Are you here for the content or for me?

I noticed, the other day, that in August my blog began to see a dramatic spike in traffic (hi, China). Google analytics allows you see the origin of that traffic (hi, China). Many thousands of views of each post, after a previous average of several hundreds of views (hi, China). 

I don't think that my blog suddenly speaks to more than a handful of Chinese residents and citizens (and you are always welcome, here), yet suddenly that country is this blog's main source of views.

This is a screenshot of a right-now scenario.

The best conclusion I can draw is that AI bot farms in China are training themselves to...what? Write about gardens? Write about food? Foraging? Cats? Canadians? Be me? 

It's an interesting age we live in. For content creators - not to be pedantic, but that would be people who create content as opposed to those who use it (writers vs readers, photographers vs viewers, recipe developers vs cooks, etc.) - AI is to original research or creativity, to reporting and to documenting, what digital media was to most print publications, which went out of business.

If you google "what killed newspapers and print media" the first result you will find at the top of your screen is the AI summary. And many, many people will not go further than that summary, not even to the first cursory, algorithm-prompted search result. Nor will they visit the linked citations in the AI summary. 

Jeff Bezos was right: We humans are inherently lazy. That is why he is a gazillionaire. (Want something? Click.)

All of which is to say, the balloon plant, the hairy balls, the southern African milkweed, the Gomphocarpus physocarpus, are glorious in the last days autumn of this tiny terrace.

And it means that if you are looking for the answer to something, anything, that someone once took a great deal of time to write, based on a great deal of real life experience or real research (how to move citrus trees indoors, for example), the chances are increasingly good that you will never reach their work, because AI found it first, summarized it, and spat it out at the top of the page for you. It also found some inaccurate work, and smooshed that in there, too, because AI doesn't really know how to move citrus trees indoors, or what a chanterelle really looks like; rather, it relies on everything that has ever been written on the subject, and cherry picks. 

I don't really know what that huge spike in traffic means. I don't like it, and I have been in some existential despair about the fate of the truth for some time. In general, I mean. It is very hard to tell what is real. And obviously my concern isn't about citrus trees overwintering indoors.

For me, the only thing between us and the abyss is true journalism, which is increasingly marginalized, because it takes time, training, and money. To me, journalism is simple. Real people reporting real things, without bias. That's it. 

So go give it some money. Now.

Men who love cats

The Frenchman and Pirelli sharing some boy-time before the human goes out for a walk. 

Rainbow

After a day of rain, and an hour of rain so hard it looked like a white out, there was a long lull. I went for a quick walk to Green-Wood Cemetery, expecting to get very wet. I turned around after five minutes and looked behind me, to the north, and there was this beautiful bow, with its double, made of rain drops and sunlight.

It has been very dry. I could almost hear the trees drinking.

Feathers

On a recent yet oh-so-far spring day in Cape Town I stood on the higher slopes of Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, and listened to birds. A cacophany of sunbirds and sugarbirds. And in the taller trees, a boubou shrike and its mate, calling constantly.

The pincushions were in full bloom and most of the birds were invisible, in the depths of the woody shrubs. But I was lucky to see the inky, negative-black form of an amethyst sunbird male. Just the throat is the color of the gem.

The speckled female, above.

The sugarbirds are showy only at the base of their their long tails - a flash of yellow. 

And despite their myriad presence (judging by the twittering clatter from the bushes), I only caught one southern double-collared sunbird feeding.

Quiet, hen-like francolin (Cape spurfowl) browsed in the lawns and took dustbaths in the planted beds.

And the big surprise was a spotted eagle owl, nesting on the ground beneath a tree and behind some crassulas. I could see a small, white-fluffed chick beneath her feathers. (And took this photo with a telephoto lens, from behind a protective barrier.) As much as I love caracals, I hope the red cats that live on the mountain leave the owls alone.

Black cats

Who is this handsome boy, with a big bite out of his left ear? (Thanks to a very zealous neutering program.) He is Peanut, of course. In South Africa, Black Cat Peanut Butter is a national icon, in terms of name recognition and inclusion in many pantries, be they vast or bare.

He is my aunt's cat, and when I went to look for him in her large, rambling garden, he came when I called, mewing as he moved invisibly through a thicket of nasturtiums. 

A stocky, strong boy. I wonder what Pirelli would make of him? They have a lot in common, except that Peanut is allowed to roam. Both street cats, both boys, both fierce and tender. 

False Bay

The 6.48pm light in Kalk Bay. This deck enjoys warming sunlight in the morning, but when the sun dips under the mountains behind us, the shadow begins up here, on the slope, while surfers and seals still bask in the waves and on the breakwater below.

It is a good place to sit, and the poppies have been enjoying the view.

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Aloft

 Furry balloons? Green balloons, or hairy...?

This graceful plant needs more respect.

Its air-filled seed capsules will form until frost, slowly dry, split, and release puffs of gossamer-borne seeds.

Puffs in the woods

The Frenchman, posing with perfect puffs (young giant puffballs, Calvatia gigantea) that we discovered on a walk in the woods. 

We left most of of the surprise patch and alerted other foragers to their location - too delicious not to share. 

These mushrooms are one of my favorites, with a surprisingly strong mushroom aroma and a texture like very delicate tofu, although also...not quite.

At home, I skinned one and cut it squeakily into into snowy white cubes that were added to last night's butter chicken. Very delicious.

Left alone, these puffballs can grow huge. But I love this small, neat stage, and anyway, there they were, despite only a whisper of rain in the last week.

Tiny, tiny white orbs an inch or two in diameter might be the so-called eggs of Amanita species, and potentially exceptionally toxic. So don't collect puffs unless you absolutely know how to tell the difference. Cutting those Amanita eggs in half (they have very different texture) reveals the silhouette of a mushroom inside - you most definitely do not want to eat that. Giant puffballs are pure white, and firmly spongy (unless old, in which case they turn yellow and more mushy.

