The Rare Light Show of the Lightning Bug - Experiences in Amazement, Part I

You know those moments when the simultaneous occurrence of events that, when taken individually, may just be noticeable, results in something unforgettable? It's like at that one particular moment, there is an alignment in the cosmos and you are lucky enough to experience it. A serious "whoa - this is AWESOME!!" moment. 

I had the pleasure of experiencing this feeling a few times in recent days, which is nice in and of itself. It seems these moments occur randomly with lengthy intervals of time between occurrences, unless you are visiting places of natural wonder, watching The Masters live, or shooting a layout for a Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. Then, these feelings pile up so often you begin to backtrack to figure out when you quantum-leapt out of reality. 

Interestingly, my recent stumblings into amazement involved natural nighttime light shows. This is the first of those moments and it occurred after reading a quick blurb in my local paper about fireflies lighting in synchronization at nearby Congaree National Park (The State article).

 

image courtesy of thestate.com

Highly doubtful, I knew this required a first-hand look. So, I loaded up the family and headed out. I figured I would pull a classic Clark Griswold moment, building up the excitement only to be met by groans and disappointment.

"Really? You put us out here on the buffet line at Mosquito Ryan's for this?".

I anticipated having to defend myself. "Well, I guess if you try hard enough you can see a pattern...maybe...right?".

When we arrived at the park, we were not the only ones who had read about this firefly show. There were about 30 others, many of whom seemed to be veteran firefly watchers. I knew this because they had on lightweight long sleeved shirts and pants and wore those hats that field scientists in the movies wear. This gave me a glimmer of hope. Surely these professionals wouldn't be duped. We were in t-shirts and shorts (the temperature was in the 90's after all -at 8:00 in the evening nonetheless), but armed with high-octane, Amazon Jungle-ready insect napalm repellent.

"Um, Dad? This spray kinda burns my skin."

"That's good son - means it's working."

"How?"

"Well, if it's just a little uncomfortable for you, think about how it will make that tiny mosquito feel."

"True."

 

The sun sank behind the swamp canopy, and with it my anticipation. We spotted a few fireflies, but nothing we couldn't have seen in the backyard at home. The show seemed to have been cancelled.

"We regret to inform you that the fireflies have suddenly taken ill. We suspect a reaction to the DEET that seems to be pervading our air space tonight, thanks to the Griswold family. In any case there will be no performance tonight."

But then it happened. The moment. It started with whisperings and murmurs in the astonished crowd. Then the show began in earnest. I know this is cliche, but if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it. It was a true symphony of synchronized luminescence. Try to visualize floating Christmas tree lights, blinking at a heartbeat's rate, in unison, along the thick darkness emerging from the swamp forest floor. Surreal. Magical. A true "wow" moment.

I found out this dazzling spectacle occurs in only 3 places in the world and for only a short run of time. I happened to be in one of those places at the right time. And I had witnesses.

So, not only did I experience a moment of wonder, but I was also the hero.

 

Bonus.

 

Salve to my Soul

image from coastalliving.com

Don't tell the other guys in this world, but I have been a subscriber to Coastal Living (coastalliving) since its inception. Me, not my wife. She reads it, but it's mine. In case you're not familiar with the publication, it is basically Southern Living for the coast. If you're not familiar with Southern Living, that's OK - this isn't about the magazine. That may appear in the future. This is about something that was written on the tiny spine of a Coastal Living edition from months ago (I keep them all, much to my clutter-destroying wife's chagrin).


I didn't notice the statement quoted on the spine. Do you read that section of the magazines to which you subscribe? I didn't think so. The magazine, like so many other reading materials had made its way to our bathroom. While brushing my teeth one morning, the name "Jimmy Buffett" caught my eye. This is not surprising, given my high-ranking position in the Parrothead army. He was quoted on the spine of the magazine, which had obviously sat complacent on the shelf, dust layering the dreamy ocean-front cover painted in aquas and teals. The quote read, "The ocean has always been a salve to my soul."

I think if Jimmy could reword the quote, he'd use the word "sea" in place of "ocean" just to give more pop to his alliteration (sea-salve-soul). Still, the meaning of the saying scored a direct hit with me. I've always considered my time in the ocean a spiritual renewing of sorts. Just wading up to my waist, arms extended to the sides, palms down, feeling the rise and fall of the waves, puts my soul at ease. The salty coolness, rhythmic motion, and blue-green vastness seem to cleanse me from the inside out.

All of my favorite shore side activities - surfing, fishing, shark-tooth hunting, swimming - are all components of a larger religious ritual to restore my well-being and bring peace and perspective to my chaotic existence. When I finally perch upon the sand and gaze out upon the unending majesty of the ocean, all of my frustrations, troubles, unknowns, both petty and paramount, seem to deflate to their proper place, much lower down the ladder of importance.



image courtesy of
3donlinewallpaper.blogspot.com

Maybe it's simply a peripheral of my escapist mentality, but this restoration makes me a much more pleasant person - more caring, more thoughtful, more cognizant of others, more appreciative of the simpler things, more aware of life on a living planet.



