Light

Humphry Davy gets no respect. Have you ever heard of him? More than 75 years before Thomas Edison filed his patent for an "Improvement in Electric Lights," numerous others, Davy being the first, had conjured photons from flowing electrons. Edison, not to diminish his achievements, simply built a better mousetrap.

We've come along way since Davy connected a battery to a thin platinum strip. More to the point, we've come a long way since Edison made a better vacuum, found a better filament, and envisioned a systemic application rather than an isolated instance of "look what I can do!" Edison's light bulb has been the standard for more than a century. Even though more efficient flourescent lighting is not much younger than incandescent lighting, still, incandescence has been the standard. Until now.

There is a movement building. At the grocery store, at the home improvement store, and especially at your local mega-retailer, we are seeing the new "compact fluorescent bulbs" (CFLs). Environmental blogs and magazines all seem to be pointing at these "new inventions," as the answer to our most common energy concern: how do we lower the cost? Never mind for a moment that evironmentally speaking CFLs are a disaster for the environment, they will lower your electric bill each month. And that's the problem. People equate a savings in their bank account with saving the planet.

You're probably wondering why I call CFLs a "disaster for the environment." Especially when we all know that they last four or five times as long as an incandescent bulb and often deliver the same light for a fraction of the electrical consumption. What is hidden, what is not seen, are the costs to the environment in producing the electronic ballasts and the increased loading of mercury to our landfills, and ultimately, our water supply. And although it may seem a minor consideration, have you looked at the packaging for a standard incandescent compared to the packaging of a CFL? We don't need a complex model to immediately discern the important differences here.

So why are CFL's gaining popularity? They do allow the user to save money on electricty today. And they're here now for a relatively inexpensive price. I just hope they're not the incandescent bulbs of the future. Fluorescent light should have been the standard but they lagged behind Edison's incandescent system by at least a decade. Today, we are seeing the emergence of this new CFL standard and unfortunately, lagging it in time, and in price, is what should be our newly embraced standard for the future:

LED

Light Emitting Diode lighting is almost here. Well, it is here. It's just not as bright as we want it for the money we have to spend. It's not that big a stretch to get a consumer to spend $5 on a light bulb instead of $1 as is the case with CFL vs. incandescent. But it's still an almost impossible leap to get someone to spend $40 on the LED when they could "feel good" about spending that $5 on the CFL.

But it is still cheaper in the long run to go with LED - if only we would embrace it as the standard now! In terms of it's potential envrironmental impact it is vastly superior to CFL. It also consumes much less energy. And it emits much less heat. And it is available in a variety of colors and configurations that will satisfy any application.

It's not my intention here to provide statistics and figures and cite reports. There are endless stats available on the internet quanitfying the efficiencies of each type of bulb. I'll leave that for you should you have an interest in discrediting or crediting my words herein. My intention here is only to say, "let's not make the same mistake again." Let's look to the future and embrace the newest technology. Let's not let CFLs become the standard for the next century when there is a far better choice already available.

Review - Blazing Guns at Roaring Gulch

“And now for something completely different.” ~ M.P.

If you only see one play this year, then please, re-prioritize your life and see three. And if you only see three plays this year, then by all means, make one of them the Titusville Playhouse’s production of Shubert Fendrich’s Blazing Guns at Roaring Gulch – Or – The Perfumed Badge.

Imagine a villain most foul, a real Snidely Whiplash, replete with the necessary accoutrements indicative of evil: black cape, top-hat, waxed and thin handlebar moustache above a slightly raised corner of the upper lip, and a leering, sneering sidelong glance at the audience as he ties his beautiful and innocent victim to the railroad tracks.

Perhaps you already may be imagining a dashing Dudley Do-Right, white teeth refulgent in the sunlight, galloping in to rescue the damsel in distress from locomotive doom just in the nick of time. Yes, Rocky and Bullwinkle taught many of us about punctilious villainy long before Mr. Burns ever tented his fingers together on The Simpsons and malevolently declared, “excellent,” in his sinister and poisonous voice.

