Journal Entries to 5-2-01

David Dachauer 4/18

Each morning I am able to sit at a large sturdy oak table and survey, from the second story of our apt. complex, the sky, the ridges of the mountains encircling SLO, and canopies of the various trees in our neighborhood. Never, until the past month, have I been so fascinated with the busy birds of the sky and trees. At first glance one just sees the various Trees and the only seemingly detectable movement comes from the swaying tops of the eucalyptus and the occasional sprouting tops of of palm trees. When one watches for longer than a glance, the canopies and sky buzz with sporadic life of avians.

We have a bird field guide on the table, it always sits there, for quick identification and study. This morning as I sat watching I remembered a bird I saw the other day and wondered its type. From my novous eye I determined it was either a "Hooded Oriole" or a "Western Tanger." Of-course 100% accurate Identification is impossible due to its speed with which it darted from the covering of one tree to another.

The "Hooded Oriole" is so named for its yellow orange robe she wears. The sleeves are cut off at the shoulders so her black and white striped wings poke through like someone wearing a tank-top. (Though much prettier!) She wears her hood and small black feathers are exposed directley below her beak. She is larger than the "Western Tanger" and has a longer more slender beak.

The "Western Tanger" wears the same type of hood only the top part of her head is red and the color slowly blends into a yellow the further away from her beak. All I saw was a yellow blur, but for a long enough time to notice the color of her feathers, unlike the "Robin", extend to, and cover her head. Always one to appreciate the beauty of birds but never distinguishing what made each one uniquely beautiful, I rejoiced at my discovery, and identification.

4/19 The other day I approached a grassy area in front of the library to study at one of the clean cement picnic tables. Planted sporadically through out the outdoor heaven for library-weary students are plum trees; they are full bodied, the deep dark purple leaves are healthy and numerous making the separate branches indistinguishable.

It was an ordinary day and I was library-weary; yet God had an invigorating surprise for me. It was a cold but sunny day. I had been reading for half an hour or so when I glanced upwards and was so electrified my eyes widended and my jaw dropped. The plum tree whose branches hung erect above me glowed with a living brilliance.

As I said, these trees were a deep dark purple, beautiful in their own fullness. But observing, awing, from below, illuminated from the shinning sun, the leaves of the tree displayed a dramatic work of multidimensional living art.

Each branch curved upwards, individually covered, without any extending secondary branches, with leaves. Nearest the trunk the leaves in the shade displayed their original color. But moving outwards, the individual leaves became transparent due to the passing light and shown individual flames; these shown on the side of the tree closest to me. But most impressive were the shinning leaves on the opposite side contrasted with the dark center of the tree.

The whole edge of the canopy dazzled. The upright stalks of leaves were darkest purple nearest their branches, but upwards and outwards they became transparent and brilliant displaying their own beauty and providing a transparency of majestic purple to view the shadows of the leaves dancing behind them.

From a distance these purple plum trees, though bearing no fruit, were beautiful, rich, and full. But from underneath they danced in the light and displayed a kinetic art show, beautiful and invigorating enough to cause my mouth to drop and re-juvinate a weary graduating senior. Baruch HaShem Melech HaOlam

__________

Katharine Worsham

4-22-01

Senior year and right after high school, I used to come here a lot with my friends to sit on the rocks at Shell Beach and look out from the cliffs. We used to come here more at night, though. I don't know why, maybe it was more exciting for us to be hanging out late at night when we weren't supposed to be. There's something also just so much more magical about being at the beach at night, though. There's no one around, and it's so much quieter. Even the seagulls and other animals aren't making any noise. It's almost as if everything is soundly asleep except for the ocean itself. If you're quiet, then the only thing you can hear is the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks and the tide moving in or out. The edge of the water is almost like the hem of a dress or veil, being waved back and forth and pulled by the reflection of the moon on the water. Sometimes when we were just sitting there, and I didn't pay any attention that there was anyone else around me, that's when I would feel so connected to the universe. I could feel the moon tugging on me, too. Right then, everything else in the world seems so small. All those cars, driving by on the freeway above, what are they doing? Where are they going? Why can't that all just stop? Maybe now I understand The Fall. "Here feel we but the penalty of Adam..." It cannot be escaped. We cannot just sit on the rocks and watch the ocean all day. We have to go to work and school; we have to work for food to eat. That is The Fall. That is the curse that we've been put under-the modern life of careers and families. Why so complicated? Why can't life just feel the way it does when the sound of the waves and the tug of the moon pulls you into your own inner peace? Why can't life just be that simple?

