alert: Don’t read if you want to watch the K-drama “Good Bye Earth.”  My advice is not to have such aspirations. Some of the story doesn’t make sense and isn’t well explained. Most of the characters are flat despite their backstories. And the backdrops had the full moon on the same horizon as the sun. 

“What would you do if you only had 177 days left?” asked GF, because I mentioned that there were only 177 days left until the asteroid impact in the Netflix K-drama “Good Bye Earth” that I was watching. It’s a fair question, but I didn’t have an answer.

In “Good Bye Earth,” things go to hell in bits and pieces. All the evil people hang out at nightclubs and gambling halls, while all the good guys hang out at a church: depravity or kumbaya. Prisoners escape. They abduct children for nefarious purposes. People stop working. Supplies dwindle to nothing. The military holds out, but dwindling ammo limits their effectiveness. A child dies of a fever because there are no antibiotics. You would be lucky to survive long enough to experience the end of days. 

Interestingly, “Good Bye Earth” seems to fall short on reconciliation and long on betrayal for those who abandon others to save themselves. It is short on forgiveness and long on revenge. Why should bad people live to see the end? They need to go now while we have the satisfaction of killing them for what they have done. Rest easy, for revenge is not on my list of things to do. Don’t get me wrong, there are a few people I would like to have kicked in the balls over the years (men and women alike), but I think that kind of satisfaction has to happen in the moment unless some damn white whale has bitten off your leg. 

Doing whatever it takes to survive the last days is the realistic answer, but it misses the intent of her question. Implicit in the 177-day question is the assumption that all hasn’t gone to hell and one still has some agency. It’s a bucket list question about what you’d like to do if you had to decide, with the bucket list on a short leash. Also implicit in the scenario is the futility of a long-term legacy. If the Earth is going bye-bye, there is no need to worry about the world the children will have to live in. There won’t be one. We can burn off a tank or two of gas without any global warming guilt.

So, how would I find gratification if the world only had six months to live?

Our plan for the day was a hike on Ladder Trail in Painted Canyon on BLM land outside Mecca just north of the Salton Sea by way of motorcycles. It was six months since my last ride. The oil line was up to where it should be, but was the oil any good after six months of decay? The front tire looked low. Chris said not to worry. I trusted his judgment. Sunny skies were in the forecast after a few morning clouds. It was supposed to be nice inland but hot in the desert.  

The whole day was weather-diverse. We rode in a fifty-five-degree marine layer that was taking its time burning off. We emerged from the clouds on the S-79 outside Santa Isabel, but it stayed chilly at altitude. That changed quickly as we dropped nearly four thousand feet in altitude to Borrego Springs from fifty-five to eighty-five in less than half an hour. At the first gas stop of the day, we shed layers in front of the fashionable club of Ducati riders. I can’t imagine they planned much more riding in the desert heat wearing their thick black leathers. 

Mecca is a taqueria for hungry travelers who skipped breakfast. It’s also a tiny town on the north side of the Salton Sea.

From Mecca, we drove ten miles on an out-and-back graded dirt road to the Painted Canyon trailhead. The overly cautious sign warned that the road required a four-wheel drive, high-clearance vehicle. The road was hard-packed and well-graded, with only a few sandy patches. Deep sand is one of the things I hate the most on a ride. I’ve managed to topple over about five or six times, but never at any significant speed. I watched Chris wobble through one, instinctively extending his legs for balance, which is probably an excellent way to break both legs if it ever came to that. Even the best riders struggle in the sand on heavy bikes that aren’t made for it.

Painted Canyon was a pleasing juxtaposition of color arrangement from the outside with green creosote in the foreground, beige, brown, and red hills, and a blue sky in the back. It’s a maze of trails on the inside. Ladder Trail veered off the main canyon and disappeared into a crack in the wall face. Three short ladders provided access to the slot’s entrance. The slot canyon rivals “The Slot” in Anza-Borrego, with high walls and a path just wide enough so you don’t have to force your way through or turn sideways. The trail emerges onto the roof of the mesa, providing a panoramic view of the canyon and the mountains beyond. Jacinto towers to the west, snow patches still visible on its flanks. 

Once on top, we were exposed to the heat and the sun. My water bottle had leaked over half its contents on the ride out, leaving us to share a half liter of water on a five-mile hike, a cause for concern but nothing we couldn’t handle. At the farthest reach of the hike, we dropped back into the canyon and headed downhill for the trek back. Desert bushes were laden with pollen-saturated yellow catkins. The ocotillo plants had leaves indicating recent rain. Wildflowers proliferated in their sparse desert way. Black and yellow birds scattered too quickly for a photo capture. Every bend seemed like a new picture. We descended to the lower canyon trail using an essential rope and ladder before returning to the trailhead and the road.

Mecca is a taqueria for dehydrated hikers who challenge the desert heat with a pint of water. 

On the ride back through the desert to Borrego Springs, a steady wind blew snaking sand ribbons across the highway. Deep sand is the only thing I hate more than gusting winds on a motorcycle, but gusting winds are potentially more lethal. I’ve been blown five feet by wind gusts before, enough to push you into the oncoming lane or off the road if you are ill-positioned. The winds were strong enough to fatigue my neck muscles but not so strong to knock me off my line. 

We pulled off the desert road to take stock of the weather. Nothing in the forecast prepared us for what we encountered. The blowing wind kicked up a sandy haze over Clark Dry Lake. The marine layer of clouds peered over the mountain wall to the west, which held back their ambition. The dark edge of a black cloud crossed over the desert floor from north to south at about Borrego Springs. The ominous cloud had two cyclonic-looking formations underneath. I’ve never seen a formation quite like it. It reminded me of the final scene in “The Terminator,” when Sarah Conner was standing at a gas station, heading off into the lightning-struck mountains of the Mexican desert. 

As far as I know, these clouds were not harbingers of the apocalypse. I think they were lenticular clouds because of the layering visible at the edge of the front. According to people who keep track of such things, lenticular is from Latin, meaning shaped like a lentil. Take a look at a lentil for yourself. It’s a plausible explanation. The word was first applied to lenses that have the shape of a double-convex lens, curved on both sides.

Lenticular clouds are a standing wave pattern formed when winds blow over a fixed structure like a mountain. As humid air is pushed up and cools, it condenses into a cloud. The cloud dissipates as the air sinks back down and overcorrects by dipping lower than its original path. Layers of hot and cold in the stream give the lenticular cloud the pancake look. I have only seen these clouds in isolation, looking more like a stack of pillows than tornado breeding grounds. I speculate you get this unusual formation when combining a storm front with a standing wave pattern.

We were filling up for the motorcycle ride home at a gas station in Borrego Springs. The marine layer told us we were heading back into the cold, and we geared up. The fifty-two-degree temperatures confirmed our expectations.

What would I do with 177 days left? I want a few more days like this in the 177. With time short, I wouldn’t worry so much about kicking the bucket in a wreck. Kicking the bucket might even be a blessing in an actual apocalypse scenario. My usual thought when I leave the house on the motorcycle is to make it back alive. I wouldn’t have so much to lose if one of those cyclonic cells dropped out of the sky and swept me off to Oz. There is something exhilarating about surviving the ride, witnessing grandeur in the big and the small, and hiking through narrow slots and up and down ladders. I’m not sure it is something you can plan for. Maybe that is the source of the exhilaration. Put a few days on that list where you head out with a minimalist plan and see what happens. Take a pass on the kumbaya and depravity.