Wednesday, September 11, 2019

MEANDERING

Rivers are sinuous creatures, possessing tenacity, ingenuity, and supple grace. By definition, a river is a large body of water flowing in a channel to the sea, a lake, or another river. Most of the synonyms of the word describe rivers of various size or character: watercourse, stream, brook, rivulet, rill, freshet, creek, burn, billabong, beck, wadi, arroyo. The specific meaning of each of the terms changes with location. Local definitions can be quite different. A creek in Maine is not a creek in Oregon.

Upper Salmon River, photo by gv simoni

James Fenimore Cooper, noted author of The Last Of The Mohicans and many other novels, had this to say:

'Creek,' a word that signifies an inlet of the sea, or of a lake, is misapplied to running streams, and frequently to the outlets of lakes.

Cooper lived in upstate New York in the mid 19th century, well within the orbit of New England pedantry. The quote is from Cooper's book The American Democrat which was published in 1838.

By 1859 the definition had begun to broaden and generalize. The Dictionary Of The English Language defined creek as " ... a small inlet of the sea or of a river, a bay; a cove ... " This dictionary was the work of Joseph Worchester, the rival of Noah Webster, and the favorite son of Harvard English and the detractor of the English spoken further west and south. Mr Worchester did grant that " ... in the Middle, Southern, and Western states ..." the word might define a " ... small river; a rivulet."

The 1934 Webster, arguably the finest American dictionary --- the last hand-bound book allowing it to be as thick as the editors needed it to be and not subject to the dictates of machine binding --- explains creek as:

... a small inlet or bay, narrower and extending farther into the land than a cove; a narrow recess in the shore of the sea, a river, or a lake ... the estuary of a small river or a brook, emptying on a low coast or into the lower reaches of a wide river, together with the upper course of the small river or brook to its source.

This begs the question of when or if a 'creek' is also a 'crick.' Some people pronounce 'creek' as though it were spelled like 'crick.' Some people do not. Some people distinguish the difference between creek and crick by size. For example, a recent article on the Field & Stream website quoted a commenter from Texas who suggested that " ... if you can jump across it, it's a crick; if you have to wade across it, it's a creek."

Definitions, too, it seems, can be sinuous creatures, possessing tenacity, ingenuity, and, at times, even supple grace.
Lower Columbia, photo gv simoni

The length of a river is its measure from its source at its headwaters to its mouth where it debouches into another river, a lake, or the sea. Length is the sine qua non for determining the river's size and ranking. Generally, any tributaries feeding a river must be smaller both in size and volume. The Mississippi, reckoned the 2nd longest river in North America, becomes the 4th longest in the world if the Missouri River, which flows into the Mississippi just north of St Louis, is added to it. The Missouri, however, is considered a separate entity due to its size. The numbers suggest finagling: the Mississippi is most often listed as 2,348 miles long, though 2,320 is not an uncommon measurement; the Missouri is listed at 2,341 miles long, and is often granted the longest river in North America laurels. Three streams and many tributaries feed the upper Missouri with considerable opportunity for error. The Mississippi begins its southern journey in Lake Itasca in northern Minnesota. Quibbles seem to be in order.

In terms of volume, generally measured in cubic feet per second (cfs --- think sugar cubes 12 inches square), the Mississippi heads the North American list with a discharge of 593,000 cfs. The Columbia River, the fabled River of the West, languishes at just seventh in length at 1,243 miles; but moves up to fourth in volume at 293,000 cfs. By comparison, the Amazon, the largest river in the world by volume (and by length, as well, depending on who is measuring) discharges 7,380,765 cfs.

The gravitational pull of the moon creates tides, and long sections of rivers that empty into the sea fluctuate accordingly. Tidal rivers rise and fall with the tides, and they flood and ebb as well. The fresh water of a river, less dense than the ocean's salt water, generally floats over the top of the heavier seawater. St Helens, Oregon, once a contender with Portland for major port honors, sees a three foot rise twice daily from the tide. Merriwther Lewis noted tidal water as far inland as Beacon Rock, 145 miles from the Columbia's mouth. The river's flow has considerable variations due to dam releases, wing dams, wind, and tidal currents. Data taken by NOAA suggests tidal flows are coincident with the rise and fall of tides and effect the river's current by up to two knots. No worries for tugs pushing barges which have bigger fish to fry. Kayakers, however, may be late for dinner if paddling against an adverse tide.

Rivers lend themselves to various metaphorical phrases. Most often, flowing water is used to describe life itself, or that other great abstraction, time. In literature, stream of consciousness is a major stylistic feature of many modern novels which attempt to duplicate in words a character's thought process. The phrase was coined by psychologist William James in his Principles Of Psychology of 1894. Though James thought of one's reactions to events as a continuous flow, novelist, with the limitations of the written word, may come closer to duplicating what to many is a rather herky-jerky, stop-and-go process. As one floats the river of life, a good deal of focus is required to maintain a continuous line of thought, to focus beyond distraction come hell or high water. Nonetheless, distractions are legion, and sooner or later one finds themselves up a creek without a paddle, in the proverbial chicken-wire canoe.


