Book Report: Spook Street

23. Mick Herron, Spook Street (2017) (12/3/25)

I've been moving slowly through a book I've had on my shelves since 1988, the multiply award-winning tome The Making of the Atomic Bomb—700-plus densely packed, small-typeface pages, with big personalities and complex physics (not my strong suit, to the say the least). A little over 100 pages in, I felt the need for something fast-paced, and amusing. 

What better choice than a Slow Horses book? The next in the series (I finished the third back in June) was Spook Street, which in the TV adaptation features Hugo Weaving as a bad guy. This time, I especially enjoyed, in addition to Herron's consummate style and the various now-familiar characters, comparing in my mind the written version to the visual one. Because in certain respects they are quite different, as befits the different media. 

Beginning with the prologue, which brings us very slowly into a shopping mall (or "cavernous retail pleasure dome"), and into the consciousness of a security guard, who is watching the crowds, and soon notices larger-than-usual groups of teenagers approaching from all directions, and he goes on the alert—only to realize it's a flash mob! Innocuous! Fun! Ah, but not everyone approaching is in that mob. One person in particular is anything but innocuous. Decidedly not up to fun. 

The very slow buildup of those few pages was probably presented in the series (I'd have to go back and watch the beginning again) over one or two minutes, at best. We would see the moving crowds, the security guard, and yes, we'd experience the explosion, but the beauty of words is that it can slow down action, give small details. Just try and show "the air was damp and miserable, a tickle at the back of Samit's throat suggested an oncoming cold, and he was wondering where he might cadge a cup of tea"—and the evocation of character (a minor, short-lived character) thus conveyed. Even the description of the flash mob getting going is at once a bit threatening—"it started—at the same precise moment the whole crowd, dozens upon dozens of kids, milling by the fountain, blocking the entrances to shops, climbing on the water feature's surround"—until the scene transforms into something joyous: "every single one of them, it seemed, stripped off their jackets and coats to reveal bright happy shirts beneath, all lurid primaries and swirls of colour." 

As I recall, the TV show made a plot element in France much more central than it is in the book—or rather, in the show we see a particular house in France, and the people who lived in it, and how they interacted, and we go back in time to do so: we spend quite a bit of time in France. Whereas in the book, the house burned down several days previous to a certain character's visit to it, and he quickly returns to the UK; the story of the house, its significance, is then related in snatches as the facts are stitched together by Lamb and his slow horses. The house is important, yes, but we learn its importance in different ways depending on the medium. 

I love that.

In the end, most of the slow horses emerge unscathed (most, not all), and the bad guys get their just deserts. Well, again, mostly—because apt punishment would be inconvenient for the intelligence service in the long run. As Jackson Lamb comments on hearing this news, "Plus ça bloody change. I swear to God I'd defect, if there was anywhere worth defecting to these days."

A few chapters in, MI5's operations chief, Diana Taverner, is waiting on the Thames bank to talk to Emma Flyte, the new head of the Dogs, the get-your-hands-dirty security branch of the service. Talk to, or make sure Flyte knows her place. I enjoyed the way this scene featured a garbage barge (here I've extracted just those bits):

A barge was puttering down the Thames, rubbish piled high in its middle, and there were seagulls all over it, a great boiling mass of them, arguing and scrapping for riches. Earth has not anything to show more fair. For Diana Taverner, it looked like politics as usual. . . . 
     The barge, some hundred yards downriver now, let out a whistle; a curiously jaunty note for what was basically a waterborne dustbin. The gulls ballooned away, scrambled for purchase in the air, then renewed their cackling onslaught. . . .
     The seagulls' cries were ever more distant. You moved the rubbish somewhere else, and the racket followed it. It all seemed so simple, put like that. Complications only set in once you moved away from the metaphorical.
     Free from observation she awarded herself a cigarette, willing her mind into a blank: no plots, no plans, no corkscrew machinations. Around her, the world carried on: business as usual on a January morning, and London recovering from the seismic shock of violence. In front of her, only the river; grey, and endlessly travelling elsewhere.

Okay, I said virtually nothing about the plot. You'll just have to read the book yourself. It's worth it. I love the Slow Horses books.

