“There is a marvelous peace in not publishing. Publishing is a terrible invasion of my privacy. I like to write. I love to write. But I write just for myself and my own pleasure.” – J.D. Salinger, 1974

After publishing The Catcher in the Rye, Salinger certainly lived up to this quote. No hypocrisy there. Now that he has died, questions have popped up about the unpublished writing he has done since his renowned work of fiction first took the literary world by storm.

The quote made me think about why I write. I do it because I enjoy it, but I’m not as pure as Salinger. I enjoy knowing that someone, somewhere, has read my words, and even more so when I hear that they enjoyed them. This goes as far back as the first time I received an “A” on a paper graded by a teacher. Nothing thrilled me more than seeing that letter atop my work.

Perhaps Salinger truly felt no need for such validation. Maybe he had only one great book in him and, as soon as his subsequent publications revealed that, he withdrew and wrote solely for himself. One great work of art is certainly one more than most of us ever produce.

Occasionally I craft a sentence that makes me smile when I read it back. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s well-written. Even less frequently, I relish an entire paragraph. I idolize authors who fill page upon page with such work while telling a compelling story filled with interesting characters.

Salinger kept writing all his life, but socked it away for all the world not to see. Apparently the intrinsic reward was enough for him. For me, putting the words out here, and knowing there are at least a few who will read the next entry, provides needed motivation.

Perhaps many writers would do as Salinger did had they written one book that paid the bills for the rest of their lives. This obviously doesn’t include the likes of Stephen King and Michael Crichton and Nicholas Sparks, who certainly could have stopped writing years ago and still lived quite comfortably. Then there’s Anne Rice, who’s religious writing seemingly is trying to make up for a former life of capitalizing on readers’ most lustful desires.

There definitely are writers who have only one book in them. Usually these are the ones that gain critical but not commercial acclaim, and win awards but not spots on the bestseller shelves. They also often are the most thought-provoking and moving works out there.

There are writers who do what the bestsellers do, or what the critically-acclaimed do, but give it away for free. Whether weaving a fascinating tale or making us care about the key players (or both), they put their work out there for anyone to read, and often open it up to comments. Some offer their work for sale in on-demand printed editions, but rarely do they make a living from it.

My favorite example is Cheeseburger Brown (a pseudonym), who cranks out quality prose that keeps readers coming back and forms the basis of a vibrant online community. His day job has slowed him down lately, but core fans have kept interest alive.

J.D. Salinger’s stance on privacy certainly would have prevented him from using such online tools had they been available in his day. As one who writes “just for myself and my own pleasure,” he would have eschewed such self-publication.

In many more ways than one, I’m no J.D. Salinger.

 
On closer study, I believe this should be Deere in the Mist, but the title’s already out there. I snapped this on my way to work back on 12/16/2009, while waiting at a red light.

Nikon D50
Nikon 18-35mm f/3.5 – 4.5D ED IF
f/4.5
0.5 seconds
Manual Exposure

 
This is the view south from our backyard Saturday evening. Specifically, it is the view from atop the retaining wall border between our backyard and the former cornfield behind it.

Notice the distance to the nearest large trees (lower right corner), and the lack of dimension in the landscape. As someone who grew up in and lived most of his adult life in the Ozark foothills (where the altitude never pokes above the tree line), I can both appreciate and loathe the wide open spaces prevalent in what is, in effect, our son’s hometown.

I like that I can see a thunderstorm coming from miles away, and that the sunset is not occluded by hillsides or treetops. I never will tire of the variations on Nature’s colorful, cloudy theme. When we lived at the end of a street surrounded by mountains, I often wondered whether there was a pretty sunset out there somewhere.

I’m reminded of something a friend said while we tried to find the best spot to enjoy a mountaintop vista. “The view would be a lot better if Dubya would come out here and cut down some of these trees.”

Our area, I’m sure, is a dream for satellite dish installers. No matter what direction the dish needs to point, it is guaranteed a signal barring very heavy cloud cover (a rarity in these parts).

When driving through an older section of town, I admire the large trees, but not the work that goes into clearing the leaves from the lawn and the gutters. I also wonder, however, whether the seemingly disposable houses popping up these days will still be around when the planted saplings are large enough to be a benefit/nuisance.

I suspect that if I spoke to those living both with and without large trees in their yard, they would respond similarly to those with and without natural curl in their hair: those other people don’t know how good they have it.

