WAVES MERCURY NATIVE. MERCURY NATIVE

Waves Mercury Native

mercury

The chemical element of atomic number 80, a heavy silvery-white metal that is liquid at ordinary temperatures
The column of such metal in a thermometer or barometer, or its height as indicating atmospheric temperature or pressure
(Roman mythology) messenger of Jupiter and god of commerce; counterpart of Greek Hermes
This metal or one of its compounds used medicinally, esp. to treat syphilis
a heavy silvery toxic univalent and bivalent metallic element; the only metal that is liquid at ordinary temperatures
the smallest planet and the nearest to the sun

native

A person born in a specified place or associated with a place by birth, whether subsequently resident there or not
A local inhabitant
a person born in a particular place or country; “he is a native of Brazil”
One of the original inhabitants of a country, esp. a nonwhite as regarded by European colonists or travelers
an indigenous person who was born in a particular place; “the art of the natives of the northwest coast”; “the Canadian government scrapped plans to tax the grants to aboriginal college students”
characteristic of or existing by virtue of geographic origin; “the native North American sugar maple”; “many native artists studied abroad”

waves

(wave) one of a series of ridges that moves across the surface of a liquid (especially across a large body of water)
(wave) beckon: signal with the hands or nod; “She waved to her friends”; “He waved his hand hospitably”
(wave) a movement like that of a sudden occurrence or increase in a specified phenomenon; “a wave of settlers”; “troops advancing in waves”
The women’s section of the US Naval Reserve, established in 1942, or, since 1948, of the US Navy

Land of Hush

“This is no place for high class snobs, non-poets and Barbie dolls.” That’s what Jake said to nearly everyone that he encountered on Shawenegog Lake. He’d moved up there in the early 50s, back when the lakeside was nearly empty, and the only ones around were deer hunters and grizzled young men like him. He was old now, and he was a big man. He wasn’t fat like city folks, round in the middle and slow on his feet – he was big all over, like a grizzly bear. His white hair was short, trimmed close with the edge of a hunting blade. His beard was long, and saw none of the same care. Jake owned a CB radio, and he used it to listen in on his neighbors. He didn’t think of it as eavesdropping, he called it “surveillance”. He’d sit by his window and listen to vacationing wives nagging their husbands home from fishing, snowmobiles chattering back and forth, or Bateman and Saunders at their daily evening conversations.

Shawenegog Lake was shaped vaguely like a capital “H”, and Jake lived on the bar of the H near the top of what the locals called Blueberry Hill. His cabin was built back into the mound, partially dug into the dirt, and well-camouflaged from any passing curiosities. He lived completely off the grid, at least in the official sense. With several years’ worth of savings, he’d purchased a massive spool of cable which he’d hand buried the entire distance from his cabin to the nearest power lines. There, under cover of darkness, he ran it up the backside of a telephone pole, and surreptitiously cut his way into the grid. Twelve years now, and no one was the wiser.

Winters were hard on the lake, but far more beautiful than any of the summer vacationers would ever know. It was easy to come by when the weather was fine, to splash in the water and just pack away when the leaves fell. Sense of wonder came calling when snow choked the swamps, flooding first the water lilies and clinging to the cattails. Then, the water got thick, muddy like gravy with too much flour added. The chunks came together, fusing and smoothing over into something of a paste. Then, almost overnight: the ice. Stretching from shore to shore like the bear rug that drowned the floor of Jake’s cabin, it flowed and cracked its way across the lake as if crashing in slow motion, waves chained to winter, begging to escape.

Jake would walk the frozen wasteland of Shawenegog Lake by cover of twilight, always along the treeline, never in the open. One light flickered in a cottage on the far shore as he trundled west – Bateman, always there after everyone else was long gone. He skulked back closer to the woods, disappearing into the growing gloom. He never headed in any particular direction; he just hiked to keep his mind clear, rifle slung across his shoulder. It was an M1 Garand, a weapon he’d used in the second world war and kept as a souvenir of memories preferred forgotten. There was new blood on it since those years, but none that he regretted. The animals never screamed.

There were coyotes around, howling at themselves and the moon, angry at her for hiding behind an overcast sky. They didn’t worry Jake. Nothing worried him but other people, the sound of traffic, motors, the roar of planes overhead. But there was very little of that these days. He was looking for his old friend, a myth in those parts referred to half-jokingly as the Shawenegog Lake Monster. Nobody really believed that it existed, but to Jake it was real, and he knew where to find it. Down at the western end of the lake, just at the middle between both shores, he knew to look for a hole in the ice. It was no ice fisherman’s smoothly augured porthole – it was a jagged, shattered window to the water, at least twelve feet across and covered with a smooth sheen of freshly freezing liquid. Ghostly through the ice and just below the surface, swam what any outdoorsman could tell you was no ordinary fish. It was a white sturgeon, over twenty feet long. Jake had brought it there over thirty years ago, purchased from an exotic pet store in Toronto and tossed in a water tank in the back of his trunk. No matter how many months passed between his midwinter meetings with the sturgeon, it was always waiting for him in the same place as the year before.

Suddenly, there was the soft sound of swishing snow just to the west. Jake jerked back to the present, leveling his Garand in the direction of the noise. At the very same moment, he was blinded by a flashing light in his eyes. He cried out at the sudden sensory overload. He lowered his weapon slowly as his pupils dilated, adjusting to the brightness. He squinted – it was Bateman. He was a skinny, wiry man, bald head uncovered to the winter wind and brown goatee flecked with grey. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked Jake, still shining the light on him. Jake struggled to his feet, towering over Bateman by at least five inches. “As a matter of fact,” he said in a booming voice, “I’ve been here much longer than you.” Bateman nodded, “Th

Venus & Mercury

Venus & Mercury shine bright as the sun sets on March 28th, 2010.
Surprised at how early in the season these two were visible! 😀

Image Specs:

Subject: Venus & Mercury
Location: Derby, Kansas
Date: 3/28/2010
Time: 20:43 CST

Camera: Canon EOS 50D
Mount: Slik Able 300DX tripod

F-stop: f/5
Exposure time: 1.6sec
ISO: 500
Focal Length: 160mm

Processing: Two Images combined to remove noise (second image exposure was 1 sec), along with image cropping, addition of "watermark", and image compression.

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