The tune in my head today was Knee Deep , a collaborative effort by the Zac Brown Band and(who else?) Jimmy Buffett. It plays a good backdrop to this post and leads me to believe that I'm not alone in purpose when I break away to the beach. Ahhhhhh.......

Click here for info about the song and a video - http://www.billboard.com/column/chartbeat/weekly-chart-notes-jimmy-buffett-lady-gaga-1005304102.story#/column/chartbeat/weekly-chart-notes-jimmy-buffett-lady-gaga-1005304102.story

Wake up!

This morning was like most other mornings in many ways:

• The birds that live right outside of my bedroom windows woke up first.
• The sun came up...eventually.
• I wished I was waking up in the Caribbean.
• A song from an original film score was spinning through my mind.

I've admitted it before, but it's worth mentioning again - I'm a cinematic score fanatic. This morning was different, though, because the tune in my head was from my favorite movie of all time - Joe Versus the Volcano.

I just heard a collective virtual "What?"

It's true. Favorite all time. There is neither enough time nor space to elaborate on all of my feelings about this film. Suffice it to say that its many levels of meaning, symbolism and language move me like no other silver screen product.

I just laugh off the criticisms of lameness, cheesiness and too fairy tale-ish. By the way, what is wrong with a fairy tale? We could use a few more.

But Joe vs. the Volcano is much more than a fairy tale. It's a story of discovery with fine performances (Tom Hanks, et al.), insightful dialogue and an endless supply of metaphor. You should see it, even if it's not your first time. Plus, it contains "The Line". The very essence of my being. The reason to do more than merely exist. It carries a meaning of biblical proportion to me. The Bible mentions the phrase "out of the mouth of babes". Well, out of the mouth of a babe, Meg Ryan, comes this quote: "...almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to...only a few people are awake and they live in a state of constant total amazement." I immediately fell in love. The moonlight didn't hurt, either. Nor did the fact that this statement occurred on a sailboat out on the open sea.

image:imdb.com

Until this epiphany, I had trouble expressing my sentiments on life in general. Ryan's character nailed it for me with her brief but awesome proclamation:

"(A)lmost the whole world is asleep." Ignorance is not bliss. Ignorance is false bliss. Ignorance is also rampant, skipping down society's yellow brick road, arm in arm with conformity, bias and narrow-mindedness.

Need proof? Just go to the zoo.

There you'll find the great American family - sitting on a bench, waiting for the tram to carry their over-nourished, under-worked, sunburned bodies to their car; Mom and Dad puffing away on Marlboros under the No Smoking sign while the kids rave about their favorite attraction, "Safari Burger". As you watch the actions and listen to the conversations, you start to wonder that maybe the wrong animals are on display.

Then you get confirmation of such when little Paris is suddenly yanked up by the arm and spanked for running towards the aquarium, setting off a tooth-challenged barrage of expletives from Mom, only to be quickly replaced by family laughter at the baboon's panic-stricken choke fest caused by Timmy's well-placed bubble gum toss. Makes me wonder what goes through the gorilla's mind every day. I have an idea...

Whoa! Reel it in there, fella. Weren't we talking about fairy tales? Ah, yes. Even though dreamers like myself usually opt for the escapist path, the here-and-now offers numerous opportunities for "constant total amazement".

You must be awake, though.

And, although dreaming is usually associated with sleep, this dreamer finds being awake far more preferable to the alternative.

Singing Soprano

“Woke up this mornin’, got yourself a gun…”

Like most decent Americans, I’ve always cheered for the Good Guy. You know - white hat, clean cut, American flag boxing trunks. Yet, there is something about the Mafia, or Hollywood’s glorified version, that triggers my Imaginary Self Displacement, or ISD. For those unfamiliar with this term (which would be everyone but me since I made it up), ISD is a self-named syndrome found most commonly in dreamers. In layman’s terms, the affected person envisions him- or herself as another person or in a particular situation he or she has experienced in some manner. For many dreamers, ISD occurs numerous times daily. The symptoms, while not usually easily detectable to the untrained eye, include wardrobe changes, facial and/or voice alterations, a deep unwavering stare at nothing in particular while all surrounding action is completely blocked from the mind, or simply an atypical calmness. I have acute ISD. Like right now, for instance, I see myself as a successful writer.

The Godfather is one of those movies of which I can never get enough, even when the cable networks have a 25-day marathon that seem to occur each quarter. I absolutely love each movie in the trilogy. Goodfellas, Casino, Bugsy, Scarface – they all have a similar affect on me.