Monday, August 12, 2019

SMALL BOAT

If Mr Einstein would have his way, everything is relative. Small is a relative term. A small child is a toddler or perhaps a five year old just off to kindergarten, or an undersized 10 year old. A small craft, as in small craft advisories issued by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, refers to a vessel less than sixty feet in length. And smalls are --- at least in Britain and Australia --- one's undergarments. Small, clearly, is relative.

photo by merrily simoni

A small boat, then, can be an 8' pram, a 24' sloop, a 50' ketch or any other of the many configurations of hulls and rigging as long as it is less than sixty feet in length. Despite NOAA's dictum, to the dapper gent on the upper deck of a 1000' foot cruise ship halfway to Hilo, a 100' yacht may seem dismally small. That is what relativity is all about. Eye of the beholder, you see. Point of reference and all that.

Small talk is the medium with which humans weave their social fabrics. How's the weather? Baked a cake today. The dog's got fleas. Some people are better chatting comfortably with their fellows than others. Darwin had no use for what he considered inanities. Serious fellow, this Darwin. Much too busy explicating evolution to natter away about a rainy day. Most talk at the bus stop, if any talk there be, is not about the speed of light in a vacuum.

Simplicity, it seems to me, is inversely proportional to size. Growth inevitably leads to complication. Detroit is far more complex than Winnemucca. This inverse proportion seems to hold true for everything from strawberries to planets. An amoeba makes an interesting study. Cancer cells offer frustration and endless deliberation.

This brings us to the relationship between elegance and simplicity. The pairing of these two --- simple elegance; elegant simplicity --- is well documented. Indeed, elegance is often defined as beauty marked by an unusual simplicity which is focused on one essential feature of a person, place or thing: one color, one shape, one sound. Cacaphonic music would never be labeled elegant. So we posit another inverse relationship: complexity, and thus size, must be the ruin of elegance. Complexity tends to stun one's cerebral cortex so that focus is lost and confusion reigns. Perhaps the redwood tree is an exception. Or whales. Nevertheless ...

Etymology offers some insight.

Small comes from the Old English smael which is of Germanic origin and related to Dutch smal and German schmal. Latin for 'small' is, among other translations, parvus carrying the meaning 'short' as well as 'small'. Synonyms for 'small' are compact, little, and bijou. Bijou, by the bye (in the 1500s, this word 'bye' referred to a side path, down which we have wandered ...) is synonymous with small, little, compact, snug, cozy.

Simple comes from Middle English from Old French from the Latin simplus. The noun form of the word originally (mid 16th century) referred to a medicine made from one constituent, especially from one plant. Current synonyms are uncomplicated, without much decoration or ornamentation, composed of a single element, not compound.

Elegant originated in the late 15th century from French from the Latin elegans which is related to eligere, to chose or select. As an adjective, the word carries the definitions of pleasingly graceful, tasteful, discerning, refined, among others. When referring to a scientific theory or solution to a problem, the definition is pleasingly ingenious and simple.

photo by gv simoni

The relationship between the three words is, admittedly, rather convoluted; which is to say, alas, complicated and therefore not the least bit elegant. Both 'small' and 'simple' have multiple meanings and 'elegant' traces its origins to a different source entirely so the link is tenuous. One must reach for it. Perhaps it is a bit of a stretch, but a common thread does run through these concepts.

The connection comes from the definition 'one': one plant, one thing, etc. 'One' suggests an integrity, something that is not duplicit (two-faced, false). Integrity might well be the common thread to elegance; and, by extension, to simplicity and smallness as well.

So what difference does it all make? Most people of sense would find integrity an important concept. Elegance is, I fear, rarely considered. Americans are driven by size, the bigger the better. The fact of the matter is that small boats give far more pleasure than large boats. Most boats of any size spend their days tied up in the marina while dinghies, kayaks, and drift boats are out and about exploring the watery byes. Small boats get used. Cliches abound extolling the benefits of small: keep it simple stupid, walk before you run, brevity is the essence of wit, know when to stop. Even the Peter Principle has at its core the folly of increasing growth ( ... in management, one rises to his or her level of incompetence). And the classic philosophic principal, Occam's Razor, might be the last word on the subject: Entities should not be multiplied without necessity.

Tuesday, June 11, 2019

TREES AND TRILLIUMS

Over the last two years, Google data recorded 7536 views of CwHD. Most of those views lasted less than a minute which makes for a poor bounce rate. A bounce rate is the percentage of visits in which a person leaves a website from the landing page without browsing any further. No matter. Words and language are, like the complicated business of driving a vehicle, taken for granted by most people. Boring, in fact. Unless reckless. Or intoxicated. Or both.

I find this odd.

