Where The Hell Are The Bees?

The forsythia bloomed at the edge of the yard
An explosion of yellow and gold;
An abundance of nectar—but where were the bees?
Disappearing… or so I’ve been told.

So, yeah, the first few lawn-mowings of spring used to be a harrowing affair. My yard has a border of forsythia on one side, which used to be inundated with bees when it bloomed. The past few years, I can mow with impunity; I stop and scan the flowers, knowing there should be bees there! But they aren’t there. My redbuds used to attract a variety of bees and wasps; we’ll find out in a few days, maybe a week, when the buds open.

Today was the first day I saw any substantial numbers of Hymenoptera at all–some wasps, some hornets, and an astonishing number of bumblebees (or maybe carpenter bees, or probably both), far more interested in one another than in me as I made my way through them with gardening gear.

My apple trees are getting ready to blossom–they are young, so this is only the third year of flowers, and last year’s late frost meant that I had a total of one apple make it to maturity. It was then partially eaten by a worm, which was then thoroughly eaten by a bird. I found the half-apple on the ground. And yes, dammit, I ate it. It was superb.

But I digress. My apple trees are getting ready to blossom, and I have never hoped for bees so much as right now. Mind you, I’ve never had to–my heirloom tomatoes had plenty of bees in past years. So… Where the hell are the bees?

What we have lost in bees, we appear to be making up in reasons why we have fewer bees. I have always wanted to keep a hive (Cuttlefamily does not agree, and currently outvote me). I hope they last long enough that I will be able to.

For both our sakes. And so much more.

Miracle In Cleveland

Thank god! Our prayers are answered!
It’s a miracle, you know!
We are celebrating, crying joyful tears!
God decided, in his wisdom,
That he’d let these poor girls go
After keeping them imprisoned ten full years.

It’s a proof that god is mighty
It’s a proof that god is good
God will make this bastard suffer for his crime
It’s a proof that god will always
Make things come out as they should
Though He seems to have a different view of time

Wonderful news out of Cleveland; three women, missing for 10 years, have been found alive, having been held captive in a house, remarkably close to where they disappeared.

I’ve already heard it described as a miracle, as an answer to prayers, as something that restores one’s faith in god. And my goodness, it is astonishingly good news for everyone. But as always, it strikes me odd to give an omnipotent, omniscient, omnibenevolent entity credit for today’s events and let that entity off the hook for the last 10 years.

But hey, come to think of it, it does have all the hallmarks of one of god’s miracles.

Christian Bigots Claim Oppressed Minority Status

Pity the Christians who dare to speak out—
Who defer to the bible’s authority—
Three-fourths of the nation, we’ve lost all our clout,
And become the most hated minority

In our great country’s past—in our halcyon days—
When our Christian beliefs were shown deference,
Why, we Christians could say what we like about gays,
And condemn them for sexual preference

We could subjugate women, deny them the vote,
But no longer do Christians hold sway
And the nation has suffered, I think you will note,
In not asking what Jesus would say.

We used to be mighty! We used to be feared!
Our endorsement could sway an election!
But now… we’re ignored, and occasionally jeered—
We’re endangered; in need of protection!

When minorities labeled their treatment a crime
In the past, we said “don’t make a fuss!”
That was then; this is now, and it’s different this time…
This time, the minority’s us!

On CNN’s Belief Blog, an amusing bit on the perception by some Christians that they are now a hated minority:

We’ve heard of the “down-low” gay person who keeps his or her sexual identity secret for fear of public scorn. But Sprigg and other evangelicals say changing attitudes toward homosexuality have created a new victim: closeted Christians who believe the Bible condemns homosexuality but will not say so publicly for fear of being labeled a hateful bigot.

As proof, Sprigg points to the backlash that ESPN commentator Chris Broussard sparked recently. Broussard was called a bigot and a purveyor of hate speech when he said an NBA player who had come out as gay was living in “open rebellion to God.” Broussard said the player, Jason Collins, was “living in unrepentant sin” because the Bible condemns homosexuality.

“In the current culture, it takes more courage for someone like Chris Broussard to speak out than for someone like Jason Collins to come out,” says Sprigg, a former pastor. “The media will hail someone who comes out of the closet as gay, but someone who simply expresses their personal religious views about homosexual conduct is attacked.”

Yes, they are a persecuted minority. Like gays who risked being disowned by family, kicked out of apartments, losing jobs, and even injury or death, Christians risk… being labeled bigots, when they exhibit bigotry. This poor, persecuted three-fourths of the US population is up against a much more powerful, but mostly invisible, foe. In truth, Christians are an incredibly diverse population; the vast majority of the Christians I know personally are not bigots–I can think of two who are–but since the complainers are claiming the mantle of “Christian” rather than “older, white, male, conservative, evangelical Christian” (gee, I wonder why), I feel it’s only fair to grant them their full numbers. You can’t try to rally your fellow Christians to your side while denying that their numbers swell your ranks.

To the splinter minority of Christians who are playing this card: This is what it feels like to have your privilege reeled back in. You’ve had it so easy for so long, it feels like persecution when you only have it slightly better than the groups you hate.

And of course, if you treated your fellow humans with love as you claim your book dictates, perhaps minority status wouldn’t be such a big deal in the first place.

Wait… Shoes Don’t Have To Hurt?

I love my shoes. I love my shoes!
My feet no longer sing the blues
I’ve tried them all—I’ve paid my dues
And now—at last—I love my shoes!