And then there’s The Sopranos. If my wife would allow it in our home (and if I could afford it), I’d own the box set containing all of the seasons, director’s cut, unedited, alternate endings, alternate beginnings, alternate meaningless scenes, widescreen, regular screen, narrow screen, in color and black & white, in every language and subtitled. Besides the language being just a tad risqué at times and the brief nudity and sexual themes that are occasionally referenced, you’d never know this wasn’t a major network primetime-slotted show. Oh, and there is a little violence. And drugs and alcohol. Still, if these things tend to upset you, you simply have to prepare yourself. Actually, forget about it. The show is chock full of everything listed previously plus other unmentionables. There are more “f-bombs” in one episode than there were actual bombs dropped during the entire “Shock and Awe” campaign flown over Iraq. Not what one would consider a wholesome show. I can’t see Andy Griffin effectively pulling off the role of Tony Soprano.

Still, I’m drawn to it like a moth to a bug zapper. It may not have much redeeming social value but it certainly packs a wallop of ISD value. It’s not enough for me to just enjoy a good T.V. show or movie; I have to “live” it, albeit in my own little world. Admittedly, my own little world is the only place I’d ever make it in organized crime. When it comes to taking on the Feds, the police or even mall security, I’m a big chicken. So much of a chicken, in fact, I’m considering a chicken costume for Halloween. But in my world, I’m the Don, taking care of the old neighborhood. Of course, the old neighborhood consists of a city police officer and his family, some young professionals, nice families and a few retirees. No businesses to speak of. Not a lot of favors would be necessary. Come to think of it, the Mob would be extremely bored here. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been shaken down for protection. Of course if that were to happen, I’d have to whack the guy. Or call my neighbor. I can still cruise around the ‘hood in my minivan listening to the theme song from The Sopranos, “Woke Up This Morning” by A3. No cigar, though. Leaves a telltale smell; and my wife…well you get the picture.

Even though I might not have been “born under a bad sign…with a blue moon in your eyes”, that’s what was running through my head when I woke up. So, have a happy effing day.

When legends are made...

I love it when I awake to a moving piece from an orchestral cinematic score. That was the case this morning. James Horner's Legends of the Fall original cinema score matches the 1994 movie stride for stride in its power and emotions. I woke up with one of its major themes striding through my subconscious like the wild horses that galloped over the ridge and into the pen at the Ludlow's wilderness ranch. I must admit, it's a nice way to wake up.

I am absolutely enamored with cinematic scores from the likes of Horner , Jerry Goldsmith, Alan Silvestri, Howard Shore and John Williams. The movies that contain their orchestral interpretations do more than just provide a musical background, more than simply accompany the visual with a complimenting sound. These masterpieces become the integral interwoven thread that drive our emotions to the wrenching, weeping, clenching, cheering eruption that would otherwise have been uncovered. The movies would be great without the original scores. They become entrenched in our memories, moving our very souls with them, however.

Now that's the way to greet the day, huh?

I started thinking, how appropriate to be humming a track from Legends of the Fall at this time of year. Especially this year. This is certainly the time for legends to be made.

In the wide world of sports, or at least in the United States, football has started. And, like it or not, it plays a tremendous role in our society. It is to the weekend what our jobs are to the week; only with more adult beverages, and body paint, and gambling, and television exposure, and...well maybe the two aren't that similar. Suffice it to say that we, as a whole, invest a lot of time and money in football. It's also the close to another season of America's Pastime. No, reality television isn't being taken off the air. I'm talking baseball. The playoffs are upon us and the World Series is fast approaching. This is the only time of year that some of those reality TV viewers actually tune into a baseball game.

As far as legends go, this is the time when college football provides us an addition to the traditions and folklore of campuses across the nation ; when an NFL unknown becomes a star and a star becomes a household name; when baseball delivers a memory-etching feat that becomes timeless. Names like Campbell, Walker, Grange, Baugh and Simpson still carry an inhuman mystique in barbershops, break rooms and bars in many a college town. Do Staubach, Bradshaw, Namath, Payton, Manning ring a bell? Not surprisingly, the best from the fields and arenas achieve the status that only the top echelon from the silver screen achieve. And who can forget the swings of Reggie Jackson and Kirk Gibson. The legends and their stories are classics that always amaze and mesmerize.

This year, though, provides an extra opportunity for the birth of legends. This comes in the realm of American politics. The critical juncture at which our nation seems to be currently lends itself to a leader or leaders of legendary status. It practically begs for it. Will it happen? Will someone step up to the plate and hit a game winner like Gibson's? Or, will the Legend of the Fall be a legend that occurs from a fall. That is still to be seen. It should provide for an intriguing autumn, though.

I'd say this morning was an awakening of legendary proportions.