Regardless of where we learned it, and none of us learned it in a saloon or playhouse in the 19th century, these villains and heroes have been Jungian archetypes deeply embedded in the American psyche ever since the advent of the modern melodrama. Their stories are not always told seriously for they are not serious characters, they are stereotypes, caricatures personifying elemental values of good and traits of evil. They, along with the accompaniment of an attentive and alert pianist, a “good vs. evil” plot-driven storyline, a full cast of other stock characters, and a happy ending bountiful in poetic justice, are all the key ingredients to a melodrama.

This is not a play to be dissected and evaluated like a conventional drama, comedy, or musical. Though it is comedy, it is drama, and it is musical, there is nothing conventional about it. It is melodrama. It is by it’s very nature unsophisticated, guileless, raucous, rowdy, bawdy, and filled with romance, suspense, silliness, and an absolute and unabashed deconstruction of the so-called “fourth wall” separating cast from audience. If a prop malfunctions, if a line is flubbed, this is not cause for awkwardness nor vexation, rather, it is treated as an opportunity for these skillful players to ad-lib, to embrace the accident and convert it to comedy.

Blazing Guns has no top-hats or railroad tracks, but it has everything else. And more. As I approached the Titusville Playhouse from the street, I thought that it was a nice touch to have painted the classic western-style swinging saloon doors on the outside glass of the entrance doors. Once passing through, I immediately gleaned the significance of the door decoration. I hadn’t realized but this is where the play began, at the front door.

Almost immediately, one steps back in time to 1892 and becomes transformed from observer to participant. The lobby is the jail, the ushers are cowboys and cowgirls, and saloon girls in frilly, colorful, satin dresses, are draped in boas and chasing blue jean-clad cowboys up and down the stairs. (It should be noted here just what fantastic work the costumers did in this play.)

It’s not long before a saloon girl or cowboy flirtatiously solicits you for a dance or before you find yourself in the midst of an audience sing-along. And never fear, if you don’t know the words to “Oh My Darling Clementine,” or “The Band Played On,” the words are printed in your program.

This is all just a part of the pre-show and more broadly, part of the olio that also comprises the Entr’acte entertainment. There is a butterfly-winged pixie who laments in song the perils of turning 60. There is a sexy saloon girl who elicits catcalls and whistles from the audience with her rendition of “Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey.” There are fistfights, a woman singing, beautifully I might add, in a chicken suit. Even the Little Tramp makes a silent appearance. There’s so much more and still I’ve not touched on the actual play in two acts yet.

Mary Purdy as director has created something that though simple, is larger than life. Though there are many opportunities for the production to improve, overall the performances are nothing short of fantastic and the production is nothing short of hysterical. With more attention paid to timing of certain entrances and exits, such as with the cue-card girl for just a single example, and with some serious work on the choreography of the chorus line, cowboys, and saloon girls, the night could be taken from joyously grand to absolutely stupendous. Also, I felt that the selling of raffle tickets in the middle of the evening’s presentation was completely out of place and an unnecessary interruption that detracted from the performance as a whole.

But that’s not to say the evening’s performance was anything less than stellar. Every single player was in their own way memorable. Though I could easily praise each cast member individually, the cast is just too large. It would be, however, a great injustice to overlook a few of the key players who made the evening spectacular. And it’s no surprise that they are the leads.

Laughter flowed continuously from every seat in the house and this is in no small part thanks to Richard Jones and Lucas Beecham. Richard Jones as outlaw sidekick Bill Filbert created laughter at every turn. His animated delivery and mannerisms were more often than not simply side-splitting. The young Lucas Beecham as hotel clerk Barney Black, with his ridiculously comedic southern drawl and snoring shtick, delivered a performance so playfully exaggerated that it stopped just short of absurdity.


