19 of 100: Toumani Diabaté, kora master

Sad news: the Malian kora master Toumani Diabaté died on Friday at the age of 58. So young. I offer a couple of videos of him performing and speaking about his art and griot background. I so enjoy the sound of the kora, and am glad that he will live on in his music.

RIP, Mr. Diabaté.

18 of 100: Crayfish

Yesterday afternoon we went on our regular dog-walk around the Del Rey Oaks Frog Pond near our house. Three-quarters of a mile, the trail passes through a willow woods, beneath an oak upland, and past a tiny redwood grove. You can see it on this map at the left, the area labeled MPRPD, which stands for Monterey Peninsula Regional Parks District, the blue splotch being the Frog Pond. We tend to do our walk as a figure-8, as shown on the map.

At the lower left edge of the pond, there's a wooden deck, which we usually stop at to enjoy the ducks dabbling or the great blue heron fishing; sometimes there's a kingfisher up on a branch, or a phalarope spinning in the water. These days, the pond is rapidly drying out, and is covered with reddish water fern/duckweed: it's a seasonal pond, and by next month will be completely dry, only to be filled with water again come the November or December rains. (It's probably less than a foot deep at its fullest.) Here's a photo from February 2022; the deck is on the left:

Anyway, today we stopped at the deck, and were rewarded with no ducks, no herons. But just below us at the edge of the duckweed, we saw movement. Lots of it. At first we thought it might be tiny Pacific tree frogs wriggling their way loose, but no: the movement was too big. Then David spotted some "arms" or "legs." These creatures were pretty large. And there were a lot of them! Finally, one crawled out onto the surface:

And we realized: we have crayfish in our pond!

Now, we've lived here for over thirty years, and walked the dog here probably 200/365 days of the last 13 years, and never once have we seen a crayfish in our pond. I was blown away! 

We had just been discussing what we'd have for dinner, and I was somewhat tempted by David's suggestion that we hustle on home (it's a five-minute walk) and get a net, but no. It's a park. And these crayfish deserve to live—however the hell they got here.

But it did, of course, get me wondering—about crayfish. Here's what Wikipedia has to say: "Crayfish are freshwater crustaceans belonging to the infraorder Astacidea, which also contains lobsters. Taxonomically, they are members of the superfamilies Astacoidea and Parastacoidea. They breathe through feather-like gills. Some species are found in brooks and streams, where fresh water is running, while others thrive in swamps, ditches, and paddy fields." As for numbers, there are four families of crayfish, three in the Northern Hemisphere. The greatest diversity of crayfish species is found in southeastern North America, with over 330 species in 15 genera, all in the family Cambaridae. The crayfish we find here in California were introduced, and have naturalized. (Here is a better picture than my iPhone snap, this of a red swamp crayfish, Procambarus clarkii, which may or may not be our local denizen.)

I have seen, very infrequently, crayfish in the nearby Lake El Estero, which lies between the Frog Pond and the ocean, all connected by a creek. I wonder if these crayfish somehow swam up from the lake? I can't imagine how they would have got to our pond otherwise. So strange! So wonderful! 

And yet... also "exotic." So maybe I should be putting them in the same category as the red-eared slider turtle I spotted the other month (and once again since): that is, not welcome. I don't know. Life will live. If the turtles and crayfish managed to get to our little pond—which not so long ago was a cow pasture, only to be flooded by human engineering projects—well, more power to them. (Then again—what I get from continuing to research: a statement to the contrary.) Who knows. We humans have done a great job of disrupting all balance everywhere, even in our own realm. Crustaceans in man-made ponds would seem to be the least of our problems...

17 of 100: Bob Newhart, comedian

Bob Newhart died yesterday at the age of 94. When I was young, I watched The Bob Newhart Show (1972–78), and more recently I enjoyed him in The Big Bang Theory. His deadpan delivery as he presented the voice of reason was always spot-on. Here are a few clips, randomly selected (as in, they're the first to show up on a search for "Bob Newhart best video")—but starting with TBBT:

And now back to earlier work:

Here is a link to his "Tobacco" sketch from 1962 at the Kennedy Center.

A new security guard's first shift in the Empire Building, the night King Kong shows up:

Along similar lines, here's the captain of a nuclear submarine addressing his men after a two-year-long eventful journey:

And finally, the finale to his 1982–90 sitcom Newhart—in which he plays Vermont innkeepeer Dick Loudon. Or... was it all a dream?

But also, he made for a very funny guest on the talk show circuit, as here:

RIP, Mr. Newhart. You showed us how to be our best.