____________________________________

 Michael Silverman

April 21, 2001

Tractor Cringe

My brother came in town today to check out Cal Poly and attend the Tractor Pull. A tractor pull is an event in which trucks and tractors pull a sled with a weight transfer system. As the sled is pull farther along the coarse, the weight transfers making it harder for the truck or tractor to pull the sled. When the pull of the truck or tractor equals the force of friction from the weight transfer system the truck or tractor comes to a complete stop.

The tractor pull arena was built on top of Class I agriculture land used by the sheep unit. Surrounded by the Southern Pacific Railroad to the east, Highland Drive to the south, and Mt. Bishop Road to the West, the tractor pull coarse is protected by thick walls of concrete used as divides on California’s freeways. Bleachers were set up on both sides of the coarse. The biggest problem with the tractor pull site was the track construction.

Huge caterpillar tractors with large claws ripped the topsoil of the land carving a six-inch deep strip of compacted alluvial soil, to serve as the tractor pull track. Soil compaction creates an impenetrable layer to roots and water enhancing the probability of soil erosion. Literally a dirt road was carved into fertile class I Cal Poly Agriculture land. From Dr. Holland’s literature, compacted dirt roads are responsible for erosion and the loss of habitat and fertility on the Cal Poly Campus.

As a soil scientist, I cringed in disbelief as a tractor with a sled implement scraped the old compacted layer of soil off and created a new surface for the tractor pull event. Each time a tractor revved its engine and spun it’s tires, more mud would shoot up in the air creating more compaction and destroying the irreplaceable topsoil of the land. As the tractors continued to rev up their engines, the scrapper scraped the most fertile horizon in the soil profile pulverizing it into a cemented impenetrable layer to water and nutrients.

Each time the tractor pulled

Another layer went;

Each time the engine revved;

Another layer went;

Each time the trucks pulled;

Another layer went;

Until the scrapper could scrape no more;

Bedrock.

Another scrape;

Another cringe;

Another scrape;

Another shriek of pain;

Until the pain is knowing;

A 100,000 years of work;

Pulverized on a Saturday afternoon.

___________

Leslie Sklena

I own houseplants.

I wonder if houseplants are the sheltered children of the plant population. 

What I mean is-I see all kinds of plants around me.  The huge eucalyptus and oak of

the central valley, the manicured lawns of office buildings and cemeteries, the wild

flowers along the highway, and the untamed  grasses and "weeds" at my horses

stable.  I see different plants as living in different socioeconomic environments as

people do.  The modern houseplant is planted in a pretty purple or pink pot and

watered often (sometimes the water is even spiked with a little Miracle-Gro nitro-treat). 

People gawk at the long blades of the spider plant and the rich color of the indoor ivy.

Are these houseplants happy?

Sure they have it all…house, family, attention, the comfortable lifestyle, but would they

trade it all for a day of the life of a California poppy? Wild and free, beautiful, bright and

exotic.  Living on the edge of the 101 highway behind the ice plant, not knowing what the

day will bring.  Rain, sun, or a huge semi-truck hauling rock that might slip out of the

truck and slug a poppy right in the face. 

Do houseplants envy the majestic but lonely oaks that live in small clusters along the

creek beds of vast cattle pastures?  The oaks are the loners of the central coast tree

world, but they have the time to ponder life and all of its complications.  At least the

plucked flowers that end up at the cemetery serve a deeper purpose than a housplant. 

Those bouquets gave up their lives (much like people who give up organs) to solace

the spirits that have had to depart this world.  They stand proud and stunning on that

tombstone until they wither and end up the same as the body that lies beneath them. 

I sometimes feel sorry for my houseplants that sit inside my house all day, recycling

that stuffy air.  I explained to them that this was the life chosen for them and I will try to

be the best "plant parent" I can be (though I will hopefully remember to water my human

children more often).  After all, I did rescue them from that awful "Wal-Mart" place. 

