Twelve primary colors?!!

We humans see the world in color because of color receptors we have in our eyes. We have three types of photoreceptors (cones): blue, green, and red, which allow us to see close to a hundred different colors, pretty much degrees and nuances of the colors of the rainbow. Dogs only have two cones, blue and green, so are very limited in their color vision, much like color-blind men (10% of all men). (Rods in our eyes allow us to see light and dark.)

The sparrow actually has more cones than we do which allows it to see a range of ultraviolet colors. Butterflies have 5 to 6 cones so its color range is even vaster. But the animal who has the most complex visual system on the planet is the mantis shrimp with 16 cones! (Its eyes are pictured above.) This includes seeing eleven or twelve primary colors (as opposed to the three that humans see) seeing from the infrared into the ultraviolet. I want to see like a mantis shrimp.

Twelve primary colors! I can’t even imagine, conceptualize, envision, conceive, or conjure up what those color possibilities might be. However, here’s the catch—the mantis shrimp’s brain is so small, it would have no notion of the beauty of the colors it sees. For the mantis shrimp, this complicated and sophisticated color differentiation is only for the practical purposes of mating and hunting. All the potential visual beauty of the perception of all these unimaginable colors is totally lost on the mantis shrimp.

Maybe too many of us already observe like a mantis shrimp. How many gifts exist in my life for which my brain is “too small” to see. Before I go wanting to observe through a mantis shrimp’s eyes, should I not make sure my eyes have been opened to all the beauty that is already within my grasp?

Still……   twelve primary colors?!!

(This post was inspired by WYNC’s podcast on Colors – Radiolab which we listened to on the way home from visiting with our amazing grandkids and their awesome parents, accompanied by a stunning rainbow to our east.)

Japanese toilets

Japanese squat toilet

One of the amazing discoveries in our travels to Japan were Japanese toilets. Though there were squat toilets (which took a great deal of physical coordination to use), the majority we found were known as western style- 洋式 - and featured a myriad of buttons for a variety of functions. Not knowing how to read Japanese found us pleasantly surprised by these functions.

According to Wikipedia, Japan has the most advanced toilets in the developed world. This was obvious. First of all, the seats are warmed and the user can control the temperature from between 30 to 40 degrees centigrade. Apparently Japanese women are embarrassed by the sound of urinating so continually flushed the toilet to cover the sounds they were making. There was a big campaign to stop their flushing because it used a lot of water totally working against the green efficiency of these toilets. The campaign didn’t work so now there is a button which allows the user to play a musical sequence of flushing. On one model I used, there were a variety of musical sounds you could choose including a waterfall with birds as well as a rainstorm option.

Of course, these toilets come equipped with a variety of bidet choices too. I became aware of many of these options when I was searching for which button controlled the flush.

Though there is modesty about the sounds people make in public washrooms, the sign below which identified the washrooms at the local gas station near our son’s apartment, did not seem so shy.

Leave it to the Japanese to once again ceremonialize and ritualize even the most basic bodily functions.

…and two additional photos from JB—

Settling in with an old friend

We have just finished To Kill A Mockingbird. It’s the last book we read every year and to tell the truth, each year I can’t wait to get to it. Not because it signals the coming of summer, but because it’s just such a good book.

It’s slow in the best sense of the word. It takes its time and as a reader you actually feel as if you’re really strolling the town of Maycomb, practically neighbors with the characters in the story. You can’t help but be sucked into the story, the characters, and the town. The narrative is told through Scout’s point of view. She is innocent but alert, filled with a great sense of humor and edgy observation. Her self-confidence and assertiveness, her tomboyishness, make her an incredibly appealing character. She is an outsider making inside observations. These insights about the behavior of the adults around her are funny, rich, smart, and sometimes questionable.

The story is solid and strong. The children (Jem, Scout, and Dill) are obsessed with a neighbor who never comes out (Boo). The trial of Tom Robinson, an African-American accused of raping a white woman defended by Scout’s father, Atticus, is clearly innocent but found guilty anyway. These two seemingly disparate story lines come together in a dramatic and thrilling confluence at the end of the book.

When this book came out in 1960, there were no books by whites that dealt with racism in such a genuine way. This book clearly and courageously addresses those issues. And it works because the book is so true. I’m still moved by the Reverend Sykes telling Scout to stand up because her “father’s passin’” and all the food that is left for Atticus the next morning after the verdict in Robinson’s trial. The scene when Scout walks Boo back to his house after the Halloween attack and she sees the world (and the outline of the entire book) through Boo’s perspective from his front porch is masterful as is her description of Mrs. Dubose’s face (“This made the wet move faster.”) and of Aunt Alexandra (“…analagous to Mt. Everest: throughout my early life, she was cold and there.”), the missionary ladies making bovine noises, and many more turns of phrase that are still stunning to read even after the umpteenth reading of the book.