16 of 100: Doctor My Eyes

I thought I'd check out Playing for Change, a wonderful project pulling together musicians from all over the world, which I hadn't visited in a while. (I'm sure I've featured them in this blog in the past, but I'm not finding a mention at the moment.) 

One of the latest offerings was Jackson Browne's "Doctor My Eyes." So here, for a quick post: the Playing for Change version—featuring Mr. Browne himself—and the 1972 original (remastered).

15 of 100: Adinkra cloth

I just started working on (proofreading) a beautiful book for the Getty Museum about art and plants. In it, there's a page devoted to an "adinkra dress" from Ghana, 1825, with the following explanation:

Adinkra fabric, historically reserved for spiritual leaders and royalty to wear to funerals and other such significant events, has long been the product of a collaborative relationship between plants and humans. The fabric has for centuries been made out of cotton, often dyed in pigments of red, brown, and black extracted from the boiled roots and inner bark of the badie tree (Bridelia ferruginea). The stamps are crafted from a dehydrated calabash (Lagenaria siceraria), a durable and resilient material that allows for repeated use. Originally created by the Bono people of Gyaman, these mesmerizing patterns became a staple among the Ashanti in Ghana and the Baoulé in Côte d’Ivoire. Today, adinkra cloth has been commercialized and is mass-produced for the international market. More than one hundred recurring symbols have been identified in the original adinkra production. They embody traditional wisdom, often including proverbs and/or preserving traditional belief systems.

This is the accompanying image:

It's beautiful! And of course it made me curious about all the recurring symbols. I found various iterations, such as these:

And this I love—a "Design Your Own Adinkra Symbols" study guide from the Cleveland Metropolitan School District Fab Lab, grade range 3–8:

The above extract mentions calabash stamps:

Here are some more images I found of these symbols used in textile art. I don't really have any more to say about it, except again: how beautiful! 

Book Report: Berlin 1936

11. Oliver Hilmes, Berlin 1936: Fascism, Fear, and Triumph Set against Hitler's Olympic Games (2016) (7/16/24)

A first entry in my new quest to learn more about the rise of fascism in the early twentieth century, this book presents more a kaleidoscope of impressions than any sort of a history lesson. But having a sense of the emotions of a time is also important, and that's what this book tries to create.

Berlin 1936 is set against the sixteen days of the eleventh modern Olympiad, as Hitler, having solidified his power within Germany, was setting out to dominate Europe more largely. During those Olympics, with the entire world as his audience, he made a show of conciliation and peace. As soon as the games ended, however, everything would change.

But that's not really the message of the book. If there is a message. It's structured day by day—one chapter for each of the sixteen days the games ran, and a final "What became of...?" chapter at the end. In each, we are presented with short vignettes or stories about individuals—athletes (a Jewish German fencing star, a Dutch swimmer, Jesse Owens of course), nightclub hosts, the writer Thomas Wolfe, Goebbels and Göring (and their rivalry), a woman who commits suicide under a train, a young Roma girl, the French and American ambassadors to Germany, Wolfe's publisher Rowohlt and his right-hand man (and illegitimate son) Heinz Ledig, Goebbels's cheating wife, the publisher of a virulently anti-Semitic newspaper... and on and on. So we learn about many people—some steadfast Nazis, some oblivious to the politics of the Reich, some toeing a careful line. 

I'm not sure I'd call the book a success, really, since it didn't accomplish anything. But the short sections do keep you reading, and you do emerge with a sense of chaotic spectacle, which soon would devolve into full-blown fear for many, unquestioning loyalty for others, escape for some, or death.

Here's a description of Göring, 

the last of the Renaissance men—at least in his own estimation. It's not clear precisely what he means when he uses the phrase, although if we equate that period in human history with brutality, excess boatfulness, gluttony, greed and corruption, then yes, Göring is indeed the last Renaissance man. And that self-conferred appellation is only one of his titles. The others include Prussian Interior Minister, Prussian State Premier, Deputy Reich Representative in Prussia, President of the Prussian State Council, President of the Reichstag, Reich Forestry Minister, Reich Hunting Minister, Reich Aviation Minister, Reich Commissioner for Air Travel, President of the Reich Aerial Defense Association, Colonel General, Supreme Commander of the Luftwaffe and many, many more. For ever one of his offices, Göring draws a separate salary, and for each of his functions he has a special uniform designed by himself. Sometitmes he appears attired entirely in white, sometimes in light blue, sometimes in a reddish-brown doublet with baggy sleeves, green boots and a spear in his hand. In private, he prefers kimonos of violet silk that flatteringly conceal his considerable bulk. Göring loves accessories. He wears gemstone rings and golden daggers and swords. Meetings with tailors, hairdressers, jewelers, perfumiers and art dealers are all part of the Renaissance man's regular duties.

