Flicker Bash

Today Leela and I were standing in our dining area talking when we heard a bird’s distress call. Just as we turned to look outside — WHAM! It hit the large window next to us with great force and fell. Then immediately after, another bird flew at the window and veered away. It all happened so fast, we couldn’t identify either bird, but we assumed the second was a pursuing hawk. Leela ran down and found a dead flicker in the flower bed below. Bright blood oozed from its head, its neck broken. She put it on display in our Common House, so that others might appreciate its beauty.

These are the same birds that rat-tat-tat with great effect on the metal rain gutters of our buildings during their season of territorial feistiness.

Leela's Dragon

For more than a year, maybe two, Leela has been working on an ambitious multi-media yard-art project. It’s a dragon of Asiatic persuasion. She’s been through much uncertainty and anxiety over it (breaking clay pieces, failed materials, starting over, etc.). But she finally finished it this week, and the result is quite striking. It now graces (and guards) the garden gate behind our Coho home.

The head, feet, and fins are ceramic. The hair on head and tail-tip is copper wire. The scales are pennies — about $40 worth, individually polished and coated with weatherproofing. The body is constructed of flexible, ribbed plastic tubing of different diameters, and is coated with a hard-to-get plasterlike substance normally used by taxidermists and museum-diorama artists. I’m sure I’ve omitted some of the other miscellaneous materials.

She named the dragon Yu Wei, which a couple of our Taiwanese friends say means “Jade the Great or Powerful” in Chinese but could also mean other things. Since it’s a female dragon, there are no precedents, since Chinese dragons are traditionally male. (Click on individual photos to enlarge.)

 

 

In-Your-Face Portrait Machine

Last month at some kind of event at the Corvallis Arts Center, Leela and I stumbled into the surreal world of Betty Turbo and her "In-Your-Face Portrait Machine." This is what the machine looks like:

Note elbow of artist behind machine.

Here's how it works. When you approach the machine, the little window opens and a smart-phone-like device, wielded by a surprisingly human-looking hand, takes your picture. Then the window closes and you adjust the manual settings: 1) Regular Weird or Ultra Weird or somewhere in between, 2) Lo or Hi Flower Power or somewhere in between, 3) Sunny Skies or Rainy Days or in between. You put a donation in the slot and wait patiently. Finally your portrait emerges.

Leela and I gave it try, adjusting all manual settings in the middle. While waiting for our portrait, we perused the other artworks of the mastermind behind the Portrait Machine. Betty Turbo seems to have built an empire on weird pop-culture imagery with a really edgy twist (see her Facebook page for more insight). She offers greeting cards, chapbooks, and other such items.

At long last, the Portrait Machine, that wonder of cardboard technology, emitted a convincingly electronic gurgle, and out slid our picture. Here it is:

Leela & Austin rendered by In-Your-Face Portrait Machine

Thank you, In-Your-Face Portrait Machine (and Betty Turbo, too)!

My Rick Perry Moment

Now that Rick Perry has again entered the presidential race, I want to take this opportunity to clarify that I currently have no relations with the man, business, political, or otherwise. However, I feel I need to explain an incident in my past that involved him. It was only a brief encounter, but in these days of heightened scrutiny of public figures, who can say what trifling matter might be blown out of proportion in order to fill the headlines? If Rick Perry's encounter with me, for whatever reason, should become a problem in his upcoming campaign, then it's incumbent on me to at least have my side of the story out there. So here it is:

While he was governor of Texas, Rick Perry used to jog the Town Lake trail in downtown Austin (maybe he still does). Being a long-time Town Lake trail jogger and walker myself, I used to see him there from time to time. And when I worked at the office of a here-unnamed state agency that was located right next to Town Lake (now Lady Bird Lake), I'd often go out on the trail during my breaks or lunch hours. On these outings, I'd often encounter Woode Wood (first name pronounced Woody), the singer-songwriter who made a name for himself busking along the trail. Besides playing his music and selling his CDs there, Woode talked to everyone and had an easy way of making friends. Every other person who walked or jogged passed seemed to be a personal friend. Woode was sincerely interested in everyone; he remembered their names, their stories, even their dogs' names.

Anyway, I was in the habit of stopping to visit with Woode, and one time (this would have been in 2005 or '06) we were standing beside the trail talking, when along trotted the governor in shorts and sweaty t-shirt. When he saw Woode, he actually stopped, smiled, and said, "Hi, Woode! How's it going?" Somehow I wasn't at all surprised that Rick Perry numbered himself among Woode's friends. After a bit of initial chat, Woode introduced me to Rick (yes, they were on a first-name basis). We shook hands (yes, I've washed it since), and Woode mentioned that I was writing a book about my dad, who was a WWII aviator. Rick waggled his head in admiration and voiced approval, saying, "Yeah, that generation, they got it right." I wondered briefly what the "it" was that he deemed they'd gotten right. I also refrained from reminding him that the generation in question had four times elected Franklin D. Roosevelt (practically the patron saint of modern political liberalism) as president.

The only other bit of the conversation I remember was when Woode asked the governor: "So where's your detail, Rick?" (detail meaning his body guards). Rick glanced over toward the nearby Congress Avenue Bridge and said, "Oh, they're up there somewhere."

This idle chit-chat went on for quite a while, just as if three regular guys were hanging around with nothing better to do than shoot the breeze. I remember thinking: Doesn't this man have important state business to take care of -- like regulating abortions and deregulating other stuff? But Woode was by then a pretty well-beloved Austin character, and maybe Rick instinctively knew that being seen hanging out with the Town Lake Busker could pay off in the long run. So for the moment, he was not the state official but the savvy politician trying to show himself as a man of the people. And we, I guess, were his props.

But I was also a state employee, and, unbeknownst to Rick (if not to his all-seeing, all-knowing detail), at that very moment I was on the clock and overdue for returning to my office. So before Perry (alas, he and I are no longer on a first-name basis) could get around to asking me what I did for a living, I excused myself and moseyed on.

For the record, Woode later confided to me that, although he liked talking with Rick, he didn't agree with his politics. "But he's a really nice guy," Woode hastened to add. Of course that seemed to be his appraisal of just about everyone. Yeah, that Woode, he got it right!
~Austin Bruce Hallock

3805 Red River Street, Austin, Texas

An old friend just alerted me to the news that a permit for demolition of the distinctive "Streamline Moderne" style house at 3805 Red River Street in Austin had been filed in May of this year. (See article about it here.) I have a couple of memories about this place.

The first memory is of driving by the house with my grandfather, whom we called Boppo. For some reason Boppo abhorred the sight of the place. He once commented that you couldn't pay him enough to live there. Being a kid, I immediately asked if he'd live there for a million dollars. "Lord, no!" he replied. "Not for any amount." And no matter how much I upped the stakes on subsequent drive-bys, Boppo stuck with that principled declaration. "Two million?" "No way!" Three million?" "Well, I'd have to think about it for a while, but probably not."

Second memory: The only time I ever entered that house, was to attend one of Tom Pittman's fabled jam sessions (as noted in the article). It was 1988 or '89. I actually played bongo drums there with the famous Austin Lounge Lizard band member — him and a bunch of other partiers. I was never asked back, and I wouldn't have gone anyway — not for a million dollars.