It was not unique that our conversations in class about this book were character-driven, but perhaps what was unique was that the students really cared for a lot of the characters in this book. They really didn’t have feelings for Montag in Fahrenheit 451 or for Haroun in Haroun and the Sea of Stories. But somehow, this book made them experience feelings and what seemed like a genuine relationship with some of the characters. Understanding their motivations and intentions, understanding what they say and mean, became a virtual and visceral exercise in how the students themselves understand and work their own way through the world.

This book isn’t perfect. The black characters are not as developed as the white. When Scout asks Atticus if it’s OK to hate Hitler, Atticus tells her it’s not OK to hate anybody. When a mob comes to lynch Tom Robinson, Atticus explains their behavior as having a “blindspot.” Yet, the book still works. The characters still draw us into the soul of the story and push us to work for justice.

How wonderful it was to spend the last few weeks immersed in this book. It was like settling in with an old friend, who only visits each May, picking up right where we left off.

After a long day at work…

Sun Ra

Today is Sun Ra’s (born Herman Poole Blount 1914-1993) birthday. He was an experimental musician, composer, poet, pianist, and cosmic philosopher. I actually became enamored with his musical accomplishments just a few years ago, long after he died. A student of mine who was an avid guitarist was nearly obsessed with his music and the cosmic world and myth he created about his being born on another planet. In fact, this student did his research project about him, which included, of course, lots of samples of his music.

Sun Ra was the first to explore electronic music and free improvization. He imbued his music with his otherwordly (sprinkled with black politics) philosophy and ideas. He was obsessed with creating music, making his Arkestra practice all day, everyday, and then play gigs late into the night. Dressed in costumes a al ancient Egypt, Sun Ra and his band created otherworldly sounds and visuals. (But could also play more accessible genres like swing, beebop, and big band.) What may seem chaotic and out of control in his compositions is actually carefully notated and orchestrated, a kind of musical Jackson Pollack. Musical traditions and limitations are pushed and stretched. Voice is used as an instrument with call and response embedded within the matrix. Sun Ra’s claim to being an extra-terrestrial adds to the mystic, ethereal, supernatural, experimental nature of his music.

See and listen for yourself.

And a provocative documentary from the BBC:

Wheel chair dancing

After the wedding ceremony was over and most of the hors d’oevres had been eaten, we all progressed into the banquet room for dinner and dancing. The wedding party, formally introduced, came in and went immediately to the dance floor to dance the horah and a variety of other klezmer inspired group dances. Everyone got up to join them.

My mother is in a wheel chair, her ability to move in the world incredibly compromised by Parkinson’s. The grandmother of the bride, my mother’s older sister, lives in an assisted living facility with dementia. She was also in a wheel chair as well as a neck brace, having broken her neck in a recent fall.

Spontaneously my sister pushed my mother, and I pushed my aunt into the center of the spirited dancing. Spinning, twirling, to the right, to the left— my mother and my aunt laughing, clapping, smiling. The bride at first was nervous with their inclusion, but very quickly opened to their presence as did all present. The sisters, both seated and pushing, were graceful, daring, filled with joy to be a part of the energy on the dance floor and with each other.

My mother and my aunt were elegant– my sister and I merely the the pilots of their unencumbered exuberance.

Sabra Road

We’re in Ohio for a wedding this weekend and went to visit the old neighborhood with JB, my brother, and sister-in-law. Our old house had been foreclosed and HUD was now trying to sell it. A neighbor came out and shared that the bank wanted $22,000 for the house. My mother sold the house for $27,500 in 1973. She and my father bought it for $15,000 in 1953.

The house was empty and locked, but we wandered around it. It looked old and uncared for. It had been re-sided and the front porch had been enclosed. What shrubbery was there was gone (except for one evergreen at the corner of the front porch). The lilac bush was gone too. Lots of weeds and other “volunteers.” The cement in the postage stamp backyard all cracked and crumbling. The same garage door and metal fence were there. It all seemed so much smaller than in my memory.

We walked around the house and took pictures and reminisced, sharing stories of neighbors and seasons and family. Tangible evidence of life and stories is powerful. It evokes emotions from places deep within. On the front lawn I received a phone call from a colleague from school about some issue that needed to be decided before tomorrow morning. It felt strange to negotiate the issue on the front lawn of the house I grew up in, over 44 years ago.

It was not nostalgia really that was so overwhelming. It wasn’t wistfulness, but rather a larger sensibility about the vulnerability of our complicated yet simple selves in the innocent and haunting rush of relentless time.