__________

April 27-- Hike above Poly

Once again, mother nature has cooperated with our tribe. A beautiful,

sunny, hot Friday afternoon on the Central Coast. We began our ascent of

the foothills which backdrop the Poly campus. The first thought that

struck me as we marched through the crunchy, golden grasses was how

quickly the soil has dried out. Only a week of dry weather after

seemingly months of rain and the soil looks and feels parched.

Halfway up the hill we came to an area dominated by reeds, a small

marsh. Oozing, grimy mud-- thick and viscuous. Crossing this, we

continued up the hill to a small plateau. Pausing to check the view of

SLO, I was amazed by the beauty of it all.

Out on the coastline sat an ominous, foreboding fog bank-- extending

from Morro Bay down past Avila to Pismo. It appeared to be moving slowly

closer-- rolling over hill and dale to engulf us. Looking down on SLO, I

noticed the sprawl of the city. Only 45,000 people, yet covering so much

terrain. The most prominent natural feature of the landscape from this

perspective would have to be the "seven sisters" chain-- a series of

peaks extending northward which dominate the horizon.

Continuing our journey up the hill, we came upon a shady area and a huge

oak tree. Its limbs extended in every direction, gnarled and twisted,

supremely functional. This would be the site of our reading of Thoreau.

Fitting. The temperature difference between the exposed hillside and the

shade beneath the tree was substantial-- probably a twenty degree

difference. I envisioned native american Indians pausing from their

daily chores and taking a respite in this very place years ago. A

spiritual feeling prevailed.

Onward and upward. I stumbled upon a still-intact deer leg minus the

rest of the body. It looked like a recent kill. I tried to imagine the

scene which led to this carnage-- a deer casually grazing, unaware that

a silent predator lurked nearby. Possibly a mountain lion or coyote.

Above us extended a sparse landscape. Yucca plants dotted the hill,

giving it the appearance of a Mexican desert. Only a few were coming

into bloom this early in the season.

Time to head back down the hill. Running down the rocky trail on the

verge of being out of control. At the bottom I looked back and felt a

twinge of envy-- several members of my tribe were camping out there

tonight as I returned to my self-contained urban unit.

--Todd Marshall

___________

The sun is hot on my nose as I hustle back and forth between stalls. Do I have the right horse? Is

there any dirt on her coat? All these questions encourage me to move quicker as the Arabian

show is in progress. People from other cities and states have come with plans and money to buy

their favorite equine beauty. I need to move faster. Oh, watch out for the other horse hinds while

standing in line behind the entry gate. One swift kick from another horse will send me straight to

the ground or cause a bloody mess to this $35,000 horse I am handling. The sun warms my body

as I wait my turn to release this brilliant beast into the show ring. The weather forecast was said

to be rain all weekend long. Thank goodness some information was wrong. Now as I let her

halter unbuckle this female bay Arabian shoots into the spot light all by herself. She prances back

and forth with her tail held high, as if she had rehearsed this moment previously. The crowd hoots

and hallers, giving energy to the silky mare. I wait at the exit gate for her to finish. What a

beautiful creature. Now back into her clean and boring stall she goes. She needs to staygroomed and perfect. A grass stain will not be allowed. Neither a chance for her to play among her friends in a soggy field. I continue to handle other horses, which are involved in this spring sale. They all are so beautiful and they all go back to their stalls after their one-chance parade.

Do we really know what we are doing? Locking these magnificant creatures in a box is better for whom? Oh, but they are kept pretty.

"Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: -

We murder to dissect." ~William Wordsworth (Expostulation & Reply)

April 22, 2001

Elizabeth Simmons

________

4/27/01

The wind brushing the grasses on the hills made ripples, like waves in the

ocean. This is Mother Nature brushing her fingers over the grasses, tickling

them as she rakes their soft surface. She's touching her baby's fine hair.

It's a green sea of hair that moves in the wind like the fluid ocean.

Cowpie. What manure looks like before it is processed. I think I saw a

sycamore on my way to campus today, but I'm not sure. The leaves remind me of

a

maple leaf.

