59. Photography

This weekend I had the pleasure of spending some time with an old, old friend from Boston, Ruthanne, whom I met in a photography darkroom 35 years ago. And she happened to be staying with another old, old friend, Maria, who, ditto. 

We had dinner together, the three of us, and we did talk photography some—and we certainly enjoyed looking at the photographs hanging on the walls of Maria's home, some hers, some our mentors', some other creative folks'. 

Nowadays, we're all using iPhones to take pictures. For me, it feels unsatisfying for some reason, so I don't consider it "photography." Though of course it is. We're all, all three of us, still looking for the interesting composition, the striking contrast, the story to tell. What is photography if not that? Doesn't really matter what camera we're using. 

Being with Ruthanne and Maria made me consider taking up another photo-a-day challenge. It's been ages since I've done that—the last one being back, what (can it be?), fifteen years ago. Yoiks!

So today I shot a few shots. I dunno if I'll get back to one a day. That sounds overwhelming. 

But... is it really? Isn't it just a matter of priorities? I could make one photo a day a priority. Easily. 

I'll consider it. I've got all sorts of big plans for this next year of my existence on this planet, coming right up on December 4. Stay tuned.

P.S. There is still a very real (if slim) possibility of my making it to 100 posts before this year is done. I may just be ready for the challenge. Stay tuned on that front as well!

Book Report: The Songlines

22. Bruce Chatwin, The Songlines (1987) (11/7/25)

I read this book decades ago, and was left feeling puzzled. Just what was the story? Sure, sure, it's nonfiction. And sure, sure, Chatwin himself is an ever-present character in the narrative, the "I" telling the story (whatever it is). He also is exploring, let's just say, wanderlust—which he calls nomadism. Something he seemed to suffer from.

I picked this book up again after a recent visit to Western Australia. And I remain just as bemused as that last time. 

It begins as a basic travelogue, in which Chatwin meets "Arkady" (he poses the book as fiction), who works with people—Indigenous and settler alike—to make sure that any development projects (like new railway lines) are copacetic in the vast reaches of Northern Territory. 

Chatwin travels with Arkady, meets people, hears their stories. Then midway through the book he turns to his notebooks and, in snippets of jottings, wonders about nomadism, about earliest mankind, about evolution, about how we make sense of our humanity. All of which is fascinating.

It's like an amalgam of travelogue and essay.

But it's also frustrating, because there's no through-line. Where the heck is he going? We never really know. It's a pastiche of experiences and words of wisdom.

Here's a passage I appreciated:

She had never had a training in linguistics. Yet her work on the dictionary had given her an interest in the myth of Babel. Why, when Aboriginal life had been so uniform, had there been 200 languages in Australia? Could you really explain this in terms of tribalism or isolation? Surely not! She was beginning to wonder whether language itself might not relate to the distribution of the human species over the land.
     "Sometimes," she said, ""I'll ask Old Alex to name a plant and he'll answer, 'No name,' meaning, 'The plant doesn't grow in this country.'"
     She'd then look for an informant who had, as a child, lived where the plant grew—and find that it had a name after all.  
     The "dry heart" of Australia, she said, was a jigsaw of microclimates, of different minerals in the soil and different plants and animals. A man raised in one part of the desert would know its flora and fauna backwards. He knew which plant attracted game. He knew his water. He knew where there were tubers underground. In other words, by naming all the "things" in his territory, he could always count on survival.
     "But if you took him blindfold to another country," she said, "he might end up lost and starving."
     "Because he'd lost his bearings?"
     "Yes."
     "You're saying the man 'makes' his territory by naming the 'things' in it?"
     "Yes, I am!" Her face lit up.
     "So the basis for a universal language can never have existed?"
     "Yes. Yes."
     Wendy said that, even today, when an Aboriginal mother notices the first stirrings of speech in her child, she lets it handle the "things" of that particular country: leaves, fruit, insects and so forth.
     The child, at its mother's breast, will toy with the "thing," talk to it test its teeth on it, learn its name, repeat its name—and finally chuck it aside.
     "We give our children guns and computer games," Wendy said. "They give their children the land."

I gather, from reading a little about Chatwin, that he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. But he was thoughtful. And I appreciate that. I'm glad I reread this book. Though I also wish there had been a point to it.