The heroes, and one villain, in this play were Melody Schilling as Sheriff Willie Lovelace (applause, please) and Jeff Ferguson in a dual role as Detective Harry Heart-throb, er, Heartstone, and also as the contemptible outlaw, Snipe Vermin (insert boos and hisses here). Ms. Schilling’s asides with the audience were beautifully executed. Not only were they funny, but her ad-libbed interactions in both speech and mid-action mannerisms provided a deeper connection between audience and cast than the aside alone could have possibly attained. And Jeff Ferguson had the same profound effect on uniting audience with cast. A master in portraying both villainous sneer and chivalrous obeisance, Mr. Ferguson was simultaneously loved and loathed. I couldn’t help but see the serious actor thinly disguised beneath all the silliness and wonder what he would do with a more traditional role.

Last, and immeasurably far from least, is Gladys Soler as Widow Black. The name is perfectly befitting of the character and needs no synonymic amplification to convey the role that Ms. Soler so vividly and expertly brought to life. She will make you laugh, she will demand your cooperation in her malevolent plotting, and she will be the one to elicit the loudest booing and perhaps even the most rejoicing cheers at one point. Though seemingly counterintuitive, you will crave her scolding and reprimands and do all you can to elicit them.

There is at least one unsung heroine in this play. One who does not take a curtain call, one who does not get any stage time whatsoever and one who will not be present to shake your hand as you exit the saloon (theater) for the night. And that is Ms. Barbara Lee, the pianist. Along with musical director Barbara McGillicuddy, they expertly implemented a soundtrack that spans a vast musical century from old-fashioned tunes like “Oh! Susanna,” and “Home on the Range,” to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen,” and Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman.” The attention to onstage action required for a successful accompaniment can not be overstated. The music must react to and be reacted to as if it were itself a character on stage. Ms. Lee and Ms. McGillicuddy are to be commended on their success.

The roots of melodrama are far deeper than the saloons and playhouses of the 19th century American west. However, that venue is the basis of origination for Blazing Guns. Often a rowdy playhouse was full of lowbrow, drunken, philistines who were completely disrespectful of the thespian’s art. It is said that out of that environment evolved the modern melodrama with it’s exaggerated movements and audience asides. So please, when you arrive, check all modern sophistication and high-falutin’ pretenses at the door. Expect to hear your fellow audience members engaging the cast loudly. And by all means, do buy a bag of popcorn – no, not to eat, to throw at the villains!

Review - Night Watch - Melbourne Civic Theater

From time to time, I'll post my review of local community theater performances. Here's the first of surely many more to come.

Night Watch

My pledge to you, dear reader: No spoilers. There is not a single disclosure of any kind included herein that will detract from your enjoyment of this play nor alleviate any of the suspense you surely will be savoring throughout.

The Melbourne Civic Theater, along with all other Brevard County theaters, has been dark for a tedious and interminable two weeks. Clearly, we have been awash in the doldrums of the off-season. But then, at last night’s opening of Lucille Fletcher’s Night Watch, punctuating and precipitating the end of MCT President Vic Ross’ narrative of Melbourne theatrical history for those waiting in the theater’s lobby, there came the moment I had been so impatiently anticipating: “Ladies and Gentlemen, the house is open.”

As we made our ingress and discovered our assigned seats, I immediately was impressed with the reveal. First to be fully appreciated was the appropriateness of the musical selections filling the house. Violin and piano concerti, chilling, dramatic, scary, unobtrusively set the tone for suspense and provided a thoroughly enjoyable shiver of expectancy.

I also noticed the attention to detail in the physical decoration of the elegantly appointed set and thought two subtle themes may have been apparent. My suspicions were confirmed as both thematic elements were addressed repeatedly in both acts. So as a heterogeneous and disparate audience sluggishly and haphazardly coagulated in front of the theater’s imaginary proscenium, I delighted in anticipation of the performance, the details of the set, the piquant crescendos of wailing violin, and the opportunity to form the eidetic imagery I still retain this morning.

Night Watch was first performed in 1972 on Broadway at the Morosco Theater (razed in the name of “progress” in 1982) and the setting was to be “the present.” As such, Fletcher’s dialog and set directions avoid any contemporary cultural references and succeed for the most part in making the story as written truly timeless. However, there are still elements that will always need updating to maintain a contemporary setting and for that we must rely on the director.