And I will resist the temptation to dive straight into the next one, London Rules—which we just two weeks ago finished watching. Then again, since the TV version is still fresh in my mind, wouldn't it be instructive to compare?

No no. Back to the atomic bomb. Due diligence.

67. Red Rocks

In my lazy way, I tried searching for photos I've taken on December 2's past, thinking I'd take the easy way out today and post old photos from Flickr. And the only hit was this one:

My climbing partner Mike at Red Rocks outside Las Vegas. 2007. I remember those rocks. They reside still in my fingertips.

Here are some photos I took on our couple of trips to Red Rocks. Marvelous memories of balancing on rock.

Those are my rock shoes dangling down there, in case you're wondering. They are 5.10s, pink. 

66. Project 365

I've undertaken several blogpost-a-day projects over the past decade-plus—of which this here is a shortened, sputtering version. In the past, I've actually managed to follow through—every day, for 365 days—some four or five times. It's a good practice for me. I don't know why it's become so difficult. Or rather, why I've become so lackadaisical. I mean, sure, it doesn't really matter if I succeed. But it's the principle of the thing. It's a way of paying attention, staying engaged. Surely that matters. 

Years ago, beginning in 2007, I undertook a few photo-a-day projects, which I posted on Flickr—where, back before FB sunk its hooks into me, I was quite active. Here are the links:

Project 365 (begun on May 23, 2007—my mother's birthday, her last one with us—with the above photo)
Project 365, Take 2 (begun January 1, 2009)
365:3 (begun August 9, 2010)
Photo-a-Day, Take 4 (begun December 23, 2012, in the days when I was enamored with Snapseed tools)

The daily blogpost projects are, I suppose, an elaborate version of those daily photos-plus-captions.  

As Mary Oliver famously wrote:

Instructions for living a life.
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

I guess that's what I'm trying to do with all of these projects: pay attention, find something fascinating or beautiful or moving or funny (etc.), and tell about it. 

Today I created a new album on Flickr, Project 365 Take 5, and posted this shot, from breakfast out while we waited for our car to be serviced. (I love condiment caddies, what can I say?) Perhaps heading back to simpler expectations is good for me just now, when my daily to-do list manages to be all over the place. If I manage to make one at all.

It's possible I will remember tomorrow, and post a second photo. And then, continue following through until next November 30. Wish me luck!

65. Listening to podcasts while I clean the garage

I have been meaning for ages to get into the garage and do a thorough sorting-and-culling. And today I started—not through any great resolve, but because I thought I might get into the mood by cleaning out the pantry. The pantry should be easier than the garage, right? 

Wrong. 

I was immediately hit by nostalgia—a gold-leaf vase that was my mother's; lacquer soup bowls, a sake set, tiny condiment dishes from our (second) honeymoon in Japan, lo these 43 years ago; a somewhat chipped set of Limoges china that was my grandmother's. But I also found myself unable to deal with the useful stuff.

What if I made space in the garage and just started moving the pantry objects there? Wouldn't that make it easier to assess keepability? Clear out from the pantry everything but actual food and cooking tools.

Sure, I said hopefully.

And so I waded into the garage. (It's not really that bad—we're not full-on hoarders. But out of sight, out of mind, and somehow more and more stuff manages to get dropped into the "out of sight" void.)  

We have two large sets of shelving, on either side of one half of the garage. We set them up almost fifteen years ago now, when we remodeled. Brand-new house! Spanking-clean garage! And when we moved our stuff back from storage, most everything that wasn't furniture or kitchen gear went straight into the garage. (That includes many, many books, but they're in the other half of the garage. Out of sight!) And there it has sat. 

Some shelves do get fairly frequent visits—the one holding the toolbox, the ones holding camping and backpacking gear, the one with TP, paper towels, and other household items. I pretty well have an idea what's on the left side of the garage. The right side, though? It's a mystery. But a mystery I feel ready to tackle. 