Crater Lake Baptism

Last week, Leela and I visited Crater Lake, Oregon's only National Park. The place is magnificent, truly one of the foremost natural wonders of the North America. It was formed some 7,700 years ago when Mt. Mazama, then the tallest peak in what would later become Oregon, exploded and then collapsed in on itself, leaving a near perfect bowl some six miles across. Over the years the bowl filled with rain water and snow melt to form the clearest, purest lake in the world. I won't go on about this, nor will I foist a lot of pretty pictures on you -- only a few showing us in the foregrounds to verify that we were there. If you want more info or pictures of the lake, just google or wiki them.

This undoctored, raw photo may look fake for a couple of reasons: 1) the water is too blue and 2) Leela is too beautiful. Well, the water really is that blue, because it's so clear.  And Leela really looks that good (of course a little foreground flash helped keep the shadow off her face). Still, it looks as though she's posing in front of a studio backdrop, doesn't it? (Click photo to enlarge.)

A 33 mile road circles the crater rim. We drove it twice, stopping at several places to hike and view the many interesting features associated with the area's volcanic history.

Everyone looks good at Crater Lake. (Click photo to enlarge.)

There's only one access point to the lake surface, and it is reached via a very steep 1.1 mile hiking trail. There the Park Service operates the only boats on the lake, and I highly recommend the tour. The boats were brought in by helicopter. Near the boat dock, you can also take a dip in the 52 degree water, and on this fair day we saw several people doing just that. Here, after nearly five years living in the state, I baptized myself as a true Oregonian.

We spent three nights in the area -- two in a sorry roadhouse in Chemult, a wide place in the road about 40 miles away. For the last night we splurged. Because of a cancellation, we were able to get a room at Crater Lake Lodge, a giant CCC-era structure of stone and rustic logs right on the crater rim.

We slept well in the near total darkness, but we arose for about an hour at 2:00 AM to go outside and view the stars. Unfortunately, a light haze had settled in and rendered the viewing rather unspectacular. At daybreak, we realized the haze was smoke from nearby forest fires, evidently a common occurrence at the park. We were leaving that day and felt lucky to have had the two full days of perfect weather.

Crater Lake enveloped in smoke haze.

As we departed the park's south entrance on that Saturday morning, we passed a line of vehicles about a mile long waiting to get into the park. We felt sorry for those people whose weekend visit to the park would include the smoky haze.

CoHo Ecovillage Now Visible on Google Maps

Our home, CoHo Ecovillage, is now visible on Google Maps. When I looked about a month ago, it was still showing up as an overgrown field. Now you can actually see the layout of our buildings and grounds. I think the satellite photo was taken sometime last summer, as it doesn't show the photo-voltaic panels that were installed on the roofs of the residential buildings in October and November of last year.

Below I overlaid some labels on the Google map photo (click on it to enlarge). The building where we live has three other living units. All that greenery on the east side of our property is a very steep hillside. The image makes Crystal Lake appear very close to us, but it's actually some 40 feet below. Crystal Lake is more like a bog or swamp than a lake.

Click on image to enlarge.

My Actinic Face

Two weeks ago, I visited the dermatologist. I asked about the splotches that have been appearing on my face. He told me they were actinic keratoses, precancerous growths caused by years of sun damage. Very common, especially in fair-skinned people. He said there was a 20% chance they could become malignant. He prescribed a two-week, twice-daily course of a topical cream called Fluorouracil USP 5%. It's a powerful drug, which is actually used for chemotherapy in another form -- very toxic. The drug targets fast-growing cells. He said it would make my face red and it would feel like a bad sunburn.

The first few days, I hardly noticed any effects. Gradually my face got redder and I began to feel the burn, but it was still quite tolerable. Rash-like redness began to spread. Shaving hurt. The stinging intensified, and I started looking pretty gruesome. I gave up on shaving. Sleeping was difficult. The last couple of days were excruciating. It hurts to smile or open my mouth to eat. I frighten children. When I'm in public, people avert their eyes. I need a burka. As of today, I'm done with the treatment, so I had Leela take these photos. I understand that I should start healing up pretty swiftly now.

 Here's an extreme close-up of my cheek:

 Notice the strange patterns created by the lesions.  Also note the layer of subcutaneous cells screaming in agony.  Oops! Oh, that's a picture of the carpet we bought in Turkey -- must have mixed up the photos.  Hard to tell the difference.

Moral of story: Avoid the sun and stay away from dermatologists!

Balcony Garden

We've had flower boxes on the outside of our balcony railing since our first year at CoHo Ecovillage (see my September 6, 2008 post for photo). This year we added four more boxes to the inside of that railing, and Leela planted them with lettuce. Out of reach of the slugs and most other ground-level pests, the stuff has been growing like crazy. And since it's readily visible and accessible from our kitchen, we're good about remembering to harvest and eat the bounty. Even so, it's a challenge keeping up with it right now.

I'm guessing we can keep growing such greens in these boxes right through the winter, thanks to the full southern exposure and ambient building heat.

Bag Aloft

Yesterday while walking, I watched an empty black plastic bag swirl between lanes of traffic on Highway 99W in South Corvallis. The turbulence sent it upward, above the extra-tall utility poles. There the churning quit, and just when the limp form seemed about to drift downward, it continued rising. I paused, hat brim shading my upturned face. Would it fly twice as high as the utility poles?  Yes, quite readily. And it kept ascending -- at an increasing rate. More swiftly than a released toy balloon, it bobbed and fluttered skyward. Caught in an updraft, I assumed.

How high would it go? I decided to continue watching until it fell -- or vanished from sight. It was already wondrously high and maintaining its rapid rise. As there was little breeze, the bag made modest lateral progress. Also it didn't spiral upward, but rather levitated more or less on a straight course. Was the ascent abetted by a trapped pocket of sun-heated air?

It quickly became a black speck against patchy gray clouds. I watched for a minute, two minutes, three, more. It passed a high-flying bird. Had I not witnessed the bag's take-off, I might have mistook it for a crow at this point.  My neck grew sore, and still the bag soared. If I averted my eyes, I might lose track of it; so I maintained a fixed gaze. I was determined to follow the wayward piece of debris. Had it become a proxy for my own restlessness? Yes, something in me wanted to be up there. The receding mote shrank to near nothingness, and I couldn't tell whether I still had a fix on it or I was now experiencing a trick of vision. When the specter mounted to heaven through a gap between clouds, I abandoned my vigil and strolled on, rubbing the back of my neck and repeatedly squeezing shut my strained eyes.

"Preferred Reality" -- short story published in The Potomac Journal

The Spring 2011 issue of The Potomac, an on-line "journal of poetry and politics," contains a short-short story I wrote titled "Preferred Reality."  The Potomac features non-fiction pieces on current social themes, as well as poetry and fiction.

Austin of the Senses

I landed for a brief stay back in Austin, the city of my birth and the seat of my clan, diminished as it now is (the clan, not the city). This was my third visit there since moving away three years earlier. Emerging from the air terminal, I was confronted by the humid warmth. Even though it was mid-February, I had expected this; the resilient heat cannot be long held back by any cold front. However, I did not expect to be struck by the color of winter in Austin. It is browner than what I have become accustomed to in Oregon's wet Willamette Valley. Austin's lawns and fields were parched, the trees mostly bare. One might expect winter in a higher latitude to be more bleak than that of Central Texas, but our Pacific Northwest pine trees and continual drizzle seem to keep more green on the landscape throughout the cold season.

