What I've appreciated the most from this course was the breadth of nature writing we've looked at and discussed. So much literature, and especially contemporary work. I liked too how it was mostly excerpts and just a few books, because now we're familiar with a wider range of authors and can pursue more reading on our own depending on our interests, instead of just having become familiar with a handful of books that some of us may already have read.
I really feel like I have a firm grasp now on what writers are the the big names in the genre, and then many others as well. Before, I knew a fair amount, but I didn't yet have the firm sense I feel I do now. The course has been invaluable for that.
The discussion boards, for me, were an excellent outlet to hammer out my opinions on the array of works we examined. Honestly, although it's excessively time-consuming, it's been a much better outlet for me to figure out how I feel on all the different books and excerpts than in-class discussion. I'm not scrambling to try and get my two-cents in because if not I'll lose points in class participation. I have time to develop my ideas, read and respond to my peers' and the professor's thoughts, and finally I can print out the discussion and keep it forever. The course has left me with three two-inch binders full of nature writing discussion. As someone who is very strongly considering the pursuit of a PhD in some part of the field and certainly hoping to produce his own writing for the genre, that's just immensely useful.
As for the nature place, my experience in the tropics was so transformative as to be permanent. Although I really do enjoy nature everywhere, I just don't think I can really love it anywhere besides in that region of the world. I really can't say the nature place exercise has affected me in any way besides confirming that fact.
However, I do appreciate the training and familiarity I've established with the blogging format. I'm planning on beginning my own blog - a literary review blog. There are a lot of fantastic nature writing books that deserve recognition, but remain pretty obscure. For many of my favorite nature writing books, I've never met anyone else that has even heard of them.
I really want to start a blog on some of these fantastic but uncelebrated books. I may even confine the scope to strictly neotropical rainforest books. Because of all the practice I have analyzing nature writing on the computer format thanks to the discussion forums, I feel really ready for this project!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Place Entry 8
A tufted titmouse welcomed me on campus today, his song such a polite greeting. What cordial hosts birds make, although they are hardly ever acknowledged for the fact. We may walk into their woods and marshes and plains whenever we wish and expect nothing less than the most agreeable hospitality.
At the pond, a new species has arrived since my last visit. I at first did not recognize the identity of the four dull gray coats probing the soaked ground for sustenance. Then, I recalled they may be female brown-headed cowbirds. (I confirmed my suspicion when I returned home and consulted my guide.)
This past year has helped me remember the birds of the Northeast, which has been nice, although what I truly crave is to continue expanding my knowledge of the neotropical birds. Their distant calls, no matter how many thousands of miles out of earshot, summon me with an imperative so fierce it's as if with divine force, too strong to be of this world. It's a holy summons, a quest, a peregrination, to learn what I might from those achingly verdant and seductively fecund forests of the equatorial zone.
A robin has approached me. It darts among the large rocks before me, hides, then reemerges to scramble behind the oak. It departs.
Now a chipping sparrow, whose exploits are braver still, comes to within two feet of me as it scavenges the ground and thrusts its bill. I wonder how well it knows those forests where I too have migrated. I would sacrifice to do journey! To see the forests on a yearly basis? What a luxury! To make sure they are healthy, still there, not yet trampled, vibrant, still so full of life.
The pond is lovely. I must force myself to see. Dr. Sterner has told me that this part of campus used to be a dairy, where cows helped feed the students of Chatham.
The oak before me is nice. It's buds just a week before resembled fresh broccoli sprouts. Now they are full leaves the size of my outstretched hand.
I'm reminded how just a few nights before, my friend suggested that next time I am in the forest, I should climb into the tall canopies and see what wildlife I might, since so much of it concentrates there. I will, I said. I absolutely will.
At the pond, a new species has arrived since my last visit. I at first did not recognize the identity of the four dull gray coats probing the soaked ground for sustenance. Then, I recalled they may be female brown-headed cowbirds. (I confirmed my suspicion when I returned home and consulted my guide.)
This past year has helped me remember the birds of the Northeast, which has been nice, although what I truly crave is to continue expanding my knowledge of the neotropical birds. Their distant calls, no matter how many thousands of miles out of earshot, summon me with an imperative so fierce it's as if with divine force, too strong to be of this world. It's a holy summons, a quest, a peregrination, to learn what I might from those achingly verdant and seductively fecund forests of the equatorial zone.