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Fall Walks and Picnics

A Hummingbird Evening

The lablab beans are looking very good. Lablab purpureus, beautiful and edible. 

And yesterday evening, after six, we were treated to fifteen minutes of enchantment as a tiny ruby throated hummingbird came to feed on their flowers. We have spotted several in the previous days, but none has stayed this long, taking breaks to sit on the trellis, on the milkweed, on the vine, even on the African basil stems. 

Low light, and I have not developed these images, other than re-sizing them - the Frenchman's will be much better. But that exquisite little creature was not further from us than a terrace's width. And we standing inside the door, so...six feet.

How these tiny little birds fly so far, with so many obstacles, I don't know. They are heading south now, all three inches of each of them. And tonight, as last night, the powerful beams of the 9/11 memorial will attract and disorient thousands of migrating birds.

I do know that lablab flowers are not native to the hummers' range, but I also can't help wondering about the long-term effects (if any) of feeding these little birds sugar water, from feeders. Aside from the actual sugar and the water (and quality of the water), there is the risk of disease-transmission. Please sterilize those feeders daily.

I have wondered whether the hummers also visit the agastache we have planted for them. Possibly. We have not caught them in the act.

Look at the little feets!

Nkwe Pirelli says this would be a very nice snack. Which is why Nkwe Pirelli does not go outside, unsupervised. Mr Tuxedo cares little for conservation. 

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New Fall Walks

Early autumn on the terrace

Funny that it takes a whole growing season for things to fill out this much. The moonflower vines are rampant, the African basil is a forest, and the lablab beans and South African milkweed have reached the arm-waving stage, tall flowering stems tilting in any breeze.

At the lower end of the terrace is an eccentric leafy collection. It includes Thai lime, calamansi, bergamot citrus and a spicebush tree grown from seed that someone gathered on a plant walk with me, then germinated, and later gifted to me before she moved to Germany. Beside the trees are galangal and myoga ginger (producing edible buds through these fall months), ferns, ramps (now dormant, having set seed), sand ginger and asters. Natives of the Northeast, of Southeast Asia, and of East Asia.

Both annual vines take a long time to take off, but they are worth the wait. Moonflowers open every evening, and now, in the newly cool mornings, they remain open to greet us before folding up and withering by 10am.

September's edges

The edges of the terrace, with the dignified and aging skylights of Arrow Linen beyond. 

African blue basil is a seedless basil hybrid that popped up once upon a time in a bed at Companion Plants Ohio, who then propagated it and sent it out into the horticultural world (you may know that, if you read my Gardenista story about it). And the beautiful lablab vine. Also called hyacinth bean. Possibly Aast African in origin, possibly South Asian. An ancient crop. 

In these early evenings, muffled by a quickening dusk, the flowers glow briefly before the sun submerges behind New Jersey.

I plant the lablab for the flowers, which hummingbirds also visit (we have seen two, so far), but also for the bean crop. 

And the third African on the terrace, the southern African milkweed that is not classified as Asclepias, but as Gomphocarpus. Balloon plant. Hairy balls. Tall and willowy, delightful to insects, and generous with its late-season, green balloons. 

The bay tree, recently root pruned and replanted it in the same pot, with a good, slow drink of water.

We did not see the chimney swifts this evening. Surely they have not left already. We did see three nighthawks, flying west, in unison. 

Birds, birds, birds

One of our escapes within the city is Breezy Point tip, a spit of sand that is part of a federal park, the National Gateway Recreation Area. We see very few people, mostly fishers, as well as boats and sea fleas (jet skis) and occasional yachts out in the channel, where the Atlantic Ocean flows in and out of Jamaica Bay. This tip faces west, and part of our horizon includes Coney Island, New York Harbor, and Staten Island, far across the water. 

Over these last two weekends of August we have spent a Sunday (the first pictures) and a Friday evening on the sand, sipping our drinks, picnicking quietly, and watching and photographing a collection of shorebirds foraging at the water's edge. It is migration season, and the birds are becoming more diverse. We find their lives riveting, and can watch for hours as willets (the long legs, long beaks) rush in and out along with the little sanderlings.

The calm water here makes for good feeding. Passing boats' wakes send more waves curling onto the sand.

It's good to see seagulls being proper sea birds, and not land vultures snapping up bits of pizza. Bad day for the crab.

Out on the water loons cruise. They should overwinter further north and I'm not sure why they stay. Perhaps there is enough food here.

There is a channel buoy not far offshore that clangs in the swell, a remote and lonely sound on the water.

A black bellied plover stands alone among the sanderlings.

And a ruddy turnstone inspects a slipper snail (I think).

Until this year we have never seen willets here before, but there seems to be a regular group of five at the moment. 

I don't know whom the tracks belong to. I hope rangers, but it's hard to say. I despise vehicles on beaches. Birds breed here and the dunes are fenced off. 

On Friday, seeking solace, we headed out to Breezy Point again. On the way, we passed a tree with not one, not two, but six osprey in it. So they migrate, too. At the beach, we found open skies and sun, a very low tide, and flocks of these plovers outnumbering the sanderlings.
 

This poor bird had only one leg, and he hopped strongly on it, fending for himself.

A visiting merganzer stretched and fluffed its feathers.

The willets were still there, and less skittish than before. 

And out in the channel the big loons still cruised, calling to one another when they reunited after hunting far apart. 

It is the end of summer. And of other things, too. Many things. But I am inexpressibly grateful that we both enjoy watching these other lives, and that we are able to see them right at the edge of the teeming human city.