Austin is a big sprawling city -- growing fast, the greater metropolitan area now approaching two million. Alert for familiar sights, sounds, and smells, I walked the trash-strewn streets and breathed the vehicle exhaust, reeking of thwarted desires. I found the dusty shops filled with toxic sweets and wrappers ready to be discarded. I noticed these things readily, but they are everywhere in this world; they are not unique to Austin. I was seeking indicators that for me would render the locale distinctive. Every city wants to be known as different, weird in its own special way, but it seems that the harder the inhabitants strive for uniqueness, the more alike their cities become. For me, Austin's vaunted music scene is the same as a hundred others. Its beloved weirdness is but human nature running its peculiar but predictable course in these confusing but media-unified times and has nothing to do with the specialness of place. Across the nation, the neon insignias of commercialized regionalism all look alike. So I sought more subtle cues, unintentional signals that trigger the senses but not necessarily the frontal cortex, indicators not devised with the tourist industry or commerce in mind, unlauded accidents of place.

And I found some of these indicators. The grackles I have always admired and enjoyed for their raucous ways and sheer great numbers. In my northern home, I yearn for their sound more than for any band or singer of that live music capital. And other birds caught my attention with their once-familiar notes; the contentious piping of the mockingbird and the plaintive call of the mourning dove are distinctive reminders of my former home. The whirring plaints of the cicadas are silent during winter months, but I imagined I heard them through the roar of traffic.

And something in the air caught my attention, a subtle aroma. So faintly did it register that I hesitate to call it a smell. Yet I was continually sensitized by it. Something slightly sour, something damp, it was a constant presence as I strolled the downtown streets, especially during the first couple of days of my visit, before I became habituated. I thought of bat guano, but was not satisfied that that was the only ingredient. I walked into Pease Park, away from the confines of the bats, and the smell persisted. There beside the soft stone banks of Shoal Creek I recognized what it was: limestone. In Austin, the mineral is all about -- in building façades; in walkways, walls, and fences; and under the shallow soil. In the park limestone outcroppings dominate the hillsides and creek banks. The mild acids in the water and humid air must react with the soft stone's alkalinity to produce the pungency that calls me back. Whatever the precise mix of aromas (perhaps accompanied by certain light, barometric, aural, and visual cues), the sensation was here particularly strong. In the part of Oregon where I live, the soil is acidic and duffed with pine needles, different from that of Austin, and not associated with a long personal history.

In the park, I found a secluded spot and took a leak. My stream of piss splashed against the stone and gave forth a confirmation of my hypothesis. This was a smell I knew from distant childhood. My grandfather's used car lot on Red River Street had been carved out of a soft sedimentary hillside. As a child I played there, peeing freely against the cliff behind the back row of cars. The smell was not particularly pleasant, yet for me evocative, though in a vague way. Memories of memories of memories.

Signage Conundrum

As a conundrum, I offer this set of signs from here in Corvallis. The situation is not as impossible as it may seem. One can actually exit the one-way, dead-end street, which is only half a block long, through an intersecting alleyway or an adjacent parking lot, but I suppose neither are considered thoroughfares in the circumscribed world of traffic signage.

Sprouted Chocolate

In January I attended a sprouting workshop held by Susan, one of our cohousing neighbors. During the introduction, she informed us about the amazing variety of things that can be sprouted. The workshop was spread over two consecutive Saturdays. In between we were to sprout some things on our own. Thinking about her initial claim that many things one might not suspect could indeed be sprouted, I got the idea for sprouted chocolate. I enlisted Leela's help. We bought some Hershey Kisses (dark chocolate variety). I picked off some little rosemary leaves. Leela heated up a hot pin and poked a melted hole in the top of each kiss while I stuck a perky sprig in each one. I took a plate full of the sprouted chocolate kisses to the class, and it was a hit.

Yesterday, Susan was head chef for the communal dinner. She decided the menu would be predominantly sprouted fare: tortilla wraps (with sprouted grain flours), sprouted corn tortillas, hummus (with sprouted chickpeas), sprouted lentil spread, sunflower seed spread, alfalfa sprout salad with oranges, dates, and sprouted walnuts, extra green sprouts, sprouted beverage. She asked me to bring my sprouted chocolate specialty. Here's what it looked like:

SKY FULL OF DREAMS Now Published

For the past five years, I've been working on an aviation biography of my late father, Bruce K. Hallock. Now I'm happy to report that SKY FULL OF DREAMS is finally published and for sale on line. My publishing Web site, ElevonBooks.com, contains a direct link to the Amazon sales page plus some additional information about the book, including a photo gallery.

Maybe the matter-of-fact way I've stated this makes it sound like no big deal. Well it is -- to me, anyway. Writing the book was only half the job. In order to publish this book, I formed my own publishing company, learned about print-on-demand publishing, and set up the distribution scheme. Each of these tasks involved myriad subtasks and lots of learning. I'm very happy with the result -- the book as well as the publishing company, which I can now use as an outlet for other projects.

Other OryCon Oddities

The programming at science-fiction conventions always seems to offer a few delights beyond the expected panels and presentations focused on writing, publishing, and things fanish, and the two OryCons I've attended have been rich with these. At last year's convention, for example, I attended memorable presentations on archery, the dynamics of violence, caring for horses, living off the land, and of course selected science topics. These are all subjects of potential interest to writers of SF and fantasy (readers hate it when writers get basic stuff about horses or physics wrong). This year's programming also contained a bunch of sessions on this sort of "background information," but I only had time for a few. Here, listed randomly, are some highlights gleaned from various panels:

>I heard the discrepancies between the Voyager probes' predicted and actual course described as possible "rounding error in the floating point processor that's simulating the universe."

> Someone said that, according to all the current models of plate tectonics, the Rocky Mountains shouldn't exist.

> Much talk about the inadequacies of the Drake Equation, which purportedly calculates the potential number of extraterrestrial civilizations in our Milky Way galaxy, for example:

• It only considers the possibility of carbon-based life forms. What about other forms?
• Galactic centers are now known to be inhospitable to carbon-based life like us; so that rules out a bunch of stars.
• What about Europa-type planets and other possible abodes of life like planetary crusts that may exist outside the so-called Goldilocks zone?
• Just what is intelligence, anyway?

> At a very interesting panel on metallurgy, the discussion turned to the possibility of refining metals without using heat. Someone mentioned that Brazil nut trees draw radium from the soil and concentrate it in the nuts, making them register significantly higher than the background level on detectors.

I love these little nuggets. I go home and look them up. Ah, sure enough, that's true about Brazil nuts! The Rocky Mountains -- you can check it out if you want.

POD Publishing

At OryCon, I attended several panels and presentations on publishing. My interest in this topic has a couple of sources. First, I want to sell stories and novels to existing publishers. Second, I want to publish a few things myself, i.e., be a publisher.

Print-on-demand (POD) technology and internet marketing now make it easier than ever for anyone to be a publisher, but that's not news. What was news to me was the extent to which many commercially viable small presses (as opposed to home-based, hobby-style entities) and even large publishers are relying on POD. The quality of the physical product is now practically indistinguishable from books printed by the traditional offset method, and for small print runs of trade paperbacks, POD makes economic sense. Of course the quality of the editing and the layout is another matter. I saw some beautiful POD books, and a saw some sloppy ones.

I attended a presentation by Robert Plamondon, who runs a one-man publishing company called Norton Creek Press. Most of his titles are nonfiction on the topic of caring for chickens. Some are authored by him and some are old titles now in the public domain. He's also published his own science fiction novel and a formerly out-of-print role-playing-game book that he'd authored, which was originally published by a traditional press. His chicken books sell best. I think he said he'd sold four copies of his novel to people other than relatives and friends (they were readers who liked his chicken books). Nonfiction is always easier to sell.