Today, I succeeded in dealing with three whole shelves, of fifteen (on the left, easy side). Huzzah! One held many dozens of rock climbing guides and ski manuals. I culled about two-thirds of those, but am (for now) keeping a few. (Nostalgia.) I'm hoping the owner of the rock gym in town might want the castoffs. Another shelf held some office supplies, some of which I have moved into the (also-needing-attention) "bill-paying room," as we call the little household office. And there were miscellaneous items: a jump rope (huh?), a dSLR sensor cleaner, my father's old Schief protractor set, an old hair dryer, which for now are in a box ready to go... somewhere. Eventually, I envision a run to our local dump, and its resale store. 

In the meantime, I will take photos of anything of sentimental value I see no need to keep but still want to remember. As I did when we cleaned out my mother's house after her death in 2008, keeping some of her things but mostly just taking photos. Maybe I'll finally be able to let go of the things I kept. 

Anyway, I mentioned podcasts above. One was Ezra Klein talking with Patti Smith ⬇︎. The other was First Draft and a conversation with poet Diane Seuss. I thoroughly enjoyed them both, grounded, wise, thoughtful women. 

And for Diane, here's a poem she read. It's fourteen lines, and maybe it counts as one of her sonnets? 

[Here on this edge I have had many diminutive visions.]

Diane Seuss

Here on this edge I have had many diminutive visions. That all at its essence is dove-gray.

Wipe the lipstick off the mouth of anything and there you will find dove-gray. With my

thumb I have smudged away the sky's blue and the water's blue and found, when I kicked it

with my shoe, even the sand at its essence is pelican-gray. I am remembering Eden.

How everything swaggered with color. How the hollyhocks finished each other's sentences.

How I missed predatory animals and worrying about being eaten. How I missed being eaten.

How the ocean and the continent are essentially love on a terrible mission to meet up with itself.

How even with the surface roiling, the depths are calmly nursing away at love. That look the late

nurser gets in its eyes as it sucks: a habitual, complacent peace. How to mother that peace, to wean

it, is a terrible career. And to smudge beauty is to discover ugliness. And to smudge ugliness is to be

knocked back by splendor. How every apple is the poison apple. How rosy the skin. How sweet

the flesh. How to suck the apple's poison is the one true meal, the invocation and the Last

Supper. How stillness nests at the base of wind's spine. How even gravestones buckle and well

with the tides. And coffins are little wayward ships making their way toward love's other shore.

64. Foreign-language TV series

I stumbled on a delightful comedy from Spain the other week, Old Dog, New Tricks—or in Spanish, simply Animal. I'm enjoying being in a different place—Galicia—and listening to the Spanish, much of which I (tell myself I) understand, though of course without the subtitles I'd be pretty lost. "Much" not necessarily being "enough." 

It got me thinking about other foreign series I've enjoyed, such as the irresistible Crash Landing on You from Korea:

And Lilyhammer, which is in English and Norwegian:

And the Danish/Swedish The Bridge (Broen/Bron):

I know I've encountered a couple of mystery/police series recently from Iceland and Finland (good old nordic noir). In any case, it got me wondering what foreign series are on Netflix right now, and wouldn't you know, there are lists!

In fact, Netflix's own website Tudum is a wealth of information for anyone wanting a Top Ten list, not just for now or for foreign series, but going back in time, week by week, to June 2021. You can filter for "Global" and "Non-English," and pow, all sorts of suggestions. Like, right now, the top ten are Last Samurai Standing (Japan), Dynamite Kiss (Korea), The Crystal Cuckoo (Spain), As You Stood By (Korean), Envious (Argentina), Delhi Crime (India), Rulers of Fortune (Brazil), Physical: Asia (Korea), 50 Seconds: The Fernando Báez Sosa Case (Argentina, documentary), and The Asset (Denmark). 

If I google "Netflix series in German" (or French or Italian or...), a Netflix page shows me all the usual categories: Your Next Watch, Bingeworthy, Crime, International Drama, etc. etc. etc. Presumably, I could spend all of 2026 watching only German shows! But David might not like that so much... 

I even found a feature for learning Spanish via the (dubbed) Big Bang Theory:

Anyway, I might try one of the above top ten shows—maybe stay in Spain with The Crystal Cuckoo—once I've finished off a few series and am casting about for what's next.  