In MCT’s production, the director, Mike Mellen, did a mostly fine job adjusting the 35 year old script and amenities to our present day. There were necessary adjustments like a touch tone phone replacing the rotary dial phone even though the script, written in a time of technological transition from rotary to touch-tone, explicitly calls for a rotary. There were other equally apparent and wholly important changes to the dialog, for example, when a character mentions a past date as the year 1999.

However, I felt that the script adjustments were insufficient and at times glaring, especially with regard to the protagonist’s dialog. There were several lines that seemed to create rather than suspend my disbelief. In those moments, regardless of the actor’s delivery, the experience becomes tantamount to hearing someone read the play. Surely Fletcher’s intention in writing such prose was to create an air of sophistication for her characters. And this easily would have been the case in 1972. In 2007 however, it is simply tedious.

Fortunately, there are only a scant few instances of this. In fairness, and with deference to the sexagenarians in the audience who will almost certainly have a different perception from my own, I can not completely discount a generational bias on my part.

Opening night is special. The anticipation induces a shared energy in audience and cast that just can’t be replicated on any other night. And in such a charged environment of heightened perceptions, curious expectation, and creative desire to conquer the evening, it is no wonder that there will always be a gremlin lurking inside a stage lamp, always a tongue waiting to be tied or tripped, always a cue that goes unnoticed. But to me, that is essential to the beauty of a living, breathing art such as theater.

MCT’s cast and crew, volunteers though they are, are consummate professionals and must have all but eradicated the gremlins in the dress rehearsal. Aside from an occasional bit of stammering over their lines from almost every cast member, and an obnoxiously loud sound effect (blowing wind) played over dialog, the production, especially the technical aspects, were spot on. This bodes extremely well for the rest of the play’s run. As with a bottle of fine wine that has just been opened, this play has just had it’s chance to breathe and is now ready to be enjoyed completely.

There are so many notable performances it will be hard to do pay them all the respect they deserve in the confines of a simple review. However, this play begins, ends, and revolves completely around Lisa Farrall as Elaine Wheeler. Her performance was nothing short of engrossing. From her very first opening lines, I was drawn completely into her world. And she held me there the entire performance.

It mattered not that her antagonist, husband John, played by Ron Knox, got off to a wooden and mechanical start in the opening scene. She maintained such an intensity and presence that I believe she actually pulled him into the performance to the extent that he became more and more believable in his role as the night progressed. Gradually, his was a subtle transformation from a self-conscious actor to a self-absorbed, somewhat pompous character. And this transformation had the effect of a feedback loop allowing Lisa Farrall to reactively reach new heights which consequently pulled Ron Knox along with her. By the end of the evening, they were quite a pair to watch; quite different from the opening scene.

The supporting cast is filled with fun and noteworthy performances. The entire performance seemed to come to an even keel and find it’s focus with the entrance of Sara Fieberg as Blanche Cooke. Until that point, there really had been only the conversation between Lisa Farrall and Ron Knox which suffered a bit from awkward pacing. Sara Fieberg provided a counterbalance to the tug of war that seemed to ground the entire performance and set the tone for the remainder of the Act. Since nautical metaphors were at least one theme of the evening, Sara Fieberg was the anchor.

It can be challenging for me to believe a non-native speaker affecting an accent in conversation let alone an entire performance. But, Fran Rizzuto as the German maid and Kerry Ward as the New York police detective did exceptionally well with only perhaps an instance or two of going over the top. Neither has a lot of time on stage in this play, but I can say that there were separate elements of both performances that left me wanting to see more of them in expanded future roles.

Even the most serious murder mystery needs some comic relief. Enter Kevin Hurley as Mr. Appleby. Without a doubt, you will chortle, chuckle, and just possibly guffaw while Kevin Hurley is on stage. His character is so wacky and flamboyant that he is a welcome respite from the often intense dialog whenever he appears. However, his performance is almost taken from the sublime to the ridiculous thanks to his costuming. A lesser actor delivering a less believable performance may need the silly scarf and the absurd hat to convey the full effect of Mr. Appleby. Kevin Hurley needed no such adornments, in fact, they were a bit distracting.