I found Plamondon's presentation especially interesting because his publishing business is similar to what I've envisioned for myself -- not hugely ambitious, but not amateurish either. He also uses Lightning Source (LSI) as his printer. My aviation biography of my dad is just now ready to publish, and I'd already decided to use LSI. So I was gratified to learn from Plamondon and other small and mid-size press people at OryCon that I'm on the right track with LSI.

More on OryCon>>>

Flash Fiction

At OryCon 31, I attended a panel on "flash fiction." The panelists were writers and publishers of flash fiction. I didn't know what to expect. I supposed flash fiction might be fiction that's produced rapidly -- in a flash. But it turns out flash fiction refers to stories of extreme brevity -- typically under 1,000 words, although there is no widely accepted length limit. There are lots of markets for flash fiction now -- some paying, most not. A few are print publications, but most are on the internet. Some actually offer their readers a daily e-mail containing a complete flash story.

Of course short-short fiction has been around as since Aesop's Fables, but it seems the form has taken on new life (fits right in with our busy lifestyles and short attention spans). People are even doing Twitter fiction now, which is limited to 140 characters (that's characters, not words!). Someone commented that short fiction in general (not just flash) is currently undergoing a sort of resurgence. I heard a lot about flash and short fiction in general at the convention. Lou Anders (editor guest of honor) said that the cutting edge belongs to the short form. He foresees something like the iTunes model for short fiction.

Anyway I found the idea of flash fiction exciting, as I've been doing my own form of it for some time. Every day I try to turn out a complete piece -- usually fiction -- usually not presentable, trash-ready. My form of flash fiction is indeed produced in a flash. It's a practice, just something to keep my juices flowing, but once in a while I turn out something that, after some polishing, might be acceptable for a flash-fiction market. So I was rapt; I wrote down a dozen or more markets mentioned during the panel. I haven't checked them all out yet.

On to the next OryCon post>>>

Science Fiction Fading, Urban Fantasy Twinkling

Science fiction's star is fading. Not in the movies or on TV or in the gaming universe, but the books are selling less and less. Of course this has been evident for some time, but it's more obvious with each passing year. Fewer titles are being published, and print runs are smaller than ever. Lou Anders, editorial director of Prometheus Books' science fiction imprint Pyr, was editor guest of honor at this year's OryCon, and I saw and heard a lot from him. He's smart, articulate, and very frank.

He says he's not attending the World Science Fiction Convention next year. His convention-attending budget is limited, and WorldCon just isn't worth it any more -- it's gotten too small. World Fantasy Convention attendance has also dwindled to the size of a regional convention. He says both conventions should try having a YA guest of honor (sounds good to me!). On the other hand, DragonCon and Comic-Con International are much more worthwhile, and Anders said he was delighted to find how receptive the attendees of these conventions are to books.

Anders is very enthusiastic about books and literature. At the Sunday morning "Coffee with the Editor" gathering, someone asked him what he's looking for. Anders replied that he's looking for the person who can translate urban fantasy to a historical setting. Well, it made sense when he said it, but now I'm thinking: Isn't that already being done? I guess I missed something there.

By the way, if you're wondering what urban fantasy is, the below-average urban-fantasy setup generally runs something like this: I'm a vampiress with a tattoo and an attitude, and my boyfriend is a werewolf, and the CIA needs our help to combat some unspeakable evil, but a bunch of personal issues are in the way. Come to think of it, that sounds a lot like real life for a lot of people -- if you leave out the part about the CIA and the evil threat.
The readers of UF are mostly women; guys are reading less of everything than they used to. This in part explains the sorry state of written SF, which historically has had a high percentage of male readers.

More on OryCon.

OryCon 31 -- General Observations & Steampunk Stuff

Over the Thanksgiving weekend (Friday--Sunday), Leela and I attended OryCon in Portland. The event is billed as "Oregon's premier science fiction convention." I had attended last year, but this was Leela's first year as an official attendee. The convention was held at the large Portland Doubletree Hotel, and featured a variety of programming, generally focused on science fiction, fantasy fiction, and spin-offs thereof. In addition to the fans, many authors, editors, publishers, and producers attended. Total attendance was about 1,400.

General Observations

Before moving to Oregon, I had been a regular attendee of Austin's ArmadilloCon, which I considered Texas's premier science fiction convention. For me ArmadilloCon is special in that its focus is more literary than most other SF conventions, which tend to have a heavy emphasis on movies, TV, comics, gaming, costuming, etc. So I was a bit leery of OryCon at first, but after this year, I've found that OryCon suits me quite nicely. OryCon's programming seems more diverse than ArmadilloCon; so you see a lot of costumes and much programming that (to me) seems extraneous. But all this does not come at the expense of the literary programming; there were more panels on writing, publishing, and related topics than I could possibly attend. In addition, OryCon provides quite a bit of what I call "background" programming that may be of interest to writers -- panels in which scientists, historians, sociologists, etc. discuss issues in their fields as they relate to science fiction and fantasy.

I noticed a lot of young people at OryCon. From grade-schoolers to teenagers, they were more in evidence than I remember at ArmadilloCon. Over the years, I've heard a lot of moaning at ArmadilloCon about the need for new blood in SF, that the old guard is aging, and so on. Well, I didn't get that feeling so much at OryCon. Of course it's the gaming, the costuming, and media SF that draws the young folks, but that's okay with me. The whole scene just seems more vibrant with them around.

And I really enjoy seeing all those costumes. Even if you're not into dressing up, it's fun being around it. And the costuming is what most attracts Leela; she attended several panels on costuming. Who knows -- maybe I'll do a costume next year! Which brings me to…

Steampunk

Steampunk is huge this year! Steampunk is a literary sub-genre of fantasy and SF that typically features a pseudo-Victorian setting and includes elements of SF or fantasy. In these altered Victorian realities, one might find a dirigible fitted with sails; a steam-powered, clockwork robot; or a vampire having tea with the queen. Steampunk also revels in anachronism and often posits alternate futures in which electricity and the internal-combustion engine have not superseded Victorian-era technology. Although steampunk is retro in its costumes, props, and sets, it's always created by contemporary writers and artists, and often informed by edgy modern sensibilities. So stories by Jules Verne and Arthur Conan Doyle are not steampunk, even though they are science fiction and fantasy of the Victorian era (in other words, the real thing is not the real thing). On the other hand, modern stories featuring Sherlock Holmes or Captain Nemo's Nautilus may be steampunk. Remember The Wild Wild West TV series and movie? That was steampunk. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang might be proto-steampunk. Get the idea?

I've been aware of steampunk as a literary movement for a while but was astonished to see how it had suddenly come to dominate the costuming scene. Everywhere I turned at OryCon, I was running into guys and gals decked out in alternate Victoriana. Gears and old-fashioned gauges are prominent motifs, perhaps suggesting that the character is part machine or at least in close touch with a mechanical sidekick. Headgear includes bowler hats, top hats, pith helmets, and aviator helmets. And then there are the goggles -- elaborate brass and leather creations, some festooned with jewels, extra lenses, gears, and mysterious filigree. I saw one pair that was illuminated from inside by dancing arcs of red light. Yes, brass goggles seem to be the steampunk emblem. They're seldom worn over the eyes but rather up on the hat, as if the character has just emerged from the laboratory where he has been concocting unearthly wonders visible only with the aid of special lenses. Even people who don't bother to get fully costumed in tails and lace and petticoats often don a bowler banded with weird goggles. It's just something you put on to show you're part of the party, like a cowboy-grunge hat at South-by-Southwest. Here, I took some pictures:


Begogled steampunkers. [click photo to enlarge]

One woman, whom I called the Steampunk Princess, had brilliant, red, wavy hair flowing down past her shoulders. This was topped by a tall, white, begoggled pith helmet. Stunning! Later I learned the hair was a wig. Alas, I failed to get her photo.