All this despite the fact that I really don't like subtitles, because my attention becomes so split between what's going on on the screen and what's being said. Of course, that's sometimes the case even with English-language shows (The Wire, and many British shows: subtitles have come in handy). And if I have some smattering of the language, my attention split actually becomes three-way, since I try to listen as well, but listening to another language requires effort. 

Maybe I'll go for a Finnish series—Deadwind or Bordertown are two possibilities—to do away with that third splitting of attention. Finnish being nothing more than background noise to my ears—unless someone says terve (hi) or sauna. Or, yes, Korean, where I understand not a single word. Maybe I'll rewatch Crash Landing on You. I really did love that show.

63. Porcupines

I've only ever seen a porcupine once in the wild, forty-four years ago—on our honeymoon, when we camped our way up through Utah (where we spotted this amazing creature), to Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks, then back down through Washington and Oregon. Great trip! 

The porcupine we saw was a North American porcupine (Erethizon dorsatum, the genus name coming from the Greek for "to irritate," the full name meaning, loosely, "the animal with the irritating back"). It is the second-largest rodent—yes, it's a rodent—of North America (after the beaver), reaching 3 feet in length (plus a foot-long tail) and some 20 pounds in weight. 

What brought this animal to mind was an orange-spined hairy dwarf porcupine that the photographer of vanishing animals Joel Sartore posted on FB. He photographed it near Rio de Janeiro and comments that this species, Sphiggurus villosus, is "found throughout parts of South America [and] occurs in a wide range of habitats including tropical savannahs, wetlands, and rainforests. They are most active at night, and are sometimes spotted near human communities." These cute creatures are up to 18 inches long (plus tail, which is almost as long) and weigh up to 5.5 pounds. 

And that's just two of the 29 species of porcupine: 17 in the New World, 11 in the Old, and I don't know where that other species lives. Not Antarctica, that much is sure. (I'm just googling, and when one googles the natural world, the results are invariably all over the place. These numbers are from Wikipedia, and clearly no one did the math.) There are two families, the Erezithontidae, in North and South America, and the Hystricidae, in southern Europe, Africa, and Asia. Each family has three genera. The two families are only distantly related, but are classified within the same infraorder (Hystricognathi) of Rodentia (along with various other rodents such as mole rats—naked and otherwise—agoutis, chinchillas, and guinea pigs), their commonality being the unique bone structure of their skulls. 

The largest porcupine is the crested porcupine (Hystrix cristata), found from Italy into sub-Saharan Africa. It weighs up to 60 pounds. The longest of its quills are 14 inches long, and when it shakes them it produces a hissing sound like a rattlesnake. It's also the second-longest-living rodent (after the naked mole rat), living up to 28 years (the mole rat: 37).

The smallest is the Roosmalen's dwarf porcupine (Coendou roosmalenorum), an arboreal species that lives chiefly in the Madeira biogeographical province of northern Brazil. "Squirrel-sized," it weighs a little over 2 pounds. Only a few sightings are confirmed. 

Here is Rico, a Brazilian porcupine (Coendou prehensilis) who was a favorite of visitors at the Cincinnati Zoo. Sadly, he died this spring after a short illness from a liver infection, age 8.

And because it's impossible to get too much of Rico, here's a demonstration of his prehensile tail—and more!

Finally, in case you were wondering, the name porcupine comes, via Latin porcus 'pig' + spina 'spine, quill', from Old Italian porcospino, 'thorn-pig'. Well named! As is the German Stachelschwein, basically the same meaning. Porcospino. Stachelschwein. I may be muttering these two words under my breath for the next few days, until I find something new to fascinate me...

And finally, porcupines and hedgehogs are not related. Don't get me started. 

P.S. Yes, two posts today, because heck—I can make it to 100 by the end of the year. I can do it! (I shoulda included my book reports in the numbered posts. What was I thinking?)

P.P.S. Yes, I might just have to do a post that features the naked mole rat. 

P.P.P.S. And one on the hedgehog, of which there are 17 species—good grief, who knew?

62. Voyager 1

A friend sent this email today:

Voyager 1 is about to reach one light-day from Earth. After nearly 50 years in space, NASA’s Voyager 1 is about to hit a historic milestone. By November 15, 2026, it will be 16.1 billion miles (25.9 billion km) away, meaning a radio signal will take a full 24 hours—a full light-day—to reach it.