Nancy Andrews, Dirk Fieberg, and David Farrall all gave a good effort in their supporting roles also. I did have a hard time believing Detective Walker as character and an easier time believing him as caricature. The stereotypical fedora and fast-paced cop-speak would be more expected by me in a James Cagney film than in the context of this play. Contrarily, when I saw Nancy Andrews take the stage as Dr. Lake, I couldn’t help but think that MCT may have acquired a real psychiatrist and not an actress for this part. David Farrall as Sam Hoke had a short but memorable scene. It’s not quite clear to me to what extent he was creating comedy or drama, but he definitely had me rapt with attention as his character and Ron Knox’s faced off.

“Exeunt omnes” is a stage direction for all actors to leave the stage. Perhaps the most captivating and provocative point in the entire evening came at just such a moment. The actors all exited and the technical crew created a theater of the mind through sound effects and lighting. In ancient Greek theater, there would occasionally come a point called Parabasis. This is when the actors left and the chorus remained, speaking directly to the audience. In a kind of modern twist on this theatrical device, and with no actors left on stage to be respectful of, the audience took it upon themselves to become chorus and narrate the brief pause in action. And I must admit, the combination of sound effects and audience comments at this point provided moments of laughter that literally had tears streaming down my face.

I recently heard a professor of literature differentiate between a “murder mystery,” and a “suspense/thriller.” In the former, the audience’s task is to contemplate the question of “who?” In the latter, the question of “how or what,” commands the attention. Night Watch could arguably be classified as either. And for fear of violating my pledge of “no spoilers,” I can say no more than this unique endowment of attributes is certainly the catalyst for a theatrical experience nothing short of compelling.

There will be a moment or two when you jump right out of your seat. You certainly will laugh. You will spend your time trying to figure it all out. You will exchange theories with other patrons as you discuss it over the intermission. And you may, as I did, think you have it all figured out. But you will not piece together all the important pieces. You will not solve the whole puzzle. And in the end, you will be surprised and find the entire evening has been completely memorable, thoroughly enjoyable, and well worth it.

Night Watch is playing at The Melbourne Civic Theater in downtown Melbourne on the following dates:

July 14, 15, 20, 21, 27, and 28 @ 8:00 pm.
July 15, 22, and 29 @ 2:00 pm.

Please – arrive on time and turn off your cell phones.

Jury Duty (pt 2)

After another interminable period of waiting and seemingly endless exchanges of mindless pleasantries with the strangest of strangers, I have been excused. But not without first hearing how valuable George Washington believed my participation to be.

I awoke Monday morning from a dream. Listening to someone recount their dreams ranks right up there with looking at baby pictures of a co-worker's distant relatives so I'll spare you the unnecessary details of cross-pollinating palm trees and sneaky cobras. All that matters is that the setting was a courtroom. I was a lawyer.

Reliably, it was the cat who had awakened me with his plaintive cries. I'm sure he could sense a wood rat somewhere in the nearby brush outside the bedroom window. If not a wood rat, then perhaps a mouse or a rabbit - bottom line: if it's furry and fits in his mouth it's his sworn duty to pursue. The crying grows louder and more pathetic in exact proportion to my desire for him to cease and desist. I've never seen someone so eager to go to work. I guess you just have to love what you do.

We go through our morning ritual, he purrs, I moan, we both go to the kitchen. I pour him a fresh bowl of food and unlock the door that has mutually protected prey and predator. It's early. I can go sleep some more. My head hits the pillow and I ponder the outcome of the courtroom case I was trying. I was anxious to see what became of those palm trees. But as I tossed myself into an indescribably comfortable position folded deep inside a down comforter, my nervous system sprung to life. My endocrine system responded as the adrenal glands spiked my bloodstream with a torrent of nature's most potent energy drink. You want wings? Step aside Red Bull. Meet adrenaline.

I had remembered, not surprisingly given the obvious persistence of my unconscious mind, that I had jury duty that morning. I hadn't thought of it in a week.

