Journal of an Urbane Gorilla

And we’re lost out here in the stars. Little stars big stars blowing through the night*

Nature seems to have a way of trumping our imaginations. When I look out in the night sky I do see stars, but other than that the sky seems calm. Well, there is the occasional shooting star, but other than that the universe doesn’t begin to let us in on its secrets.

These pictures are of one of the universe’s secrets: the Eagle Nebula. The Hubble telescope took the pictures and NASA released them the other day. The Eagle is an incubator for galaxies. Those are stars being born there. What’s more, this picture is just a part of the nebula. The whole nebula is nine light-years tall. That’s more of it in the second photo.
I can’t even comprehend something that big.

One of my favourite books is Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slaughter House 5.” The hero, Billy, travels through time and space. We never know whether it’s just in his imagination or not. I would love to get a glimpse of the Eagle nebula up close. Grams says, “that’s the last glimpse you’ll get my fuzzy friend!” Well, I can dream, can’t I? Feel like a little time travel? Meet me at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe. Oh, and don't try the veal. Trust me on this one and Don't Panic.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

* Lost in the Stars – Kurt Weill

Before lord God made the sea or the land
He held all the stars in the palm of his hand
And they ran through his fingers like grains of sand
And one little star fell alone

Then the lord God hunted through the wide night air
For the little dark star in the wind down there
And he stated and promised he’d take special care
So it wouldn’t get lost no more

Now, a man don’t mind if the stars get dim
And the clouds blow over and darken him
So long as the lord god’s watching over him
Keeping track how it all goes on

But I’ve been walking through the night and the day
Till my eyes get weary and my head turns gray
And sometimes it seems maybe God’s gone away
Forgetting his promise and the word he’d say

And we’re lost out here in the stars
Little stars big stars
blowing through the night
And we’re lost out here in the stars
Little stars
big stars
blowing through the night
And we’re lost out here in the stars

Do not go gentle into that good night*

Last summer Henri, Grams and I went to see the Monarchs. Well, the Monarchs, and the Blue-Tailed, and the Celadons, and the Zebras: butterflies all. It was an exhibit at the Natural History Museum. Every summer the museum mounts this exhibition in a netted area outside by the creek.

Living on the central coast of California, we usually get to see the Monarchs every winter in any of the many eucalyptus groves near the ocean. It’s an interesting thing about the eucalyptus trees; the eucalyptus is not native to California. It comes from Australia. So, how did they get to California? It all has to do with Messrs. Huntington, Crocker, Hopkins and Stanford.

You see, in the 19th century they founded the Central Pacific Railroad. They needed a wood for the sleepers (ties) on the rail line. They needed a wood that was hard and would grow fast. Eureka! They imported eucalyptus trees and planted them all along the California coastline.

Lucky for us, the Monarchs like nothing better in the winter than to go to the eucalyptus ‘fly-in-park-and-morph’ hotel. The rest of the year, they thrive on milkweed, but in the winter they crave the eucalyptus.

Call it propinquity, but the robber barons who built the railroad have created a series of havens for the Monarchs. It’s that yin and yang that makes life interesting. The butterflies live for two to six weeks. When Grams found this out she leaned over a Monarch and recited, "Do not go gentle into that good night" all the way through. The woman is a little different, she never ceases to amaze me. Wonder what the butterfly thought.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

Please give what you can to Médecins sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders).

*Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-Dylan Thomas

“Minutus cantorum, minutus balorum, minutus carborata descendum pantorum.”*

This is Foucault’s Pendulum. It lives in what was a chapel and is now part of the Musee des Arts et Metier. It seems as if it’s moving as it keeps time throughout the day. The pendulum moves around the circle and knocks down the pegs that symbolize the quarter hours.

Here’s the real deal: the pendulum isn’t moving, the earth is moving, the pendulum is just hanging there. It’s mind-boggling. Henri’s mum explained it as we stood there watching the pendulum. It was totally counter-intuitive. I was watching it move, but it wasn’t really moving at all. It’s as mysterious as the Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, California. Gives me goosie-bumps.

We were there because one of Grams’ favorite books is “Foucault’s Pendulum,” by Umberto Eco. She loaned it to me, I loaned it to Meg (Henri’s mum). So, you get the picture. The book opens in this room and the dénouement is also here. It’s a horrific scene involving the Knights Templar and all kinds of other mystical and wicked folk. I won’t spoil it for you, but it’s a fantastic read.

What I like best about the Arts et Metier is the eclecticism of it. Everything that logic and science has created since the Renaissance is housed there. The grand and the humble. The very “French” thing about it is that this ode to science is housed in a former church. As a matter of fact, Foucault’s Pendulum is hanging from the dome of the chapel. In order for the pendulum to work, it must hang from a dome with a particular orientation. Don’t ask me to explain that, I don’t understand it. All I know is that it works and I love the Arts et Metiers.

A la prochaine. Moochas smoochas,

Today is Martin Luther King jr. day. We have the opportunity today to honor a true American hero and make his cause our own. "The death of any man diminishes me."

Please give what you can to Medecins sans Frontiers (Doctors without Borders).

*Translation: a little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants. Proving that just because something is in Latin doesn’t make it profound. The quote is from Chuckles the Clown and if you don’t know he was, more’s the pity. Confession: I stole the picture from Henri’s mum’s blog, http://montisci.typepad.com