How little everything looks from here! I wonder how people made maps so long a

go when they did not have the airplanes or technology to see the vast lands

from

a bird's eye view. I suppose they did it this way -- by standing atop a hill

or

mountain and observing the shapes and features of surrounding hills. HOw the

minds of men could fathom the size of this world when they are so small.

Barn swallows. They look like little bluish/black boomerangs dancing among the

yellow flowers. Orange belly, red spot on forehead. all I see is a stealth

flyear.

It's funny how the past and present all mingle when I see nature up close. I

picture what we were like -- no toothbrushes, crude clothes, what we were like

had we existed several hundred years ago. Surely, nature was as wildly natural

as it has always been. It is we who have changed.

I am not at one wit hnature, and I am a little saddened by the thought that,

had

I been left in the wilderness, I would not know how to live without the

comforts

of civilization.

The greatest connection that I see is how people stripped of their manmade

items

are as wild as any creature in nature. Right now, a cow lies yonder on the

side

of a hill like a person basking in the sun on a warm day. It's not different.

we just mask it all with "technology," with computers and nuclear weapons,

missiles, fast cars, tidy homes, and a haughty mind. But we are savage, much

more so than anything in nature. We kill because of our own silly, made up

reasons. Power, control. I suppose it is like any herd, but unfortunately, we

think we are better than that. Thus we try to fool ourselves.

There are five strings of spider's web glistening in the afternoon sun. They

look like clear fishing wire, but so much more fine and delicate. They

sparkle, green, pink, orange, blue, shimmering as they flutter like the strands of hair

of some beautiful wood nymph. They must have gotten caught on the branch as

she was lightly running through the woods.

Sitting here under these oak trees, I am sheltered. Their sprawling, grasping

branches stretch out and up and down. Gnarled, but I don't like that word. It

is an ugly word to describe something so beautiful. Like an umbrella, they

shade a huge portion of this hill, and Ifeel like I could very comfortably

live among these limbs, like the monkey that I am.

It is the coast live oak that has the varying levels of leaves with hairy

armpits. Trees with agendas: "Okay, grow towards the sun, any way, by any

means. Go!" Towards the light. It's funny that in life and death, we go towards the light.

Van Tran

_______

Saturday, April 28, 2001

9:30 a.m.

The fog has disappeared over a small patch in Cayucos. My house included. It’s going to be a fine day for our fiesta. We move out of our house by May 5^th. The house sits on a double lot. It will be torn down and the lot split. Two houses will then be built. Side by side, wall to wall, built up to save space, but destroying the view of their neighbors. The lady who recently bought the property lives in San Francisco. It is an investment and vacation home for her. This is a common event to take place in Cayucos and much of the coast of California. The locals forced to move due to property value increases. Beaches become to populate. Other coastal land sought to be developed. Sacrificing NATURE. Communities, at sustainable sizes, constantly being threatened by an overwhelming number of people.

Brandon Souza

__________

Before I had close contact with hummingbirds, I was amazed by their biology.

How they feed their lightning fast metabolism, how they find flowers and how they

deal with cold temperatures. Now that I have been watching Annie for more thana

month now, my amazement has turned into complete awe. I first noticed her as

she was buzzing around, building her nest in early march. She started out with moss

and bark and as the edges of the cup increased, she would fly in bearing

feathers.

Friday morning has yeilded great news. When Neil and I got back from

birdwatching, I told him to check out Annie's nest for eggs. Since he is much

taller than me, he simply peered into the cup of the nest... a huge smile grew

on his face. Sticking up out of the nest was the miniscule beak of a baby

hummingbird. I feel I am obligated to name this little critter. He (or she) is

christened with the name of pointy. Pointy seems to fit, since the sharpness of

his swordlike beak is all I can see of him. I can hardly wait till he learns

how to fly.

When I came home today I snooped in on Annie's nest. I found not one, but 2

little pointy beaks shooting out of the nest. They were rested on eachother,

like 2 little chopsticks. From this I aqcuire the name for hummingbird #3...

chopstick. Pointy and chopstick... well on their way to becoming great

hummingbirds.