58. Milo

We got some bad news today about our beloved Milo: a tumor, 4 centimeters, in his lung. We may get a biopsy, simply to confirm that it's cancer. But we won't do chemo. He just turned 15—he's well over a hundred in medium-large dog years. We know he's going to die. Fifteen seems like a good long life.

Right now the symptoms aren't bad, an occasional coughing and ack-ing. Which is why we went to the vet. The doctor recommended an x-ray, just to find out what if anything was going on. The bill for the visit was $560. We wanted to feel like we'd wasted that money, with a good (it's nothing!) diagnosis. But now we know that it is something, not nothing. 

Still. He's fifteen. He's had a good long happy life. As have we, alongside him. And we'll continue to do so until he can't anymore. 

I just hope he doesn't start suffering.

I did look up mobile vet care and found the no-nonsense At-Home Pet Euthanasia, in nearby Pacific Grove. At least I find comfort in knowing that when the time does come, it will be with as little stress to him as possible. As, decades ago, a friend of mine who worked at the SPCA said, it's a gift we are able to give our pets. The trick is knowing just when to provide that out.

Otherwise, for the near future, what it comes down to is simply: love our boy, who gives us so much joy.

(I considered posting something in social media, but this news feels too private. I'm posting it here because it's a place I do sometimes talk about what's going on with me, but it's also a bit of an echo chamber. I have two, maybe three followers. And anyone who follows me is already the in-crowd.

I know many of our friends will care, and they'll find out in time. When David was diagnosed with his lung cancer, he sent emails to people close to us, and now he—desultorily—maintains a Caring Bridge page, with updates. That level of intimacy seems important with something so raw. We've become a society with such weak boundaries. I want to be sure my loves and my griefs both stay close to me, within a caring circle of confidants.)

57. A cartography lesson

Today was the November vote. Good wins for Democrats in New York City, New Jersey, Virginia—and California, where we voted on a redistricting proposal designed not specifically to give more districts to Democrats, but to combat Texas's recent legislative coup that gave more districts to Republicans. (In other words, yes, we did want to create more Dem districts, but only because Texas legislators simply decided, "on behalf of" their constituents, that there should be more Republican districts. Yeah. As if that's how democracy works. We wanted to show them how it's really done.)

Anyway, the New York Times posted a delightful livestream map as the vote unfolded. Actually, in the case of California's Prop 50, the "Election Rigging Response Act," it was two maps—which gave me the opportunity to dredge up some of my cartographic knowledge (I do have a master's degree in mapmaking, after all) and give a little lesson on FB. Which I hereby transpose here:

Look at the left-hand map: you might think the orange won! Or at least got pretty close. Yeah, no. That map is a "chloropleth" map, which colors in entire (usually political) districts—states, counties, etc.—to represent, in this case, "vote share" (color representing which side won, with relative popularity in a shade from light to dark). The right-hand map is a graduated circle map, which here is still based on counties, but it's showing both vote share (in color) AND total number of votes in circle size (rather than stinking area). Different, yeah? (I mean: just look at the state's northeast!) The right-hand map much better depicts tonight's election results, which ended up being something like (votes are still being counted) 65% YES on prop 50, 35% no.

And I concluded with "Repeat after me: down with choropleth maps!"

And especially: "Don't poke the bear!

Today's vote is heartening, for sure—the races weren't even close. But they were all in blue/purple states. The red expanse of this country may just get their scrappy fighting spirit up. Even if nothing that this administration does helps them one bit. They are Republicans, and their emotions tell them to keep wallowing around in that vast ooze of red. 

So, what kind of map is this one? (Just to be clear: the 2014 election, which this map supposedly represents, was basically 50:50.) Is there, perhaps, a different reality to be had?

56. Some poems

I'm in a few regular poetry groups at the moment (how did this happen? I'm not a poet!), and various poems were mentioned, shared. I sought some of them out, have them in my open tabs now. And rather than keep them there in perpetuity, I figured I'd transfer them here. They no doubt seem quite random, but work hard enough, and maybe you can find a thread (or two, or three) that links them.