Later that morning, I found myself in a large room with 180 people, give or take a misanthrope. They were all seated, facing forward, stranger abutting stranger, in a very orderly fashion. I instinctively searched for a pretty girl to sit next to as I slowly and nonchalantly circumnavigated the room. I spied but a single candidate meeting my visual criteria. One. Out of almost 200. Fortunately I noticed the oversized gold cross around her neck just in time and my stride wasn't even noticeably broken.

My subconscious took over and I found myself seeking any way to separate myself from the herd. And there it was. There at the front of the room was a table and chairs. I walked straight to the front of the room, turned around to look at all the sheep pretending to be jovial, pretending to read their meaningless novels, and I stared at them for a moment that was longer than natural, a moment that approached evaluation but fell almost imperceptibly short. And I sat down. Dozens upon dozens, sitting neatly in arranged rows of immaculate chairs on short-fibered institutional carpet, all facing forward politely, and me looking back at them.

Mercifully, the wheels of justice turned quickly and 30 of us were taken, make that herded, upstairs to a distant courtroom by an uncharacteristically pleasant bailiff. There I sat, hovering about two feet above my body, studying the process as the next three hours revealed to me a superficial glimpse of the inner workings of our judicial system.

There's one in every crowd. One yahoo. One who likes to hear himself speak. We had three. And not one was a lawyer. The questioning was obvious. In fact, the plaintiff's attorney made it patently clear: he only wanted to know if we could be fair and unbiased. Two women explicitly stated that they could not. It didn't even seem to them this was perhaps a character flaw, rather, they embraced their shortcomings proudly. For a brief moment I entertained the notion that they were being skillfully deceptive and answering so as to eliminate themselves from the process. But that would be giving them far too much credit. I felt like I knew them. They were the people I see interviewed by reporters on the local evening news. The ones with the most self-assured opinions. The ones who "just know" what happened. I scratched them off the list and so did the attorneys.

And then there was Mr. X. Oh, Mr. X. You are a book in and of yourself. The attorney asked you about "tort reform" and you took us on a journey through the fantasyland of your mind, stopping first in Viet Nam, then off to your recollections of stories of friends, and finally, unbelievably, taking us on a tour of Iraq and explaining, all somehow in the context of tort reform you thought, "why the terrorists hate us." You even had the court reporter struggling to contain her laughter and obvious pity. I swore I would bribe a physician for a doctor's note if I were made to serve on a jury with you. But, to their credit, the lawyers dismissed you shortly after your final tirade.

I knew I would not be asked to return. When asked if I had "security experience," I answered in the affirmative and explained my time as a boarding officer in the U.S. Coast Guard Reserve some 17 years ago. Since this case was a civil suit and the plaintiff was suing for negligence based on a lack of security at the defendant's night club, it was clear I would be dismissed.

I had to come back the next morning and wait an hour to be sure. But in the end, I was sent home with a thank you and the promise of a $30 check to arrive by mail. What they didn't realize is that I would've done it all for free.

Jury Duty

It seems the government required my services today. And it looks as though they may be demanding my presence for the remainder of this week. At this point, I'm of course not at liberty to comment as to the nature of the proceedings. However, I do intend to record a memoir of the experience here once the law allows.

But today, in our hallowed halls of justice, surrounded by what could only be described as a representative cross-section of the local citizenry, I overheard a woman say, "Well the bible says you shouldn't sue someone." And I was once again reminded of these immortal words from one of the greatest freethinkers in American history. And I had to share.