I’ve tried the best of hiking boots
On crowded streets and private routes
(I’ve even worn them with my suits)
My feet don’t care for hiking boots

And running shoes with padded soles
Assured me I would reach my goals
Their argument was full of holes—
My feet just ached in padded soles

My Tevas and my Birkenstocks
I’ve worn both with and without socks—
They yield some thousand natural shocks
…I’d just as soon wear LEGO blocks.

My shoe—the Vivobarefoot Ra—
(No padded sole at all—hurrah!)
I sigh aloud, a vocal “aaaahhh…”
I love my Vivobarefoot Ra.

This is an unsolicited but enthusiastic endorsement; I am receiving nothing from the Vivobarefoot people (my shoes were a gift, but from my kids, not from the company). My feet have hurt for enough years that I don’t give a rat’s ass if someone thinks this post has me selling out. [Read more…]

I’ll Have A Slice Without So Much Rat In It…

It’s processed meat; they say it’s mutton—
And that, of course, is that.
No need to worry over nutton—
It’s not (or is it?) rat.

But rat it is, or fox, or mink,
(And some of it’s diseased)
Chinese officials made a stink
And now it’s all been seized.

Some twenty thousand tons of meat
Were seized in raids this year
From bogus beef to chicken feet
It’s not quite right, they fear.

So have some tart, with not much rat…
It’s safe–but just not very
And if you please, have cheese with that…
Cos next, they’re checking dairy

Yup… via CNN, a story bound to leave you peckish…

Police in China have spent three months seizing bogus meat, some of it fake beef or mutton made out of fox, mink and rat.
They snatched up around 20,000 tons of illegal products, according to state news agency Xinhua.
In 382 cases, officials arrested 904 suspects for passing off counterfeit meat, meat injected with water or diseased flesh to consumers, the news agency said.

I’ve never had rat, but I do have recipes (I collect recipes; if you have some you think I might like, please send them along!), and I would not be in the least hesitant to try them. But. I want my rat meat labeled as rat meat. (More likely, I’ll butcher my own.) If my recipe calls for mutton, I want mutton, and if my recipe calls for rat, I want rat.

It occurs to me that my last comment on Taslima’s blog linked to a cannibalism site. Like I said… I collect recipes.

Send Your Haiku To Mars! (or… not)

Have I mentioned that I hate Haikus? Not real haiku, but haiku as it has been translated into American.

I don’t speak Japanese–well, not much. Very little, but I have been told by a Japanese student that my pronunciation is remarkable. Which, I suspect, is only true in comparison to this student’s experience with other Americans. A low bar is easy to jump.

But I am told that haiku is Japanese like baseball is American. Yes, it has been exported, but not without transplant rejection. Haiku is, I am told, beautiful and perfect in Japanese; in American, haiku is counting syllables. Sometimes more than that, but only rarely, and oh my goodness is it difficult to tell.

But that’s not my point.

My point is, NASA is looking to send three haikus to Mars, with the MAVEN (Mars Atmosphere and Volatile EvolutioN) mission. Three haikus. In English, which means 51 syllables in total.

And I think it is a horrible idea. If you are going to send haikus, have a Japanese competition (the current competition specifies haikus in English). If space (or rather, mass) is at a premium, send heroic couplets. Dirty limericks. Whatever. Hell, you are sending poetry to Mars! Why on Earth (yeah, ok, work with me) are you limiting yourself to 3 haikus? Don’t send it because you can, send it because you must–send poetry that belongs on Mars. That’s the way to do it.

Here’s mine. Spirit was the muse, so Spirit should get to read it.

(off topic… I was astonished at how good it felt not to write for a week or so. I honestly don’t know if that is a good or a bad thing. I am not really back yet, but drafts are returned, and final papers aren’t due for a bit, so I may be around for 2-3 days. Or not. I have discovered there is a real world, so I may explore it for a bit. If you are among those who have read this far… thank you for everything you have done for me!)

National Poetry Month–Guest Poet 5: Salty Current

I have always loved the writing of the person I only know as SC, or Salty Current. Intelligent, emotional, well-crafted in prose and in poetry, her writing is always worth the reading (and always far more poetic than mine; I am far too chained to rhyme and meter, and SC is one of the few who makes me regret that). So I’ll direct you here, to a recent poem she quite incorrectly predicted I would hate. And then I’ll cheat a bit, and quote a separate poem, linked at the above, also written for National Poetry Week, and which I just absolutely love:

Three Dead Animals

The bullfighter, writer, and sportsman Ignacio Sánchez Mejías died
poetically
the morning of 13 August, 1934.

The bull Granadino died
obscurely
around that time.

The poet Federico García Lorca died
ritually
in the same era.

Preserving Freedom By Locking A City Down

Max Blumenthal, via Twitter: On Wednesday, Obama said they would not intimidate us — “not here in Boston.” And today the whole city is shut down because of one guy.

They shut down the subways. They shut down the trains.
They shut down the buses. A spokesman explains,
“We’re cutting his options till not one remains”
And the city has ground to a stop.

They’re asking you kindly, to please stay inside,
It’s all for your safety—too many have died—
The people of Boston should take it in stride
(Only open your doors for a cop)

With SWAT teams, and K-9s, and bulletproof gear
You know it’s not long till they sound the all-clear
There is no place to hide—you have nothing to fear
They can’t hide; not a man, not a mouse!

They can’t take our freedom! This city is strong!
The people of Boston will show them they’re wrong!
We’re patriots here, and we’ve been all along!
…now it’s time to get back in the house.

The classroom exercise, of course, is to trace the referents for “they”.

And yes, I did say I would stop doing this. One cannot control one’s compulsions, or they would not be termed “obsessions”.