Odd, too, is the way many people go through life. Just browsing is what many seem to be doing, living without intention or direction. Or living impetuously. No doubt Google could put numbers on this generalization. For example, currently the population of the planet is 7.7 billion. The World Population Clock web page keeps ticking over with births and deaths. To the minute, 50,287 people have died today. 121, 276 have been born. 30% of the people on the planet are just trying to survive. They are not bored. Or impulsive. Dire straits focuses one's attention rather acutely.

In Walden, Henry David Thoreau wrote that "...the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation..." And that desperation might well be humdrum or horrific. For example, according to the Center For Disease Control website, over a billion people worldwide are without clean water or proper sanitation which leads directly or otherwise to the deaths of a million children each year. Bored with your job, are you? Having a midlife crisis? Credit cards maxed out, are they. Alas.

Webb Chiles is an intrepid fellow who has circumnavigated the globe six times. He has made these voyages, for the most part, alone. The greater part of one voyage was done in a small, open boat. Mr Chiles has insisted on living an epic life, as he puts it, traveling to the extremities of experience and then reporting back. He is rarely ever feckless or foolhardy. He is, in a word, a seaman. He is, as well, a wordsmith, a fellow who takes language seriously. He has written several books and maintains his own web log. Generally, he has little tolerance for the dreary, humdrum, often intolerable life ashore. He prefers the open sea and solitude.

Mr Chiles no doubt concurs with Thoreau, and so chooses to live his life with a fierce intention to be heroic. Though I, too, vote with Thoreau and Chiles, my point of view is slightly different. The distinction between us is but a hair's breadth, yet it is significant.

When Henry David went to Walden Pond, the small lake and its surrounding forest were wilderness. Now it is just a short drive from Boston; but in 1845 it was something of an epic trek. During the two years, two months, that he lived there, Thoreau began to write Walden, a classic of American literature. He wrote:

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

Living deep requires intention and focus. Consciousness is not spontaneous, not instinctive, not autonomic. We must put some effort into our consciousness for it to function as we think consciousness does. Philosopher Dan Dennett in his TED Talk (2009), 'The Illusion of Consciousness', likens it to a conjuring trick. He points out that at any given moment our attention is focused entirely on a point the size of our thumb nail at arm's length. The background and foreground are filled in by our brains. Think pixels. Or dots of paint from an impressionist's brush. Our brain (or some combination of the 37 trillion cells comprising the human body) creates the bulk of the image. We really do not see what we are seeing. Or smelling. Or hearing.

To be conscious, then, is not something to take for granted. Webb Chiles' desire to suck the marrow out of life led him to the sea. The impression given by the words he writes is that nothing less would do. So too with Thoreau. To put all that is not life to rout, it seems, requires a challenging environment. The high mountains might qualify, or the deserts of the world. Wildness. Little else. Certainly not Levittown.

My take is that Levittown would do just fine. Seclusion is a state of mind. If each moment of anyone's life is considered to be an epic occurrence, just where you are becomes irrelevant. And, as I have written before, we create those moments ourselves, that bit of reality. How is this done? I am fond of this quote from the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein: The world we see is the words we use. The world we create comes from the various and multitudinous synapses in the recesses of our brains, and the subsequent verbiage we use to describe what we create. Presto change-o: Reality. And Consciousness. Or Consciousness, then Reality. No matter.

As far as publishing one's experience to the world goes, that reporting back business, one can undertake the task or not. Certainly it seems to be true that the writer's job (or painter or musician or name your art) is to create work that reports back from wherever their fancy finds them. Warhol painted soup cans. Beethoven wrote symphonies. Wildness need not be part of the program.

Singer songwriter John Prine, an old geezer like Mr Chiles and myself, wrote a lyric that went: ... strangers had forced him to live in his head ...(from the song 'Donald and Lydia', album John Prine, 1971). We all live in our heads. Each of us does so uniquely. What one usually finds is that strangers have forced us out of our heads; and we become lost in a gray and threatening world, a place of confusion and dread.

Open ocean is a fine arena to regain one's perspective. Mountains and deserts, too. But a walk in the park might be all one needs. Or simply a quiet corner of the house. Solitude and simplicity are often necessary for introspection, but not requisite. Trees and trilliums would do. Cats and dogs. The one proviso I would add is this: Always remember what the Dormouse said. (Read the book, listen to the song: you decide.)

photo by gv simoni

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NOTES:


Find "Donald and Lydia", John Prine (1971) here:

Find the Dormouse in : ALICE IN WONDERLAND, Lewis Carroll [Random House, 1946]. p.134, and elsewhere.

Find 'White Rabbit' (Grace Slick, 1966) sung by Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings at

Find quote from Walden in essay by Elizabeth Witherall (and Elizabeth Dubrulle) in their essay on Walden (web page: The Writings of Henry D. Thoreau). Depending on your edition of the book, the quote is on p90.