A robin has approached me. It darts among the large rocks before me, hides, then reemerges to scramble behind the oak. It departs.
Now a chipping sparrow, whose exploits are braver still, comes to within two feet of me as it scavenges the ground and thrusts its bill. I wonder how well it knows those forests where I too have migrated. I would sacrifice to do journey! To see the forests on a yearly basis? What a luxury! To make sure they are healthy, still there, not yet trampled, vibrant, still so full of life.
The pond is lovely. I must force myself to see. Dr. Sterner has told me that this part of campus used to be a dairy, where cows helped feed the students of Chatham.
The oak before me is nice. It's buds just a week before resembled fresh broccoli sprouts. Now they are full leaves the size of my outstretched hand.
I'm reminded how just a few nights before, my friend suggested that next time I am in the forest, I should climb into the tall canopies and see what wildlife I might, since so much of it concentrates there. I will, I said. I absolutely will.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Prompt Entry 7
My favorite thing to do as a boy was search for animals in my mother's garden. Before I became interested in birds, I was most intrigued by the reptiles. The tiny brown anoles that scurried around everywhere. The brilliant green anoles that blended perfectly into the foliage. The geckos in the carport that would sometimes sneak in the house. The thin black ring-necked snakes that sometimes came out at night.
My favorite were the knight anoles. They were large, at least the length of my forearm, bright green, and had a large yellow mustache stripe and another stripe beneath their necks. I always saw them in the trees, since they never came down to the ground, but I spotted them easily. My mother told me I had a special talent for finding them. Whenever I was outside, I would often blurt out, "Knight Anole!" and point up. Then I'd spend the next minute carefully explaining to whatever adult I was with which branch they were on and how they could see them.
Sometimes, I would search for them almost everyday. Even when they saw me too and hid their bodies on the opposite side of tree limbs to conceal themselves, I could still see the tips of their claws clinging over the edge of the branch. In my elementary school, the children could bring their pets on St. Francis Day. The Father would bless them by sprinkling them with holy water. Most kids brought their dogs and cats, and some brought other pets like rabbits and macaws. I brought a photograph of a knight anole my mother gave me. Some of the other children told me I should have caught one and brought it in a cage, if I really liked them so much.
I wondered if I should start catching them. After all, isn't that what young boys do with the small animals they admire? I thought I was able, but I never did. I got more enjoyment out of just watching them, knowing they were there, and searching for them amidst the millions of leaves in the garden.
Eventually, I began naming them. I knew them so well, I could tell apart the different individuals, the subtle differences in the shapes of their bodies and sizes. The smallest one I named Spike, because I wanted a friend with a name like Spike. In truth, I didn't know Spike's gender, but I imagined he was a boy, like me. I always saw him the most. Even high up in the boughs of the live oak or the Persian lime, I could usually tell who was who, but I always recognized Spike when I saw him.
One day, when I walked in the garden looking for them, I saw Spike lying on the ground near the buttresses of the live oak. There was a thick hole in his neck with dried blood around it. He did not run away when I knelt down near him, but I saw his neck contort and eyes look away. I ran inside and told my mother. When she came out and saw him, her jaw clenched. She told me it had probably been the roofers who had been working near the oak that day. "They must have shot him with a nail gun," she explained.
I couldn't understand why someone would shoot Spike with a nail gun. I still don't. When I found him lying in the same spot the next day, I buried him in the pot of one of my mother's plants.
My favorite were the knight anoles. They were large, at least the length of my forearm, bright green, and had a large yellow mustache stripe and another stripe beneath their necks. I always saw them in the trees, since they never came down to the ground, but I spotted them easily. My mother told me I had a special talent for finding them. Whenever I was outside, I would often blurt out, "Knight Anole!" and point up. Then I'd spend the next minute carefully explaining to whatever adult I was with which branch they were on and how they could see them.
Sometimes, I would search for them almost everyday. Even when they saw me too and hid their bodies on the opposite side of tree limbs to conceal themselves, I could still see the tips of their claws clinging over the edge of the branch. In my elementary school, the children could bring their pets on St. Francis Day. The Father would bless them by sprinkling them with holy water. Most kids brought their dogs and cats, and some brought other pets like rabbits and macaws. I brought a photograph of a knight anole my mother gave me. Some of the other children told me I should have caught one and brought it in a cage, if I really liked them so much.
I wondered if I should start catching them. After all, isn't that what young boys do with the small animals they admire? I thought I was able, but I never did. I got more enjoyment out of just watching them, knowing they were there, and searching for them amidst the millions of leaves in the garden.