The winner of the group costume category at Saturday's costume ball, was titled something like "Passengers and Crew of Her Majesty's Airship Somethingorother." Some of them are in the photo collage above.

Where do you get these goggles? Well, you can make them yourself simply by painting and adding accessories to swimming goggled or motorcycle goggles, or you can purchase them from someone in the Dealers' Room at OryCon or similar conventions. A seller of steampunk gear told me he had been in the business of making custom horse tack, but when the recession hit, all that business dried up. His daughter, who was into Goth, suggested he try making some accessories for the Goth crowd, since they like leather. So he did, and he started going to conventions to sell the stuff, and since there's some overlap between the Goth and the Steampunk worlds -- well -- one thing led to another, and here he was standing behind a table arrayed with the strangest eyewear to be found anywhere. I guess Steampunk is recession-proof.


More steampunkiana and assorted fantastica. [click photo to enlarge]

But not everyone was doing steampunk. There was still to be found a sprinkling of barbarians, ghouls, medievalites, spacers, and aliens. I think I saw a couple of Klingons lurking behind a door and a Battle Star Galactica officer looking very lonely. But not a single Spock ear in sight!

Then there were the white-haired science-fiction fans like me, who enjoyed the masquerade but mainly as a diversion between panels and other presentations on literature and science. More about that in the next post...

Leipzig String Quartet

Last night Leela and I attended a concert on the campus of OSU -- three varied works masterfully performed by the Leipzig String Quartet. The first and third offerings were classic works by Mozart and Brahms, both elegantly rendered and warmly received. The second was String Quartet No. 3 "Jagdqartett" by Jorg Widmann (born 1973). It began with all four musicians vigorously swishing their bows in the air and then yelling. The piece progressed through blatantly dissonant runs, aggressive sawing at the strings, odd percussive flourishes, and more rhythmic hollering. It was a very energetic piece, and for me, the spectacle of these virtuosi executing it with such precision alone made it worthwhile. I did, however, feel sorry for the instruments; at the end, all four bows were partially shredded (thankfully this was just before the intermission). As for the piece itself, I must credit my boisterous parrot, Ava, for helping me attain, over the years, a profound appreciation for iconoclastic musical conceits of this sort. Two old men sitting next to me obviously had not benefited from any such tutelage. As the piece came to an end, the two conspicuously withheld their applause. Then one said to the other in a voce hardly sotto: "Just as sh*tty as I thought it would be! Typical contemporary German crap! I want my money back."

Recent psychological experiments have shown that people tend to appraise products more highly when the cost is higher, even in cases where two otherwise identical products are offered for evaluation. For example experts will insist that the wine poured from an expensive bottle is superior to the same stuff served in a bottle featuring a cheep sticker. Well, perhaps this doesn't apply to musical performances. By implication, the gentleman who wanted his money back paid something for the concert. We, on the other hand, got our tickets free from a friend, and I left thinking I would have gladly paid the full $25 ticket price for this experience. More data needed.

Cleaning Trance

In November of 2007, we were still in the midst of getting our Eva Street home ready to sell. We propelled ourselves through an intense period of long days spent packing possessions, getting rid of excess baggage, and sprucing up the old house. I got in the habit of cleaning stuff that I hadn't much bothered with before -- baseboards, corners of closets, window sills, etc. It seemed I always had a couple of cleaning rags going.

Around Thanksgiving we took a break and drove our first truckload of stuff up to Corvallis. We only spent a few days, then returned to Austin to continue packing and divesting ourselves of the old place. During that brief visit to our new hometown, we ate at Sunnyside Up. In the restroom while drying my hands, I noticed that the light-switch cover was very dirty. Without thinking, I started scrubbing it with the wet paper towel I'd just used. I'd cleaned half of it before I realized the absurdity of my action and stopped.

Today Leela and I dined at that restaurant again, and once again I visited the restroom. Remembering my cleaning trance of over a year ago, I noticed that half of the light switch cover was still dirty. So I thought: What the heck! And just cleaned the rest of it.

Brother, Can You Spare a Buck

Last Saturday on NPR's Weekend Edition, I heard a wonderful story on the history of the Depression-era song "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime." Pianist and composer Rob Kapilow took an in-depth look at the song to explore "why it was so successful in its time, and why it still speaks to listeners today." It's worth checking out. Both the audio and the transcript of the story are here on the NPR site. I suggest listening to the audio, because the story is "illustrated" with example passages from the tune.

Anyway, I couldn't get the song out of my head; so I decided to update the lyrics:

Once I built a Web site, made it shine.
Man, it brought me good luck.
Once I built a Web site. Now it's dyin'.
Brother, can you spare a buck?

Once I had a boutique in the mall --
Wind chimes, candles, wooden duck.
Once I had a boutique -- that was last fall.
Sister, can you spare a buck?

Once I owned a mansion in a nice suburb --
heated pool, gas grill, steak of chuck.
Once I had a mansion. Now I'm on the curb.
Brother, can you spare a buck?

Once in desert camo, God, we looked great,
Full of that with-or-against-us.
Half a million limbs we had to amputate.
And I was the kid most zealous!

Say, don't you remember? They called me "Dude."
It was "Hey, Dude!" you used to holler.
Why don't you remember? I just need some food.
Say, buddy, can you spare a dollar?

Copyright, Austin Bruce Hallock, 2008

My Big Wildcrafting Triumph

Wildcrafting is the practice of harvesting uncultivated plants from their natural or "wild" habitat. I provide this definition because I was not familiar with the word before moving to Oregon. I guess I was wildcrafting blackberries all summer, but to tell the truth my ambitions did not extend much beyond that. This changed today.

Yesterday I went for a walk in Willamette Park along the river in the early morning fog. After several days of solid rain, the sun had finally come out the day before, and more clear days were in store. Passing a large moss-covered oak tree, I noticed, about nine or ten feet up the shady side of the trunk where a large branch had been removed, a white, hemispheric mass about the size of my head. Its surface was not smooth but stranded in a way that looked familiar.

Over the past few months, Leela and I had been experimenting with various mushrooms, mostly obtained from the local farmers' market. It seems our area is rich in mushroom varieties. One of the varieties obtained from the market that we'd liked very much was the lion's mane, which is what I thought I'd seen in the tree. The ones we'd bought had been cultivated, though, and the one wildcrafter who sells at the market never had lion's mane. Today I told the wildcrafter what I'd seen, and she became very excited. She confirmed that it probably was a lion's mane, because nothing else looks quite like it. She said she'd never found one in the wild. She wanted to know where it was. She wanted me to take a picture.

