Summer may have finally come to Oregon. One robin a spring may not make, but half a week of sun is a Pacific northwest season.
I trundled out to the hot tub with a bottle of water, mango ice cream, and The Economist. It is hardly a hedonist kit for a high time, but it is my idea of a relaxing evening.
Tonight I tried something different: I did not turn on the jets. I decided that I would do what every creative writer teacher tells freshmen at the first lecture: before you can write, you must learn to observe.
So I leaned back and listened to my little urban garden.
Amazingly, there was very little traffic noise. There was the hum of a few small cars, and the inevitable macho orgasmic THUMP THUMP THUMP of some twentysomething advertising his Freudian shortcomings.
The other sounds were far more subtle.
I trundled out to the hot tub with a bottle of water, mango ice cream, and The Economist. It is hardly a hedonist kit for a high time, but it is my idea of a relaxing evening.
Tonight I tried something different: I did not turn on the jets. I decided that I would do what every creative writer teacher tells freshmen at the first lecture: before you can write, you must learn to observe.
So I leaned back and listened to my little urban garden.
Amazingly, there was very little traffic noise. There was the hum of a few small cars, and the inevitable macho orgasmic THUMP THUMP THUMP of some twentysomething advertising his Freudian shortcomings.
The other sounds were far more subtle.
Three crows carrying on their witty exchanges at full volume, sounding like drunk dons at a faculty party.
Two scrub jays engaged in what may have been a domestic dispute, only to be drowned out by the trills of a sparrow, willing to hold his territory against the arguing George and Martha in search of their own Edward Albee.
The swifts merely twittered and soared waiting for dusk to generate the krill of the air.
And one robin made a darting cameo appearance sounding a warning call -- either too late for the early worm or too concerned to wait around for the sharp-shinned hawk to return.
I would expect the bird songs and calls to mix. In an Aristotelian world, all will blend with their nature. But even the hum and THUMP of the cars seemed to join in this sonata.
While listening to those sounds, I failed to notice that a breeze was creeping in. It may be the first time I really noticed the difference in sounds created by each tree.
The cottonwood almost a block away produced a full-throated rustle -- as if yards of crepe were given free rein.
The ornamental plum produced a flapping noise, and my giant spruce -- the back bone of my garden -- provided brush strokes.
Subtle and repetitive, but with their own melody. Almost as if Philip Glass had forsworn orchestras for oak and wisteria.
To listen is to write.
[Sad note from the author: This may be the last posting from the hot tub. It appears that the heater has given up -- quit with no notice. We will need much more summer before a cold tub is an adequate substitute for a dead hot tub.]