An artist's rendition, obviously

And so I looked it up, having misread the 2026 as 2025, thinking this amazing event would be celebrated far and wide! Well, no, not yet. So I did a little research (starting with an informative article from, of all places, USA Today) and thought I'd share some of it here. Some factoids, a few diagrams, even a video or two. More than you ever wanted to know! But I found it fascinating. Human ingenuity at its best.

Voyager 1 was launched on September 5, 1977. It is traveling 10.6 miles a second. (Light, meanwhile, travels 186,282 miles a second.)

Curiously, Voyager 2 was launched earlier, on August 20, 1977. This was because it had a longer (more distant) mission and different trajectory than V1. It is also traveling a little slower, at 9.6 miles a second. (It is presently only 19.5 light-hours away from Earth, and I find no estimate of when it might reach a light-day away.)

Both missions included exploring Jupiter (1979) and Saturn (1980 for V1, and 1981 for V2), but V2 then continued on to fly by Uranus (1986) and Neptune (1989). 

Here's a NASA video titled "A Once-in-176-Year Chance! Why Voyager Launched in 1977":

Voyager 1 left the solar system on August 25, 2012 (meaning it crossed the heliopause, the band where the solar wind's pressure is balanced by the pressure of the interstellar medium). Since entering interstellar space, the craft has been studying plasma waves, cosmic rays, and magnetic fields in the heliosphere.

Voyager 2 crossed the heliopause in 2018. Only two other probes have or are on the way to accomplishing this feat: Pioneer 10 and 11. Launched in 1972 and '73, they crossed Neptune's orbit in 1983 and 1990, respectively. In the meantime, however, both have ceased to transmit (2003 in the case of 10, still earlier for 11), so their present location is unknown (though I bet a science wonk could calculate a pretty good estimate). Meanwhile, New Horizons (launched in 2006) is presently in the Kuiper Belt (home most famously of poor demoted Pluto), which it will exit in 2028 or 2029—and then on to the heliopause! But for now and ever, Voyage 1 is winning the race.

And what is the big gray band, well beyond the heliosphere? Why, it's the Oort Cloud, of course—a theoretical donut-shaped band composed of trillions of icy objects—including water, ethane, and methane ices—left over from the formation of the solar system). Which Voyager 1 won't reach for another 300 years, and it won't leave it—assuming it survives all that ice—for 3,000. 

So we're quite happy with this little new milestone of a light-day! Only one earth-year to wait!

61. Linguistic rules

I ran across a rule just now that I'd never heard of before: the Ablaut reduplication rule. In which a repeated word changes its vowel in a particular pattern, usually i, a, o. For example:

    chit chat
    dilly dally
    hip hop
    tip top

Or with three syllables: stink stank stunk.

The pattern isn't random: it's a sequence that embraces the movement of the tongue in the mouth, from higher to lower. Ablaut in German means, essentially, "down-sound."

This reminded me that just the other day I was talking with some friends about the correct order of adjectives in English, but we couldn't remember the rule. So here's one suggestion: 

determiner (a, the, my)
quantity (three, several)
opinion (subjective qualities: beautiful, amazing, unusual)
size (large, small, multi-armed)
age (young, ancient)
shape (round, obese, heart-shaped)
color (red, green, polkadot)
origin (French, Martian)
material (what the thing is made of: wood, gold, plastic)
purpose (what the thing is used for, often ending in -ing: gardening, sports, cleaning)
noun

Or perhaps (from a different source): opinion, size, physical quality, shape, age, color origin, material, type, purpose + noun.

I think the discrepancy in the two lists comes from the fact that you would never use all these qualifiers in a single sentence. Try it! I dare you!

The three beautiful little ancient round blue Venetian glass candle snifters.

Yeah, that doesn't sound right. Too many adjectives. The editor in me says, pare it back! 

The three lovely little round Venetian glass candle snifters. That's better. We don't need to know how old they are, or their color. Or if we do, then maybe don't need to know they're little and round.

I will refrain from looking up (and expounding on) other English rules. That's enough for one session. 

But I'm kind of glad to have run across a new rule, and to understand why it exists. 