This afternoon when I was outside, I caught a glimpse of Annie. She has been

hard to locate lately. This is the second time I have seen her this week. When

I saw her today, she was about 9 feet in the air above me. She was flitting

around more wildly than usual. Hummingbirds are known for not staying in one place for long, but she was taking this to extremes. I was worried about her... did she

take a sip of antifreeze... or someother pretty colored toxin? I moved one step

to the right, and it became clear as to what had driven her to such manic

displays. A cloud of gnats swarmed just below Annie. As I watched closer, I

realized that Annie's movements tracked that of the gnats. It was as if the

cloud of gnats and Annie were one organism - a finely tuned maching of gnats,

and one large, slower gnat that tracked the rest. I quickly thought of what

Mary had told me about hummingbirds and bugs. Apparently, when they are nesting and

taking care of young, they eat insects instead of nectar. This makes sense...

bugs=protein. Protein= healthy baby birds.

Annie was hovering like mad in the cloud of gnats. She was moving her

head and bill around as if they were a massive sword, and she was attempting to slay

the evil gnats. Her bill would open every now and then as a sign she had

successfully slayed a gnat.

Sarah Brown

__________

____

Monday, April 23, 2001 - 4:00pm

I am writing from on top of a mountain in Montana de Oro. My body is a little

sweaty from the steep uphill climb on my mountain bike. Looking at the view,

it was well worth it. I am sitting on a rock with the view of the Pacific

Ocean staring right in front of me. I can't hear the sound of the waves, but

I can definitely feel the breeze of the ocean. The sky today is clear blue,

and the sun is shining high. Just looking at this view send a calm throughout

my body. It sets a tone of limitless possibilities and untouched potential.

It opens my mind wide and clear. Nobody eles is here except for myself,

nature, and my journal. I can honestly say that there is a sense of fear

coming upon me, knowing it's late in the afternoon and mountain lions have

been spotted here before. Writing this, this fear has overcomed my

appreciation of this view, and I'm ready to pack up and slide down.--Johnny

Chiem

___

All of which doesn't affect the area as a whole, really, but sort of

describes my opinion of the place, as that was one of the first times I'd

been in that little strip. Beaten and near-dead, I'd call it "disturbed"

simply to personify my opinion of it; I was a little taken aback to learn

it was an official term for such a sickly, man-warped area. Of course, the

disturbed aren't always harmless, and this sick little creek gets it's

revenge once or twice per year: when it rains.

Normally only a hand's breath or so deep, a good week or so of nonstop

rain, as we tend to get several times a year if we're lucky, and it will

jump by about nine or ten feet. It sounds incredible, but something about

the overall rockiness of the creek bed and surrounding "beach," plus the

absence of plants to soak it up and the compacted quality of the

surrounding dirt, makes the water just pile up. It transforms from a tiny,

meandering creek into a monstrous, roaring river in a matter of days. And

everyone has to go all the way down to foothill road to get around, adding

a good 10-15 minutes on to the walk to campus. The revenge of the disturbed.

Martin Woodard

_____

Friday, April 20, 2001 — 8:45 pm

Rain

The quenching skies have opened their heavenly arms besieging us with the tranquil reality of Mother Nature. As heavy drops descend upon the parched landscape, visions of fluid movement set the activities into motion; soils become saturated and excess water collects in pools that eventual succumb to gravity, being forced in the most efficient direction, they collect velocity and sediment as the slopes increase. The turbidity makes serene watercourses dance with the intensity of marionettes as reflective light flashes off the crests of whitewater. The air becomes thick with suspended dust particles and the smell of the days past escapes their forbidden tomb, only to intoxicate our already sensitive noses. As our dry clothes become damp, so do the plants. Their canopy absorbs the intense pelting that is causing havoc on the barren landscape. Leaves cup the incoming moisture as if to fill a needed void. As fast as it starts, it is as equal quick to end, but its effects continue as everything else subsides.

R. Hendricks

-------

4-13

Perhaps what struck me most on our class hike up Poly canyon was the fact

that

the majority of the remaining grasslands, not only in Poly canyon, but around

the rest of California as well, are introduced species brought over in the

bellies of cattle from Europe. It's also interesting to think about how

unassumingly these foreign grasses have overrun California to such an extent

that one might think that some Spaniard spread their native grass seed

deliberately in order to give this strange new land a homey feel. However, the

fact is that our native grasses simply weren't addapted to reproduce themselves

in proportion to the heavy amount of grazing done by Spanish cattle. Thus, the

grazing during the native grasses' reproductive cycle greatly reduced their

seed

production. The grasses from Spain were better suited for heavy grazing and

consequently as the native grasses declined, the alien thrived.