Leela and I promptly pedaled our bikes out to the site. It was still there. We'd brought a stick to try to knock it down, but that crude tactic proved unnecessary. I hoisted Leela up on my shoulder, and she was able to retrieve it. It was incredibly heavy -- maybe five pounds. It had absorbed a lot of water. I put it in a sack and carried it in my pannier back to the farmers' market, which was still in progress. I wanted the wildcrafter there to confirm what it was before we ingested it. She declared it "a magnificent specimen" and wanted to hold it. I allowed her to do so. She said mushroom gatherers tend to miss them, because they're always looking down. It took an amateur to find this thing.
At home I cleaned it (you're not supposed to wash mushrooms, just brush them off, I've learned), sliced it, and sauteed it with olive oil, a little butter, garlic, and some red wine at the end. Of course the sauteing brought out great quantities of moisture. The aroma is fantastic -- nutty, buttery, and kind of vanillaish. We ate it with rice, toasted walnuts, and salad. We could only find one neighbor to share it with on the spur of the moment. Even so, there was enough left for two more generous meals for Leela and me.
A little searching on the Web, turns up lots of pictures and info about lion's mane (Hericium erinaceus). Wikipedia has a nice picture of it growing on the tree (mine looked even better on the tree, but we were too excited about getting it down to take a picture first). It's valued for its medicinal properties as well as its culinary charms (there's evidence of anti-dementia effects and the ability to stimulate nerve growth). One site said it's highly prized in Chinese medicine, and at one time could only be eaten by the emperor -- that's me.

Ten Years Ago

It was ten years ago this month (October 1998) that Leela and I first visited Oregon -- well, Leela had actually been here before, but it was my first time to set foot in the Northwest. My daughter, Iola, was living and working in John Day, Oregon. At the time she was a fire fighter for the National Forest Service serving in the helicopter rappel program. We visited her for a few days and then drove around to various parts of the state in our rented car. According to my notes from the time, we drove up Highway 99 from Eugene and spent the night at the Budget Inn in Corvallis. I don't remember looking around Corvallis at all; it was really no more to us than a cheap place to spend the night. The next day we headed west on Hwy 20 toward Newport and the Pacific Coast. At the time we had no inkling that ten years hence we would be living in Corvallis less than half a mile from that Budget Inn. I think I left a toothbrush there.

And it was just one year ago this month that we signed the papers and made the final commitment to buy our place here at CoHo.

Log Rhythms

Log trucks are a fact of life in this part of the country. They rumble down the interstate, career along twisting mountain roads, and trundle through town. I see loaded log trucks pass each other headed in opposite directions, and I wonder: Instead of hauling logs from harvesting points in the north to a southern sawmill and vice versa, why not take the logs cut in the north to a nearby northerly sawmill and those cut in the south to a southerly sawmill and avoid the expense of crisscrossing Corvallis? Maybe I could be a consultant.

Another thing about log trucks: Seeing those loads of just-cut trees summons images of the ugly clear-cuts that mar the hillsides hereabouts and brings a pang sadness. However, a truckload of milled lumber going down the road does not elicit the same feeling. Instead I'm likely to think: Hum, those are some nice two-by-sixes. I guess it's similar to the difference between seeing a cattle truck on its way to market and seeing a meat purveyor making a delivery to a restaurant.

About Our Abode

We live in a cohousing community, and Wikipedia and other sites provide good general descriptions of that concept, so I won't go into it here. There is much to say about our particular community, CoHo Ecovillage (not a very original or evocative name, but there it is). Unfortunately our CoHo Web site is way out of date, still featuring a lot of pre-move-in info. Construction was finished last October, and all 34 units were sold at that time. These units are distributed among nine two-story buildings. There is also the Common House, Bike Barn, and a large workshop. Some of the units are two-story townhouses, others are single-story flats. Whoever picked out the drab, earth-tone color scheme for the buildings did not share our sensibilities, but Leela and others are doing everything they can to bring some vibrancy to the place.

Our unit is an upstairs flat. With four bedrooms and two baths (just under 1,300 sq. ft.), it's the largest floor plan available at CoHo. We like it very much, although the kitchen is rather cramped. Leela and I each have an office. The fourth bedroom is a guest-meditation room, where we meditate on all the guests who will be visiting us. We also have a nice balcony, which Leela has festooned with flower boxes and hanging baskets.

Leela on our balcony entrance (sunflower shown actual size). (Click photo to see enlargement.)

The Common House has a big, commercial-grade kitchen and dining hall, where we have the opportunity to participate in four or five common meals a week, though with schedule conflicts and all, we only do about one every two weeks. The Common House also has a guest room, a children's play room, a living room, and a laundry room. Some residents have washer-dryers in their units. We have a washing machine but no dryer. So we either dry our laundry on racks or use the Common House dryers.

Our property is very nicely situated, with an old cemetery to the north, a huge city park and semi-wilderness area to the east, and residential neighborhood to the south and west. The buildings are connected by paved pathways, and there's usually a lot of activity out there -- especially kids. We have lots of gardening going on, and our common property also contains its own little wilderness preserve. A giant old oak tree used to stand at the east end of the path, but it fell just before move-in.

Lots needs to be done -- landscaping, building maintenance, paperwork, etc. In a cohousing community, the residents take care of a lot of stuff that a normal condominium would hire out. Everyone's supposed to put in four hours a week on community projects. This is a challenge for some. Yes, we have a lot of meetings and some disagreements. The upside is that our neighbors are a bunch of very intelligent people dedicated to improving their communication skills. Everyone moved in here because they wanted to make something like this work. It was about a decade in the planning. We joined right at the end of a long process, and I'm in awe of what these people have accomplished.

Return of the Geese

Great numbers of Canada geese like to overwinter in the farm fields around Corvallis and at the nearby wildlife sanctuary, but during the summer, they fly off to reestablish their Canadian citizenship. Now over the last couple of weeks, they've started returning -- at first in small low-flying groups. At first their calls seemed tentative, as though they were asking each other if they were sure this was really the place and would we be okay here. Maybe they were just tired after the long journey. Now they're settling in and flying higher on their daily rounds. They're still not all here yet (sort of like me).

Blackberry Blues

Although the Willamette Valley gets a lot of rain in the fall, winter, and spring, there's normally zero precipitation from May through September. The past couple of weeks, however, have brought some unseasonable showers, and I guess the blackberries have suffered.

About a week ago I started off toward my favorite blackberry patch with an empty pail and heart full of good cheer. There were still plenty of ripe berries, but up close things didn't look or smell so good. The pungent, fermentatios aroma reminded me of vinegar. The berries had lost their luster, and mold was overtaking them. In places whole clumps had just turned to masses of gray. The few that looked good enough to pick seemed to come off too easily and partially fall apart in my fingers. And the taste wasn't quite right. I groped for a while among the aura of decay and returned home with only a couple dozen berries in my bucket.

"Everything in its season," I told Leela, who likes to amass large quantities of various berries and freeze them so we can enjoy them year round. I've tried to convince her that if we go without them for most of the year, then we'll appreciate them all the more. Maybe. Or maybe the season isn't over after all. Yesterday I went for a walk in the park and found plenty of good blackberries in another place, with more green ones on the way. So goes the season.

Grackles and Crows

One thing I miss about Austin is the grackles. Here in Corvallis we have crows in great abundance, which have their own charm, but their grating caws can't quite match the marvelous electronic car-alarm call of a male great-tailed grackle strutting his stuff. (I once saw a tourist during the SxSW music festival trying to photograph a grackle.)

Now you might be excused for assuming that Corvallis takes its name from the crows, which are of the genus Corvus. In fact the name Corvallis was cobbled together from Latin roots that describe its position in the heart of the valley.