The hilly terrain vs. flat plains discussion probably would elicit similar responses.

When folks ask me how I like living in Texas, I invariably tell them that what I miss most are the mountains. The main gripe, I suppose, is that even if we drive the distance it takes to get to a scenic hiking destination, the number of people from our huge metro area doing the same robs us of some of the benefit.

On a drive back to my hometown over the holidays, on a section of I-30 surrounded by the Oauchita National Forest, our six-year-old son surveyed the scene through his window. “Look at all the trees. Aren’t all those trees cool?” he said.

“Yes, son, they sure are,” I said.

Nevertheless, I try to see the good in the nearly unlimited visibility around here.

(Note: the panoramic shot is a stitch of several pictures, created using the Hugin plug-in for Gimp)

Technical:
Nikon D50
Nikon 18-35mm f/3.5 – 4.5D ED IF
f/11
1/6 sec (steadied against the fence)
Aperture Priority
Spot Metering

 
That black ring holds the front element of an older lens that broke a few years ago, and it practically begged me to distinguish its view from the rest of the photo. Yes, Christmas decorations are still in place, but I took this picture on 1/5/2010.

I also used bounce flash to achieve this — my hand and the lens would have blocked a direct flash.

Somewhere in my head there’s a corny line about my world not having color unless my wife is in it, but I’ll not resort to that. What appears to be a black oil slick on the carpet is actually our dog with her back legs spread out flat behind her.

Nikon D50
Nikon 18-35mm f/3.5 – 4.5D ED IF
f/8
1/60 sec
Aperture Priority
Spot Metering
Flash, Auto-Mode, Return light detected

Blurry due to slow shutter speed. Click to enlarge.

 
Beginning at the third floor we get good looks at various rain forest inhabitants — exotic birds, monkeys, and lizards. The monkeys are water-bound on a small island, but the birds fly freely amongst the visitors, sometimes alarmingly near faces. I almost ask one of them if they know the Fruit Loops guy.

   

Pic on right cropped a bit for composition.

 
A three-toed sloth, true to its species, sleeps while wrapped around tree branches about six feet off the ground. With no net or other barrier between it and us, its long claws make me wonder just how fast a sloth could move if it got fed up with all the passersby.

We see the Giant River Otters from above, but by the time we reach their level they are absent. Too bad. Otters usually are one of our favorites because they’re always playing or grooming themselves.

The cheetah needs to take a lesson from the otters. It chooses to pace around the perimiter of its habitat, a safety glass box about 20 feet by 20 feet with a large tree leading up through a tight hole in a 10-foot ceiling.

We move quickly past because the cheetah is more interested in being restless than in entertaining us. It couldn’t even bother to sleep sweetly with its chin resting on a branch? That’s what the big cats in the zoo do. Instead it’s one of only two exhibits that cause Shannon and I to let down our guard and say aloud how sad it makes us.

Seriously, somebody give that cheetah the otters’ phone number or e-mail address.

   

 
In perhaps the stinkiest exhibit, pink flamingos stand in various states of one- or two-leggedness, some with necks extended, some with their heads resting on their folded wings. Several bowls of what must be Purina Flamingo Chow sit waiting for them to get hungry.

At the lower level we walk through a marvelous tunnel o’fish, with hammerheads, great whites, rays, and other large fish swimming beside and above us. The green of the rainforest shimmers through the choppy water.

We reach the viewing wall of the main pool and catch a glimpse of the manatees. Along with them is a man in a SCUBA suit. When they surface, Benjamin and I dash back up the stairs to see them. As the SCUBA guy works with a feeder box, an oblong, light gray blob sticks to his side just inches below the surface. It follows him across the tank and away into an area visitors cannot see.

Perhaps to join the otters for some sort of mammalian pow-wow. Mouth-breathers, unite!

Thanks to our son’s untarnished enthusiasm, I enjoy myself more than I had expected. Benjamin runs up to every exhibit, hopping up and down, saying, “Look, Mommy! Look, Daddy!” We both help him find animals that the signs claim are in there somewhere. His sense of wonder at it all makes me forget my cynicism.

Until we reach the black-footed penguin exhibit.

Back outside now, but still under the clear plastic’s protective cover, we experience the foulest stench of the day. Eau de penguin piss, I like to call it. Smells are expected when observing animals, so that part doesn’t bother me.