Ingersoll's Vow

When I became convinced that the Universe is natural--that all the ghosts and gods are myths, there entered into my brain, into my "soul," into every drop of my blood, the sense, the feeling, the joy of freedom. The walls of my prison crumbled and fell, the dungeon was flooded with light and all the bolts, and bars, and manacles became dust. I was no longer a servant, a serf or a slave. There was for me no master in all the world -- not even in infinite space. I was free -- free to think, to express my thoughts -- free to live to my own ideal -- free to live for myself and those I loved -- free to use all my faculties, all my senses -- free to spread imagination's wings -- free to investigate, to guess and dream and hope -- free to judge and determine for myself -- free to reject all ignorant and cruel creeds, all the "inspired" books that savages have produced, and all the barbarous legends of the past -- free from popes and priests -- free from all the "called" and "set apart" -- free from sanctified mistakes and holy lies -- free from the fear of eternal pain -- free from the winged monsters of the night -- free from devils, ghosts and gods. For the first time I was free. There was no prohibited places in all the realms of thought -- no air, no space, where fancy could not spread her painted wings -- no chains for my limbs -- no lashes for my back -- no fires for my flesh -- no master's frown or threat -- no following another's steps -- no need to bow, or cringe, or crawl, or utter lying words. I was free. I stood erect and fearlessly, joyously, faced all worlds.

And then my heart was filled with gratitude, with thankfulness, and went out in love to all the heroes, the thinkers who gave their lives for the liberty of hand and brain -- for the freedom of labor and thought -- to those who fell on the fierce fields of war, to those who died in dungeons bound with chains -- to those who proudly mounted scaffold's stairs -- to those whose bones were crushed, whose flesh was scarred and torn -- to those by fire consumed -- to all the wise, the good, the brave of every lands, whose thoughts and deeds have given freedom to the sons of men. And then I vowed to grasp the torch that they held, and hold it tight, that light might conquer darkness still.

Robert Green Ingersoll (August 11, 1833 - July 21, 1899)

Flying Kites

Swallow-tailed Kites have returned this year. As I look to the sky, I can't help but be reminded of their relatively benign namesakes and wonder: is this rural patch of central Florida land their Capistrano? Certainly it's not true for the species, but perhaps these most recent denizens of our subtropical biome are descended from those I've seen before. If nothing else, it is possible.

They’ve been a rarity in my recent memory. I can recall only sporadic instances from so many years past. Yet, I can recall each as vividly as any of the sharpest memories archived in my consciousness. The extent may be no more than a fleeting moment of recognition whereupon I glimpsed the sharp, dark, inverted V of tailfeathers, spiraling swiftly, silently, above my head. But the image is as clear and large in my mind as the newest digital camera could capture. I suppose the more seldom the occurrence, the more infrequent the experience, the more permanently ingrained the memory.

The Swallow-tails glide in elegance, never too far from water, skimming in search of sustenance across canopies of slash pine, cabbage palm, and the occasional laurel oak. Perhaps an inobservant cicada will fall victim, maybe a careless dragonfly perched on a palm frond high aloft. With any luck for the kite, not to mention any concerned native inhabitant of Florida, they’ll dine lavishly on the brown anoles who have invaded from Cuba and established themselves as the most prevalent lizard in the lower peninsula. I can not say for sure where my hopes lie for my kite’s next meal. As much as I would like to see the anole put in check, the mosquitoes eternally plague me.

But all living creatures within the kite's perceptual radius must be mindful. The kite is a raptor, a skillful avian predator with a less than discriminating palate. Size and location are the only real variables restricting the kite's menu. Invertebrates of all kinds and vertebrates, whether scaled or plumed, all are potential prey for the kite.

The Swallow-tailed Kite’s masterful acrobatics and skillful soaring can often make it's brethren aloft look clumsy and graceless by comparison. Once, they could be seen in the skies across the whole of the midwestern and southern United States skillfully climbing invisible thermals, majestically soaring, playfully displaying an almost unrivaled acrobatic proclivity. That is until their ubiquitous neighbor, mankind, vacillating between nemesis and benefactor, intervened. Deforestation of habitat, a hunter's bullet, the omnipresence of that most foul and contemptible torture device, monofilament fishing line, these all have been the bane of the kite. Now, we Floridians share our appreciation for the Swallow-tailed kite only with our South American and Carribbean neighbors.

I know that it's the end of the season here for the kites. Soon, no later than the end of the month, they'll be making their first and most dangerous leg of their flight, an interpeninsular ocean crossing from Florida to Yucatan with only a brief layover in Cuba. It won't be long before they again discover the rich and bountiful forests of Brazil. I imagine that a few months from now, somewhere deep within the interior of South America, perhaps along the banks of the Rio Amazonas, I have a counterpart who will, just as I have, look to the sky and remark with a note of joy, “The swallow-tail kites have returned this year.”