Or here's a passage about actor and cabaret artist Werner Finck, whose "gift for seemingly accidental, passing remarks makes [propaganda minister] Goebbels see red." In 1934 Goebbels has him arrested and sent to the Esterwagen concentration camp, but in July 1935 Finck is released on Göring's behest, and he is allowed to write a daily column about everyday life for the Berliner Tageblatt newspaper.

Finck, however, cannot curb his tongue, taking risks with allusions and wordplay. In the final instalment of his column, he writes: "The visitors from all over the world are leaving. Never have they been so spectacularly welcomed. The question is: how have Leni's cameras recorded it all?" Finck imagines Leni Riefenstahl inspecting the negatives of footage of Jesse Owens's spectacular triumphs. "Suddenly she sees in reverse how positively the Negro ran. In the negatives, we get our revenge. The white man is at the head of the pack. Meters in front of the others, while the black fellows bring up the rear!"

With this book I learned a little bit of something, but I have much further to go.

14 of 100: More Icarus

Since posting several poems about Icarus the other day, told from various perspectives, I've encountered two more versions. First, a poem by Sonia Greenfield telling the story from Icarus's mother's point of view, "Naxocrate Considers Brugel's Famous Work":

Then one, by Muriel Rukeyser, from his girlfriend's perspective, in which it turns out Icarus is something of a jerk:

Waiting for Icarus

Icarus, plate VIII
from the illustrated
book Jazz

He said he would be back and we’d drink wine together
He said that everything would be better than before
He said we were on the edge of a new relation
He said he would never again cringe before his father
He said that he was going to invent full-time

He said he loved me that going into me
He said was going into the world and the sky
He said all the buckles were very firm
He said the wax was the best wax
He said Wait for me here on the beach
He said Just don’t cry

I remember the gulls and the waves
I remember the islands going dark on the sea
I remember the girls laughing
I remember they said he only wanted to get away from me
I remember mother saying, Inventors are like poets, a trashy lot
I remember she told me those who try out inventions are worse
I remember she added, Women who love such are the
Worst of all
I have been waiting all day, or perhaps longer.
I would have liked to try those wings myself.
It would have been better than this.

And while I'm at it, here's William Carlos Williams, with a sparer counterpart to Auden's musing on that same Bruegel painting (presented in that earlier post):

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning 

And finally, a prose poem not about Icarus alone, but invoking the Gilbert poem "Failing and Flying"—and a whole bunch of other poets as well. (I've provided links to what appear to be the referent poems, or in the case of Sharon Olds, a related one.)

Alexandria

by Lucas Jorgensen

Brigit Pegeen Kelly said it burned. Hera Lindsay Bird said it burned in alphabetical order. There’s nothing left about it to say. To say, “there’s nothing left about it to say” is awfully similar to what Alberto Ríos said about the Sonoran Desert and its fires—mainly, actually, that there was only one thing left to say. Then, he said it. The way it took a thousand years and one Jack Gilbert to say we’ve forgotten the beauty in Icarian flight. And he’s right. But I’d also say, even more beautiful is the moment before Icarus flies. When he sees both outcomes reflected on the ocean in front of him and still decides there’s nothing left to lose. And sure, were Elizabeth Bishop there, with her keen clairvoyant eye, she would say the trail of wax he lost behind his wings looked exactly like disaster bobbing on the waves. Perhaps we should reframe. Mary Ruefle says The Odyssey was probably sung by sirens because none of us can turn away from the tragedy of our own lives. And the logical conclusion of this history arrives when Ocean Vuong borrows Telemachus’s clothing, finds his father with a bullet in his back, washed in by a foaming red tide. His teacher, Sharon Olds, does a similar trick—when she makes her father say “I love you” from the afterlife. We get to do this—dilute the River Styxes of the real world under the peat bogs of the mind. Like, I could tell you it didn’t matter that the Library burned—that it’s all bubblegum and cherry pie to say it stopped us from developing steam engines or penicillin in a pre-American century. But after I said that, I could take it back, like Ada Limón when American Pharaoh unstrung the gray from her sky. I have to remind myself at times of Terrance Hayes’s advice, that what it is isn’t always what it looks like. The Library burned, yes. But no one ever talks about the scribe who put it out. 

Maybe now I'm done with Icarus. Or, maybe not. We'll just have to see.