Then we look down to see a lone black-footed penguin. It is hiding under a ledge, shaking. Shortly after we start watching, it slides down into the water, swims a few feet and then struggles to climb onto a rock.

Once on dry land, still shaking, it leans over and squirts white liquid from its hindquarters onto the rock. Diarrhea like that makes me shake, too.

The penguin then slides back into the water and thrashes/swims around, with one flipper out of the water the whole time. “Maybe it’s just cleaning itself,” I say. It goes under the walkway and into the adjoining section of the habitat.

   

Two views from the penguin habitat.

 
On an island there stands another black-footed penguin. He’s stock still, eyes open, during our entire five-minute stay in the area.

A photographer and his assistant work to take pictures of a happy couple, presumably using the nearby Madagascar exhibit’s tropical vegetation as a backdrop. The man (groom to be?) complains of the stench, but the woman never mentions it.

The Madagascar exhibit closed due to the recent cold snap, we go back into the aquarium, through the gift shop, and out a side door. In seconds we go from mysterious rainforest and underwater creatures to the skyscrapers of downtown Dallas.

Back out on the mean city streets, we make our way to the West End Station and head home on the DART train. The boy, now a spent veteran train rider, curls into his mother’s lap.

At first graffiti on buildings, some perhaps gang-related, is the only obvious sign that we’ve left suburbia. When the buildings begin towering above us, whether we’re atop an overpass or not, we know we have reached the city proper.

High-rises jut skyward from the concrete jungle, reflecting one another in their shimmering glass coats. I spot the buildings — Comerica Bank Tower, JPMorgan Chase Tower, Fountain Place, Reunion Tower — that give Dallas its signature skyline.

We pass by an old building called, “Dallas High School.” Boards cover its windows, dark stains streak the exterior brick, and a few cracks run through the cement. The columns still stand proudly.

I think of how many high schools have been added since that building’s heyday, and how buildings in the suburbs are so generic that they will be razed rather than added to the National Register of Historic Places.

For this man with a rural upbringing, a visit to the heart of the city brings excitement, intrigue, and just enough fear to keep alert.

Off the train now, Shannon and I consult Mapquest’s directions from the West End Station to the Dallas World Aquarium, printed on a pink sheet of paper because we were out of white. We’re only a few blocks away. Benjamin does his best Godzilla impression on a metal sculpture of downtown Dallas.

I grab Benjamin’s hand as we make our way on foot. “Why are you holding my hand, Daddy, so nobody will take me?” Benjamin says.

“Yes, son, so nobody will take you.” I try to remember where he first got that idea.

The most direct walk leads us down what looks more like an alley than a street. “Let’s not go there. Let’s walk on down to the next intersection and then turn,” I say.

We stop at a building that must be the aquarium, but it is hard to tell. Large sheets of transparent plastic extend down from the walls to cover various tropical plants and small trees growing in soil along the southwest side.

So far it looks more like a terrarium.

A spur off the sidewalk leads us through an opening in the protective cover. Now inside the plastic-wrapped jungle with a roof over our heads, we follow the zig-zag walkway toward the ticket window.

Large, colorful carp swim lazily in a stream that runs under the walkway. I call out, “Hey, come back, Benjamin, you didn’t look at these fish.”

He runs back down the walkway, fingers tapping the handrail’s metal tubing. He looks over the edge. “Cool, Daddy. Come on.” He runs up to the ticket window, apparently confident that there are bigger and better things to be seen after we have paid admission.

The ticket lady tells us to take the elevator to the third floor to begin our tour.

Waiting for the elevator, we get our first look at the… rainforest? I thought we were coming to an aquarium.

Within arm’s reach, a small group of penguins mill about in a watery habitat with low walls. They seem ebullient. Perky, even.

Behind and below them is a vast room with a four-storey ceiling. The green of the tropics dominates the scene. A waterfall as tall as the trees cascades straight down an artificial cliff face into a small body of crystal clear water. The overcast weather allows only a muted glow through the skylights.

Notice the manatee in the water, to the right of the falls.

 
(to be concluded, with many photos)

As we settle into our seats I notice a distinct, almost unpleasant smell — one part hospital, one part hotel room attempting to mask the fact that it once allowed smoking.