In the thick of it...

The weather sticks to my skin like a t-shirt worn while swimming. It clings heavily to my body and weighs me down like I've just emerged lugubriously from the lukewarm shallows of a backyard pool. Dripping, saturated, oppressive. It restricts my very existence. And it's not even August yet.

The recent rains have fomented yesterday's birth of a new society of winged adversaries. Just as I have with their ancestors for so many generations, I'll do my best to fend off the hordes with only two hands at the end of flailing arms. These morning stars of flesh and sinew, seemingly omnipotent when compared to a mere speck moving less than five miles per hour, will have little effect. Any blow successfully struck will only come after the fact and certainly not in time. The only real benefit reaped will be a demonstration of pathetic futility, the kind that serves as a darkly comedic reminder of the supreme power of nature over the will of man.

They'll win. They always do. I'll yield them the high ground and retreat to the safety of my air-conditioned embattlement, my only bulwark against the invasion. I won't engage in chemical warfare. One of us has to maintain civility, even in the heat.


Even the cat rues the season. The pet door swings in the other room and his tortured mewling belies his presumed status as top predator and ultimate master of his universe, the yard. His lips parted, his eyes dulled, his gait, laborious and deliberate, all personify the external incalescence for any who have the strength to give notice.

He'll seek the kind of rejuvenation that can only come from a loving caress at the hand of his master. But that alone won't suffice. Staying nearby, he'll relocate to a spot of minimum potential energy and efficiently transfer excess heat to the cool, flat, tile. He'll watch. He'll wait. He'll eventually discover the will to groom himself. And then, pretending he has sensed an occurrence worthy of his investigative prowess, he'll spring to life and urgently evacuate the room.

On his way, and safely out of sight of course, he'll stop to rehydrate from the clear glass reservoir that gives his lifeblood in these calefactive periods. And once again, the pet door will creak quickly as it swings the other way and he returns to his command post under the car to fulfill his natural duty: ensuring the squirrel and bird populations remain under strict control.

He knows. I know. There is no sufficient synonym for humidity. Anything less than empiricism falls manifestly short.


Here, in the cool dry comfort of this venerable stronghold, immune to humectation, I realize that this kind of urbane civility can only be artifically maintained. For outside this layercake made of paint, gypsum, fiberglass, and cinderblock, there lies a harsh reality. All that truly stands between this cozy existence in a bastion of relative opulence and the brutality of nature's inclemency is a precariously balanced society that, at least for today, is capable of providing and transmitting to me the energies needed to sustain my place within. Here, in the luxury of my sanctum, contemplating this, I realize that if not for the immediacy and convenience of nearby foodstores, if not for the thaumaturgy of electricity, I am left simply to forage in the yard, competing with the cat for squirrel meat.

So why then does the landscape, brilliantly illuminated by deceptively benign sunshine, lush and verdant as only recent summer rains can beget, look so luscious and tantalizing despite my knowledge of the harsh truth? How can the tortured existence that awaits me on the other side of that windowpane look so much more appealing, so preferable? When did safety, comfort, and security become my prison?

The transition is surely immediate and occurs simultaneously with passage from one milieu to the next. Upon ingress, it is only the palpable and immediate respite from severe conditions that provides a totally ephemeral distraction from my discontinued freedom. Eventually, imprisoned is how I feel. For no matter how exquisitely ornamented the interior, no matter how many succorable amenities are strategically positioned to aid and comfort the inhabitant, it is by it's very nature, confinement, restriction, incarceration.

Eventually, like the cat, I too will regain my exuberance and exfiltrate, trading hard tile for soft earth. The idea of it sustains me and almost distracts me from the inevitability of what awaits: a vain struggle against clouds of vampiric devils who lay claim to this suburban hell of inescapable heat, and yes, humidity.


Welcome to Florida in July.