Another interesting point; several of the grasses we observed had very

deliscious odors, despite their dusty (from the road), worn appearance. I have

never been too impressed with the plant life along the road, it always looked

like so many dirty, woody shrubs. However, now I know to look for the blooms

of

the lupine, bue dicks, fuscia, peony; in addition, I now know about the minty,

fragrant smells of fennel, CA bay laurel, black sage, and of course the

eucalyptus.

Further, seeing how familiar VL was with the landscape--knowing the names and

characteristics of all the plants--showed me the value of connecting to the

landscape scientifically as well as spiritually and morally. The former

enhances the latter. It is the difference of being in a crowded room where you

know no one's name, or finding yourself among intimates. In the spirit of

Thoreau and Emerson I must say that a knowledge of nature's material aspects

leads to a more complete understanding of her as far as her philosphical,

invisible aspects are concerned. "In Nature I am not alone and unaknowledged.

They [trees] nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs is new to mea

and old. . . Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion

coming over me. . " Emerson

4-21

Saturday morning. Out at Old Creek Rd watching the waves roll in. The sun

is out, but there is a slight onshore wind that adds a bite to the air. The

wind has not yet negatively affected the waves, though this is inevitable; give

it another two hours. Judging by where the waves are breaking there is a

sandbar just south of the little lagoon where the runoff from the hills

collects. From the frequency with which the waves roll in I can tell that they

are the result of wind not far offshore. Thus, they are more the product of a

windswell than a groundswell. Usually, when there is a long duratikon between

waves--the result of wind far offshore that disturbs the ocean and then as the

ocean water travels with the wind over long distances the energy is unified

into

well articulated long duration swells--we call those the result of a ground

swell. All swells are caused by wind, the key factors that determine what a

wave looks like when it hits the shore are: 1) how far the wind is offshore 2)

how far the swell travels free of wind 3) how many miles of ocean the wind

blows

over (fetch) in the creation of the swells.

Over the highway there is a Red-tailed hawk flying stationary in an updraft.

He rarely flaps his wings. The purest pilot. Instinct interfused in an

environment. If only he could be conscious of his zen perfection for one

moment--of course not long enough to give him a sense of vanity--but long

enough

to let him appreciate his accomplishment. I look to the ocean, on those waves,

my attempt to experience what he embodies.

When I think of surfing in this poetic light, I realize something about the

sport that has always appealed to me, yet is difficult to articulate. It has

to

do with the fact that when on a wave I experience a forgetting of the self and

only am aware of the momentum I have become as a result of hitching a ride on a

bump of materialized, articulated energy that has traveled thousands of miles

only to be ushered into dissolution ever so gently by me.

Brad Parker

______

Adam Finney

April 22 Baywood Park (by the bay) The reflection of the stars and the lights of Baywood Park splashed onto the surface of bay so as to make one visualize an amazing array of pearls lying in the surrounding mud and shallow waters. The stars were the most impressive features of that night. They were like the London Philhamonics or perhaps some other powerful musical group; maybe even the Grateful Dead - whatever they were, they were really ripping that night. There were bariton blats from the bright red planets teetering in the distance, there were icy wails coming to sharp creschendos all the while cooing sweet melodies. There was Orion playing his steady rhythm solo sweating and beating it out into the blackness for whoever might happen to catch it. I imagined silver saxophones screaming through these stellar constellations. It was around this time when the spirited beautiful women began speaking to each other. Soon into their conversation Brook suggested that there should be one night out of every month when everyone in Los Osos and Baywood Park would turn their lights out, and the cities would cooperate and dim the street lights and everything would be still and natural. She said that it would only have to last for an hour and it would be a time for star observation - I began to spin and everything inside me glistened, while cartwheeling through erruptions of the soul; it was like pure euphoria. The idea had me, the thought of everyone contributing to an hour of calm black serenity for the prupose of studying and appreciating the splendor of the cosmos was an idea that only could have been conceived on this majestic night. It was beautiful

________

Steven Marx

April 28 6AM