"I believe the common character of the universe is not harmony, but hostility, chaos and murder."
-Werner Herzog, Grizzly Man, 2005

I spent the past weekend in Lake Placid; it was idyllic. In Boston, big buildings named for insurance companies haunt the skyline. In Lake Placid, the closest thing you'll find to a sky-scraper are the ski jumps, which allow the jumper to gaze over his surroundings like an eagle hunting prey. Or, in Boston, you can ride an elevator like a caged canary.

On Friday evening, Anna and I went rollerskiing next to a river east of town. As the sun set, there was stuffy haze that stuck in the air. You could taste each breath, and it tasted good. Real good. I work in a lab all day, surrounded by fluorescent tubes, neon lasers and a smattering of -ols, -enes, and -ides. I love my work, but I wish these natural escapes were closer at hand.

That's why this weekend was so great: the warmth of the sun on my skin, the soft glow of endless forests and the warbling of the rivers all put me at peace. I felt connected to nature, and I returned to Boston inspired. There was a common character to Lake Placid, and that character was harmony.

That harmony came with me back to Boston Sunday night. At least, that's what I thought. To keep the juices flowing, I appealed to the fresh pond trails on Monday to sate my hunger for all things verdant. Running back to Harvard square, I cut through Danehy Park. That was where the common character of the universe revealed its true colors. Brown, specifically. With feathers.

For millennia, philosophers have asked, "What is the average airspeed velocity of an unladen sparrow?" I have experimentally determined that the sparrow travels at the speed of assault and battery. As I ran through the back side of the park, a sparrow perched on a tree gave me a look I would only expect to see in a seedy back-alley. This avian thug then unleashed what I assume to be the most menacing of tweets and entered into a nose-dive, headed straight for my torso. Swooping within inches of my back, the bird dove back and forth two more times, staring me down all the while, before I sprinted off into the bosom of dear Danehy.

Thinking the incident some freakish anomaly, I returned to Danehy this morning. When I neared that familiar patch at the back of the park, I slowed to a trot. Like a little kid getting into a scalding hot-tub, I carefully tested the waters. A orange-breasted birds on the ground heard me coming and flew to safety. All is good. That's when I saw them.

That's right, two birds, not one. They cocked their heads, and after a few tweets, they decided which one would take out the intruder. Last time, the bird caught me unaware; this was my chance to stand up for myself. The bird dove at me like a Spitfire in a dogfight--I now find it much easier to believe that birds are descended from dinosaurs (namely, the velociraptor). In a pitiful attempt to defend myself, I waved my arms and shouted incoherently. Success! The bird retreated to its tree as I scampered on down the road.

That's when I saw a car, stopped in the middle of the road. The driver had witnessed the entire incident. He stared at me with a confused look on his face, then shook his head with disapproval. He dropped his head, taking his eyes off the road, and drove off.

I wish there were an easy explanation for this. You know, like some kind of self-aware computer virus has infected common animals, and they are the pawns in an emerging struggle between man and machine. However, such stories are only played out by Keanu Reeves in b-level Hollywood movies. I'm puzzled. In the greater context of the universe, I see this as a minor incident. Infinitesimal, really. When I think about the common character of the fifty-odd square meters behind Danehy park, however, hostility and chaos drown out all other emotions. For fear of what might come next, I shall avoid this place for the near future.

Be safe, and where I have found discord, may you find harmony.

Chris