The White-headed Woodpecker

by Sean Hill

Quiet. Given to prying more than pecking, an odd member
of the family, lives only in the high pine forests of western

mountains like the Cascades, where I spent an afternoon
almost a decade ago in Roslyn, Washington looking for what

I could find of Black people who’d migrated from the South
almost a century and a quarter prior. The white-headed

woodpecker doesn’t migrate and so is found in its
home range year-round when it can be found. Roslyn,

founded as a coal mining town, drew miners from all over
Europe—as far away as Croatia—across the ocean, with

opportunities. With their hammering and drilling to extract
a living, woodpeckers could be considered arboreal miners.

A habitat, a home range, is where one can feed and house
oneself—meet the requirements of life—and propagate.

In 1888, those miners from many lands all in Roslyn came
together to go on strike against the mine management.

And so, from Southern states, a few hundred Black miners
were recruited with the promise of opportunities in Roslyn,

many with their families in tow, to break the strike. They
faced resentment and armed resistance, left in the dark

until their arrival, unwitting scabs—that healing that happens
after lacerations or abrasions. Things settled down as they do

sometimes, and eventually Blacks and whites entered a union
as equals. Black save for a white face and crown and a sliver

of white on its wings that flares to a crescent when they
spread for flight, the white-headed woodpecker is a study

in contrasts. Males have a patch of red feathers
on the back of their crowns, and I can’t help but see blood.

Learning the Trees

by Howard Nemerov

Before you can learn the trees, you have to learn
The language of the trees. That’s done indoors,
Out of a book, which now you think of it
Is one of the transformations of a tree.

The words themselves are a delight to learn,
You might be in a foreign land of terms
Like samara, capsule, drupe, legume and pome,
Where bark is papery, plated, warty or smooth.

But best of all are the words that shape the leaves—
Orbicular, cordate, cleft and reniform—
And their venation—palmate and parallel—
And tips—acute, truncate, auriculate.

Sufficiently provided, you may now
Go forth to the forests and the shady streets
To see how the chaos of experience
Answers to catalogue and category.

Confusedly. The leaves of a single tree
May differ among themselves more than they do
From other species, so you have to find,
All blandly says the book, “an average leaf.”

Example, the catalpa in the book
Sprays out its leaves in whorls of three
Around the stem; the one in front of you
But rarely does, or somewhat, or almost;

Maybe it’s not catalpa? Dreadful doubt.
It may be weeks before you see an elm
Fanlike in form, a spruce that pyramids,
A sweetgum spiring up in steeple shape.

Still, pedetemtim as Lucretius says,
Little by little, you do start to learn;
And learn as well, maybe, what language do
es And how it does it, cutting across the world

Not always at the joints, competing with
Experience while cooperating with
Experience, and keeping an obstinate
Intransigence, uncanny, of its own.

Think finally about the secret will
Pretending obedience to Nature, but
Invidiously distinguishing everywhere,
Dividing up the world to conquer it,

And think also how funny knowledge is:
You may succeed in learning many trees
And calling off their names as you go by,
But their comprehensive silence stays the same.

Memory

by Ted Kooser

Spinning up dust and cornshucks
as it crossed the chalky, exhausted fields,
it sucked up into its heart
hot work, cold work, lunch buckets,
good horses, bad horses, their names
and the name of mules that were
better or worse than the horses,
then rattled the dented tin sides
of the threshing machine, shook
the manure spreader, cranked
the tractor’s crank that broke
the uncle’s arm, then swept on
through the windbreak, taking
the treehouse and dirty magazines,
turning its fury on the barn
where cows kicked over buckets
and the gray cat sat for a squirt
of thick milk in its whiskers, crossed
the chicken pen, undid the hook,
plucked a warm brown egg
from the meanest hen, then turned
toward the house, where threshers
were having dinner, peeled back
the roof and the kitchen ceiling,
reached down and snatched up
uncles and cousins, grandma, grandpa,
parents and children one by one,
held them like dolls, looked
long and longingly into their faces,
then set them back in their chairs
with blue and white platters of chicken
and ham and mashed potatoes
still steaming before them, with
boats of gravy and bowls of peas
and three kinds of pie, and suddenly,
with a sound like a sigh, drew up
its crowded, roaring, dusty funnel,
and there at its tip was the nib of a pen.

P.S. Ha ha, still working toward 100. Maybe I can pick up the pace and over the course of the next 60 days make 44 posts. It's a challenge!