Benjamin and Shannon sit together while I settle into the seat behind theirs. A few other passengers fill seats here and there. A recorded female voice announces that the train will leave in one minute.

“I hope we go underground,” Benjamin says.

“We might,” I say. “I think there’s a tunnel.”

“I want to face forward,” Shannon says. We are facing north, but the train is going to head south.

“Let’s move,” I say.

(click any image to enlarge)

We make our way down the aisle to the next car. It also faces backward, so we continue.

The forward-facing cars are much more crowded, but we find two seats together and fill them. My seat back is in front of theirs, against the window.

I start people-watching.

Across from me a teenage boy reads A Tale of Two Cities. A young, smiling couple sits directly across from Shannon and Benjamin. The only standing passenger is a blind man with a seeing-eye dog. The rest of the people — varying widely in race and garb — sit with poker faces on, some with earbuds providing them with their preferred method of aural escape, others without any distractions besides what their eyes can see and their minds can dream up.

Our distraction is one six-year-old boy who grows restless after two stops and with at least 30 minutes left in our ride. I snap a few pictures while trying to occupy him.

The train climbs as we reach a bridge. We look down on the rooftops of short office buildings, fast food restaurants, and convenience stores.

“Whoa, we’re going way up,” Benjamin says.

I recognize a few national chain names as the nondescript city street passes under us.

“I don’t want to go underground,” Benjamin says.

“It’s okay. We won’t be underground very long,” Shannon says.

Benjamin gets tense before the tunnel. The outside view goes pitch black as we enter. The occasional bright light blurs past as we make our way.

“I don’t like it,” Benjamin says, edgy but not panicked.

We stop at an underground station. Its dim lighting and spare colors make it seem like a secret hideout. A sign on the wall reads, “No photography without permission.” Several people in TSA uniforms head for the open doors on cars other than ours.

Along with this change in scenery came the most ubiquitous thing on our trip — a framed poster for the new movie The Tooth Fairy, starring “The Rock.” Perhaps that familiar element set our son’s mind at ease. Or the presence of people rather than cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers.

“I like the tunnel,” Benjamin announces.

“Good,” Shannon and I answer.

We squint as the train emerges back into the hazy daylight. Cloud cover softens the sun and almost nothing can hide in the shadows. That’s a comfort when traveling through some of the seedier parts of the route.

(to be continued)

I luck into a spot fairly close to the train station, just after dropping Shannon and Benjamin at the entrance. I pull my mobile phone from its holster and dial Shannon.

She doesn’t answer. My phone vibrates and Shannon’s picture pops up on the screen. I answer but hear nothing.

“Come on, come on,” I say to the phone and the empty van.

I dial again and the same thing happens. I decide to wait. Shannon calls again. I answer.

“So, is it cash only?” I say.

“Yes. We’re not going to make this one.”

The time is 10:12.

“Just hold on. You guys stay put while I go find a bank.”

I start the Odyssey and back out of my plum parking spot. At the parking lot’s exit I can turn either left or right to begin my search.

I choose left, and after a short distance I see a Bank of America down the next street, on the right. I head that way.

The person ahead of me pulls away just as I arrive. I stop at the ATM and insert my card, then cringe at the surcharge fee notification. I grudgingly accept the fee, snatch the cash and the receipt and make my way back to the parking lot. I luck into the same spot I had left.

The time is 10:16. I jump down from the driver’s seat and call Shannon to let her know I’m back with the money.

I walk quickly to Shannon and Benjamin and the machine that exchanges cash for train passes. Just a few feet away the train waits quietly at this, its northernmost stop. After I feed a $20 bill into the machine, we tap the touch screen in the appropriate places and then grab our passes (and change) and approach the train.

The doors are shut, but there is a black button with words above it reading, “Open.” I push the button and the doors respond.

We board with a few minutes to spare, for my first ride aboard a DART (Dallas Area Rapid Transit) train, and we’re on our way to the West End Station. Final destination: Dallas World Aquarium.

(continued in Part Two)

Such an aquarium is, basically, an underwater zoo. While some zoo captives can look sad, or at the very least indifferent, it’s fairly difficult to tell whether a fish is happy or angry, and you can’t see their tears thanks to the water. Their constant motion through the water prevents that listless look of a terrestrial creature lying in the grass or on a fake rock. So, we will have fewer potential sources for conflicting emotions, and zero chance that an unnaturally cooped-up animal will escape and maul someone.