Eventually, I began naming them. I knew them so well, I could tell apart the different individuals, the subtle differences in the shapes of their bodies and sizes. The smallest one I named Spike, because I wanted a friend with a name like Spike. In truth, I didn't know Spike's gender, but I imagined he was a boy, like me. I always saw him the most. Even high up in the boughs of the live oak or the Persian lime, I could usually tell who was who, but I always recognized Spike when I saw him.
One day, when I walked in the garden looking for them, I saw Spike lying on the ground near the buttresses of the live oak. There was a thick hole in his neck with dried blood around it. He did not run away when I knelt down near him, but I saw his neck contort and eyes look away. I ran inside and told my mother. When she came out and saw him, her jaw clenched. She told me it had probably been the roofers who had been working near the oak that day. "They must have shot him with a nail gun," she explained.
I couldn't understand why someone would shoot Spike with a nail gun. I still don't. When I found him lying in the same spot the next day, I buried him in the pot of one of my mother's plants.
Place Entry 7
The return of the absent languages is perhaps of an even greater restorative power than the revival of color. In my mind, at least, it is more pleasurable as well. Even in the depths of suburbia, where I live, the triumphant songs are of some variance.
The robin's serenade, that patriotic hymn, is among the most easily recognized and iconic.
Di doo doo do di doo do do di doo do di doo di di doo do deeeii! An invigorating call to bury our heads in the moist green earth and tear from it the fatness, the plump, writhing serpents of the underground!
Of course, we cannot forget that boldly garbed singer of these temperate forests, who hardly fled the onslaught of winter, withstanding its chill with a vigor to match. He is a holy man of considerable rank. His humble tune can only be heard softly from the tops of tall oaks and their ilk, where even his vibrant crimson robe is sometimes difficult to see.
Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeoot, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Pewt, Pewt, Pewt. His voice belies his abundant good looks.
And the marauder of this avian world! That seductive azure coat, sharply streaked with white and black, who ravages through bough and branch to wreak terrible havoc among his peers. I have not yet seen his handsomeness, but I know the jays are among us again.
Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Woe and ill tidings to those that do not flee my path!
The familiar, lackadaisical murmur of the dove sounds as well, a gentle croon to sooth any of our distress.
Pwooogh, pwooogh, pwooogh. Pweeeiouough, pwooogh, pwooogh. All is well and let's relax.
Always among their own, their fiery bearded beaks belt a surprising, almost digital discourse. Gregarious fellows, they were among the first to welcome me here when I arrived.
Tsee, tsee, tsee, twaunt twaunnnt. Tseet, tsoot. They roam and gossip with ease and good cheer.
And there are others that have not yet returned, still braving the vast convexity of this wide, wide world with but claw and wing.
The robin's serenade, that patriotic hymn, is among the most easily recognized and iconic.
Di doo doo do di doo do do di doo do di doo di di doo do deeeii! An invigorating call to bury our heads in the moist green earth and tear from it the fatness, the plump, writhing serpents of the underground!
Of course, we cannot forget that boldly garbed singer of these temperate forests, who hardly fled the onslaught of winter, withstanding its chill with a vigor to match. He is a holy man of considerable rank. His humble tune can only be heard softly from the tops of tall oaks and their ilk, where even his vibrant crimson robe is sometimes difficult to see.
Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeoot, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Tñeeeeeet, tñeeoot, tñeeoot. Pewt, Pewt, Pewt. His voice belies his abundant good looks.
And the marauder of this avian world! That seductive azure coat, sharply streaked with white and black, who ravages through bough and branch to wreak terrible havoc among his peers. I have not yet seen his handsomeness, but I know the jays are among us again.
Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Eeeñ! Woe and ill tidings to those that do not flee my path!
The familiar, lackadaisical murmur of the dove sounds as well, a gentle croon to sooth any of our distress.
Pwooogh, pwooogh, pwooogh. Pweeeiouough, pwooogh, pwooogh. All is well and let's relax.
Always among their own, their fiery bearded beaks belt a surprising, almost digital discourse. Gregarious fellows, they were among the first to welcome me here when I arrived.
Tsee, tsee, tsee, twaunt twaunnnt. Tseet, tsoot. They roam and gossip with ease and good cheer.
And there are others that have not yet returned, still braving the vast convexity of this wide, wide world with but claw and wing.
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