For years I had believed that grackles were also of the genus Corvus, along with jackdaws and ravens. In fact birds commonly called grackles are of several genera, none of which is Corvus. The great-tailed grackle that inhabits (or infests, depending on point of view) Austin, Texas, is of the Quiscalus genus. You have to move two steps down the taxonomic tree to the "order level" to find the common linage of crows and grackles in the Passeriformes, which includes most songbirds.

Although Corvallis has plenty of crows (there's even a watering hole downtown called the Crow Bar), the big black birds don't exactly darken the sky, as do the great wheeling flocks of Austin grackles. I've often thought that the grackle, rather than the armadillo, should be the animal emblem of Austin. One would be hard pressed to find an armadillo within those vaunted city limits, but grackles probably outnumber the human citizens by more than ten to one. Their very ubiquity likely causes them to be overlooked when people are considering names for things. They're so common, they're invisible -- or at least irrelevant. On the other hand, you see signs everywhere promoting Armadillo Wrecker Service, Armadillo Pest Control, Armadillo Tattoo Shop, Music, This, That, etc. -- but nary a commercial or civic mention of the loathsome grackle, which (along with the bats) actually contributes immensely to pest control. Yet atop of the signs and above the doors of those very businesses honoring the lowly armadillo are perched the gleaming black birds, ever watchful, always ready to swoop.

One time Leela was in an Austin boutique when a male grackle happened to fly in the door. The young lady in charge of the shop became very upset -- not because the bird might poop on her merchandise, but because she was afraid that black birds brought bad luck (they do have a rather menacing countenance). In complete sincerity, the woman wondered aloud if she should have the place exorcised. Leela tried to disabuse her of such thinking, saying: "Grackles -- they're party birds! They bring good luck."

And that's how I think of them -- party birds. While the city works hard to perpetuate its image as a good-times music capital, the grackles are living that lifestyle day and night, whooping it up in the trees and parking lots at all hours. Yeah, I miss that mess.

Potluck Moments

Last night we had a potluck dinner out on the CoHo walkway. Everyone brought out tables and chairs. Yummy food appeared. It was a beautiful, cool evening with all the wonderful components of a perfect summer picnic.

I stood in the midst of it all, holding a half-empty bottle of Leela Devi's homemade Sweet Chery Mead. I'd been serving out tastes of the 10-year-old beverage, eliciting appreciative responses. Most of the eating was finished. Beside me Jeremy sawed out a soulful tune on his fiddle. Looking up the path toward the fallen old oak tree, I saw people chatting and milling about. Beer had been brewing in a heated vat. The serving tables still held plenty of tasty food. I turned my gaze west toward the Common House where children chased each other with handfuls of clover. One girl was in a tutu, another flaunted the gown of a princess, and another wore almost nothing. Scooters and tricycles weaved in and out.

There was so much motion and energy and such a variety of noises, I thought I could catch an interesting video shot -- one great sweeping pan of kinetic frenetics with the violin player in the middle. I scurried off to get my camera. When I returned, I asked Jeremy to play the same thing again. He agreed to play something else, and that was okay.

Alas my batteries were dead, and the moment passed with only these coarse words as documentation.

Climate Refugees

Climate refugees -- that's what we are, if the truth be told. "Amenity migrants" is another term, perhaps more precise because it covers a broader range of reasons for relocating. We moved to the Northwest not only to escape the heat and drought, but to trade the big city for small-town life. And for the adventure of a new life in a new kind of community far away from home.

At one time in my life, I dreamed of living on another planet -- Mars perhaps. The idea still holds more than a little allure. If I did move there, no one could accuse me of being a climate refugee or amenity migrant. It would be very cold and dryer than dry, and no natural-food store within walking distance. But perhaps adventure is an amenity. It's certainly a luxury I'm fortunate to be able to afford.

Whether the Weather Withers or Not

Yes, I really like the weather here in Corvallis. I like the rain and cold of winter. I like the cool mornings and evenings of summer. Once in a while it gets up in the 90s, even touching 100, but it doesn't stay there long. Evening usually brings breezes from the coast, and we're back down in the 50s or low 60s.

I keep the Austin weather page bookmarked on my computer, just so I can assure myself that I'm in the right place. Yep!

We don't have air conditioning, and most people here don't. At night I open all the windows. Before dawn I put fans in the windows. When the sun comes up, I shut the windows and trap the cool air. Sometimes I kind of overdo it, keeping the inside temperature in the mid-60s all day long. I've still got my Texas weather wariness -- worried that the house will get too hot. Maybe I overreact. But most of the time it's very pleasant inside our home. There have only been a couple of days when we wished it were cooler.

Extreme Berry Picking

Early morning. I walk the straight path, intent on my purpose, which is to get some exercise before the day's heat comes on, make my circuit and move on to other things. Blackberry bushes loom on both sides of the path. With each passing day, the fruits are turning blacker, juicier, sweeter. They're a blur as I stride along. But suddenly one berry, fatter and darker than the others, comes into sharp focus. And before I know what I'm doing, I'm over there, reaching. I get it, and it's tastier than I thought it would be. So I go for another. And another.

Then I'm stepping over the tangle of thorns, reaching for the clutches of berries farther back. I don't care that my legs get scratched, my clothes get torn. I barge farther in. I have an attitude: these are my berries and nothing will keep me from them. The plant's spiny defenses do not deter me; on the contrary, the pain and difficulty only stimulate my urge for reward.

I trip, fall. I'm down on my ass on a mat of thorns. If I try to push myself up with my hands, I'll get punctured palms. No matter -- I'll just eat some of these power berries and pop back up later. But first I'll take a nap, like a yogi on a bed of nails. My weight is distributed among the sharp points, and I don't feel much. I dream of nirvana.

The Art of Hanging Out

Having the time.
Taking the time.
Time to read the paper or a book.
Time to talk with a friend.
Preferably while sitting in a coffee house late into the morning. Or at a table on the sidewalk where others, in their hurrying, will see you and perhaps wistfully wonder when they will have time.

I have been among the wistful -- wondering, wishing, imagining that I could be reading a novel on the shady side of the sidewalk late into the morning, no other needs pressing in. Then maybe a friend shows up and we have a long conversation about the novel, or about love, or even the price of gasoline.

But my days have been full of errands and chores and little tasks I've set for myself, seemingly urgent stuff that takes priority over activities that smack of vacationing. Oh, yes, I take a furtive moment now and then to browse through a magazine or chat with someone. But where is the time for serious, intentional hanging out? I see others doing it all the time -- or at least I think they're doing it. They don't look as though they have anything more important to do, anywhere else to be. From my perspective they're suspended in a tableau of socio-intellectual titillation, poised between fellowship and solitude, doing and being, pleasure and fulfillment.

I decide this hanging out thing must be an art. I'll give it a try. Maybe I can develop my skill. So I stick a science-fiction novel in my fanny pack and hop on my bike. I plan to ride around town a bit, and then maybe stop at the Beanery or some other coffee shop with sidewalk seating and just read for a while, pretending there's no time like the present.

But once I get on my bike, my mindset shifts. I don't want to stop. This is a good time for zooming around on two wheels. My legs are loving this! Why would I want to stop and buy expensive tea that's not as good as the tea I have at home and sit in an uncomfortable metal chair and try to read with cars and other people shuffling about? Better to read in the cool peace and quiet of home, sitting on my comfortable couch with my favorite beverage at hand.

But then where is the fellowship, the cozy feeling of being among others enjoying the same activity? And isn't the surrounding hustle and bustle an essential ingredient in the process of throwing such timeless moments into relief?