Score!

I’m pretty sure we won’t see anything new at the Dallas Aquarium. Shannon and I have been to the National Aquarium in Baltimore and the Monterey Bay Aquarium in Monterey, California. It’s fairly difficult to top either, from what I’ve heard.

However, while other aquariums may not offer as complete an experience, they often feature their own specialty. For the Dallas Aquarium, the specialty seems to be manatees. I like the peaceful giants, and Shannon has always loved them, so enjoyment is almost guaranteed.

Looking at a few videos of manatees online, Benjamin said, “Mommy, what are those marks on their backs?”

“Well, sometimes boats hit them accidentally.”

“Aww, that must really hurt.”

Here’s hoping there are no scars or frowns on the manatees we see. Anything otherwise might damage our calm. For the admission price, we expect nothing less than unfettered joy.

Note: When thinking of the cows of the deep, I can’t help recalling the Larry the Cucumber song, “Barbara Manatee.” If you haven’t experienced it, I suggest looking up the music video on the internets. It’s a bit of a hoot. You can’t go wrong with any of the “Silly Songs with Larry.”

Once the three racks were soundly mounted on the wall studs, I took stock of the artists’ names on the CD spines: 10,000 Maniacs, Indigo Girls, Pearl Jam, Prince, Extreme, Big Audio Dynamite, Sarah McLachlan, Erasure, Yaz, King’s X, The Cure, Depeche Mode, The Lightning Seeds, PM Dawn, and many more.

Notice a pattern there?

I undertook this project to free up space in the closet and to make the CD’s more accessible as I continue ripping them onto the PS3. Spending so much time with my shiny friends again reminded me of how I had come to own many of them.

While earning my undergraduate degree, I could cash a $30 check each week for spending money. It was a nice perk of my folks’ having worked so hard to sock away money for a college fund.

How did I spend most of that “walking around” money?

On music CD’s. Sure, I had a cheap date here and there, and when I had girlfriends I’m sure I spent most of the money hanging out with them. I guess I chose girlfriends well; they saw the practicality of eating most meals at the University cafeteria and only occasionally splurging at a restaurant.

Before you go calling me a hopeless non-romantic, remember that while not waiting in the cafeteria’s wok line I was writing love poetry. Looking back I suppose they might have preferred steaks over stanzas, but they didn’t complain.

No matter what else was going on in my life, I could count on going to the bank and cashing my weekly check, and then making the short trip across the parking lot to Hasting’s Books, Music, and Video.

The above is why my CD collection consists largely of music made in the early to mid 1990’s. While not a bad era in music, I’m not sure it offered enough quality music for my buying sometimes three or four CD’s a month.

That helps explain how I ended up with The Dan Reed Network.

How else was I going to replenish my music supply after my freshman year, when during a Bible thumper period I tossed many “sinful” discs to their demise?

What I have left now are the discs that survived that purge and those that made the pawn shop cut when we were strapped for cash. While I rarely wish I could spin up a little Winger, I often have a hankering for some Judas Priest. Although neither of those made it back into the fold, my own HOTT RATT compilation recaptures some of my hair-band glory.

Sure, Shannon and I have added many titles over the years we’ve been married, but mostly we’ve increased the number of discs by a select few bands – those we’re pretty sure are good buying risks. I have no less than eight CD’s by Beck and three by Cake, and Jack Johnson is catching up. I won’t discuss the number of Maroon 5 CD’s in our house.

One might say, “Why are you still living in the 20th century? Downloads are where it’s at.” The simple answer is that while I have bought some music directly from the Internet, I’m too much of an audiophile to settle for that quality when it’s something I really like. I truly can hear the difference between the files I download and those that I rip from CD’s myself. Online music services’ bit rates have increased over the years, so maybe some day they will reach a level that allows me to skip purchasing physical media.

While writing this I’m listening to new artists streaming from Lala.com, and that along with mix CD’s from friends prevents me from getting mired in my musical past. Bands like Death Cab for Cutie, Kings of Leon, Muse, The Shins, Cat Power, and others are beginning to stick in my head.

Still, this morning I was glad my CD’s were out in the hallway where I could see them. Otherwise I would not have enjoyed belting out The Best of the Proclaimers on the way to and from work.

Do you still purchase CD’s?