Okay, so I don't quite have the hang of this public hanging out thing. I'll work on it.

Bicycling

I bought a bicycle a couple of months ago -- a very nice recumbent. I haven't been a bike rider since college. Now I'm all over town on this thing. I like to get up in the high gears and crank it like crazy!

And this is certainly the town for it. Corvallis has been cited for its bicycle-friendliness. There are lots of bike lanes and trails, paved and unpaved. Automobile drivers seem generally courteous. And downtown every block seems to have a bike shop. In with the crowd of normal bikes, I see many odd rigs -- extreme recumbents, tricycles, tandems, sidecars, trains of trailers. One of our neighbors made a bike trailer for his canoe.

Leela will get a bike soon. She bought a helmet today and promptly took off on my bike -- gone for over an hour. "I was starting to worry," said I on her safe return. "Like I do when you're out," she replied.

In Austin the idea of bicycling frightened me. It can be dicey here too, of course, but it's not overly intimidating. Many activities are less formidable in the doing than in the imagining.

Will the winter rains cool my enthusiasm? I don't know. Right now we have only one car -- our little Honda Fit. We don't plan to get another. The rain and cold don't keep many of the bike riders off the road. They just put on their gear and go.

Retirement of a Sort

So I had this job as a technical writer for the Texas Department of Transportation. I didn't plan to stay with it for 19 years, but they treated me well, and the pay was good, and it was kind of interesting -- so... Before that I had been doing freelance work -- technical writing, ad copy, video scripts. It was pretty much a hand-to-mouth existence. The competition started getting fierce. My daughter was getting ready for college, and I decided I needed a regular paycheck. I told myself I'd just stay with the Department until she got through college. She got through college in four years and took off. I stayed on and on at TxDOT. One thing led to another, and pretty soon it was 2007 -- time to move on.

Under the arcane rules of state employment, I was able to retire at age 60+ with a decent pension and benefits. I consider myself a lucky man. I'm healthy, happy, in love with my wife, debt free, living where I want to live, and writing what I want to write.

I had an odd career as a technical writer. I call it odd because it was unlikely for a person of my abilities and education -- slow reader, poor speller, and only three years of college. But I've always had a knack for grammar and syntax. Even the shapes of letters and sounds of words captivate me. And I loved stories and the process of their unfolding -- still do. Somehow by my late 20s, I had decided to be a writer. I'd done lots of writing before that -- comics, movie scripts, short stories, poetry -- so maybe it was natural, or maybe it wasn't. Everyone probably has a peculiar story.

Berries I Have Eaten

Exactly one year ago, Leela and I visited Corvallis for about a week with the explicit purpose of checking out the town as a possible place to live. We liked what we found, in spite of the fact that we both got very sick -- some kind of flu.

The illness didn't keep us from exploring, though, and one of the wonders we discovered was blackberries. It happened to be the height of the season, and they were everywhere -- an invasive species, we were told. Animal instinct compelled me to gorge on the messy fruit. I climbed right into the thorny tangles. My body needed this; the appetite was like nothing I've experienced before or since, an intuitive somatic need for whatever antioxidant or other special curative nutrient the plant offered.

So I partook of the fruit of the invasive species, and thus became one myself. Now we've been living in Corvallis since February, and I've picked four kinds of berries, each in its luscious season:

• strawberries
• blueberries
• raspberries
• and lately blackberries again.

Except for the blackberries, these were all from you-pick-'em farms. I go crazy eating these little sweeties right off the plants. The blackberry plants are all over everywhere, including the park near our house. They're coming in late this year, as everything is, due to the protracted spring. I like the protracted spring.

Walkin', Talkin' Nostalgia Scrapbook

A few days ago, Leela discovered wasps nesting in a ventilator drain pipe next to the water spigot outside our building. We called a guy who advertises in the paper that he will collect wasps and yellow jackets for free. He sells them to a company that makes vaccine from their venom. Today he came over. He said they were paper wasps. He vacuumed out a couple of insects and then pulled out their little nest, which was just visible inside the pipe. He said he could hatch out the pupae. He squirted some clove oil in the pipe, and I covered it with a sock.

Conversing with this fellow, I learned he'd lived in Austin for 11 years -- 1974-1984. "The good years," I told him, and he agreed. We talked about various places around the city, and I realized Austin was frozen in time for him in the mid 1980s. He hadn't been back since, and in his mind nothing much had changed. For him the airport was still at Mueller, there were no toll roads or gigantic condo towers, things like that.

Well I guess it's too late for me to freeze Austin's good years. My experiential tea bag has steeped too long; I didn't pull out until after the end of bad-old 2007, with the impossible traffic, SoCo mania, and endless heat. I'm happy to be rid of that. But actually I must have all those other eras stored away as still lifes too. Otherwise how could I have so favorably compared Corvallis to Austin in the 1960s? I'm just a walking, talking nostalgia scrapbook!

Why I am Austin

Until this year, I had lived all my adult life in Austin, Texas. During that time my name was Bruce. Bruce is a fine name, but it was also my father's name. Before he died a couple of years ago, we'd often get each others calls (he also lived in Austin). And during my childhood, I went through stages when I wanted to change my name, in large part to distinguish myself from my father.

So I've always been fascinated with the idea of switching identities, and our move to Corvallis provided a good opportunity, especially since our new cohousing community already has an established Bruce whose last name also happens to begin with "H." I picked the name Austin because:

• I liked the name.
• I wanted to commemorate my hometown.
• It might have been my given name, if my mother had had sufficient foresight.

That last point needs explaining. I am the oldest of 4 boys. I was born in Austin; #2 was also born in Austin; #3 was born in Dallas; and #4 was born in Flint, Michigan (when our family lived there for a little while). We were named Bruce, Don, Gary, and Mark. But my mother has often mused that she should have named us Austin, Travis (the county that Austin is in), Dallas, and Flint. Well, 25% of her fantasy has now become reality.

It's taken some getting used to, and of course all my old friends and family still call me Bruce, which is fine. I've discovered I can be both. I am a city; I contain multitudes!

Why Leave Austin?

I was born in Austin, Texas, in 1947 and lived there all of my adult life -- until this year.

What happened?

I loved Austin, but the city's size and traffic were becoming more and more irksome. And the heat! I don't think I was made for months and months of near-100-degree days. And besides, I'd always wanted to find out what it was like to live somewhere else. I wanted some perspective on my hometown. I wanted a change.

In 2007 I retired from my long-time state job. My wife Leela and I sold our home for a good price just before the real-estate market went into a nosedive. Meanwhile we'd had our eye on Corvallis, Oregon, a university town of about 55,000 in the Willamette Valley. Concurrently we had also become interested in the cohousing concept and were delighted to find a new cohousing community getting started in Corvallis. At first we didn't think we could get in, even if we wanted to, which we weren't sure of. There weren't any units we liked available. But during a reconnoitering trip to Corvallis last year, we found that a CoHo unit just right for us had opened up (someone had dropped out). At that point the buildings weren't quite finished, and we got on the waiting list. After that everything just fell into place -- or snowballed -- or avalanched -- or pick your own cataclysmic, earth-shifting image. We rushed to sell our house, we ridded ourselves of mountains of stuff, and we made it out here to Corvallis in mid February 2008, somewhat befuddled and surprised at what we'd done.

Sometimes I don't think there is a why. Maybe we just landed here after a storm. But that's not true -- we really did make this happen. And if we can pull off this amazing transformation, we can accomplish a lot of other incredible things too.