60. Catching up on IG six-packs

I started posting "Instagram six-packs" a while back—the last time last July—so here I am with another set, for a quick and dirty blog entry. 

I don't post on IG very much. I post on FB when I'm off gallivanting—travelogs of sorts. I am sort of trying to get back to posting on Flickr (where I was a regular contributor for many years), don't ask me why. And I post here. 

It's something I could interrogate: Why I post at all. Why I take pictures at all. Why I have so many cameras, and I only use my iPhone anymore. 

These photos are clumsily in reverse, each block of six beginning at the bottom and going up. But the chronology really doesn't matter. That said, these cover Kuala Lumpur, Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, central California near Cambria, several spots in Western Australia, our home area, geocaching, our pets, Aussie sheep, Babar, and beer. They give me pleasure. (Click on them to see larger.)

I will not hit 100 by the end of the year, but who cares? I sure don't! But I'll get there eventually—and then I can start all over again. What a deal! (I should have included the books I've read in the numbering. Oh well!)

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. 

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!

Book Report: Boundary Waters

21. William Kent Krueger, Boundary Waters (1999) (10/20/25)

Still in the mood for something light—by which I usually mean a mystery, something with a strong plot to hold my interest—I picked up the second in this series set in the far north of Minnesota. (I reviewed the first one two months ago.) This one takes us deep into the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, where a young country western star, known as Shiloh, has sought refuge—and all sorts of people show up looking for her, several of them claiming to be her father. You can see why she needed a break! Though as we learn, her reasons were less ones of escape and more of needing/wanting to find her true self, and to do so she has returned to the land, and people, of her youth.

We get a bigger, very enjoyable dose of Ojibwe/Anishinaabe culture this time, as a young Native boy, Louis Two Knives, takes the lead in the hunt for Shiloh. He used to accompany his uncle, Wendell, on regular visits to Shiloh, supply and mail runs, during which Wendell taught the boy the old ways, the old stories. But now Wendell has gone missing.

The story loops back to an incident fifteen years earlier when Shiloh's mother was killed; various suspects were identified, but no one was ever arrested. Now, FBI agents from that old case turn up, as does Shiloh's adoptive father. And a couple of very bad people also arrive, kicking off the story. 

Then too, there's Cork O'Connor, former sheriff of the town of Aurora, who has taken up running—he recently ran his first marathon—and turns out to be handy with a canoe (these skills come in handy as events transpire). He has close, if complicated, ties with Wendell's brother, who requests his help. Cork's wife, Jo (they're estranged but working things out), and family play a larger background role as well. Jo happens to be the attorney for the Tribal Council, so gets pulled in as a large-scale search is mounted. 

There's lots of good action, and I especially enjoyed "seeing" the BWCA, a place I've always wanted to go (except for the bugs!). I was pleased to learn that one isn't obligated to see it by canoe—there are also hiking trails. Not that I'll ever actually use that information, most likely, but it's still nice to know...

I was well enough satisfied with the dénouement of the story, including the ultimate stakes. I'll read another of Krueger's books.

Book Report: Death at the Sign of the Rook

20. Kate Atkinson, Death at the Sign of the Rook (2024) (10/16/25)

This book was a mess. It's as if Atkinson had an idea of a story—the theft of a possible Raphael, from a down-at-the-heel manor estate with an assortment of residents and tenants. A story she went with for a while—including the possible earlier theft of another grand master, at another estate. Until there was nowhere else to go. And then, oh! look! a murderer has just escaped from prison. Maybe he can shake things up! And oh, let's throw in a debilitating snowstorm as well!

When all that wasn't enough, Atkinson decided to wrap the entire confection in a traveling players scenario. There! An unsatisfyingly complicated mystery with too many characters.

That said, the writing is good, often drolly amusing. And I do like the main protagonist, PI Jackson Brodie, whom I met in the first of the series (this was the sixth). But I had reservations then, too—at the cleverness of the plot, though that shouldn't be a slight. Still, I guess I'm happier with simpler tales. Will I read another in the series? Possibly. But I will have to approach it as a confection, and justify the choice by wanting to learn more about Brodie. I'll have to remember that I need to be in a certain mood.

55. Dog breeds

I am reading a schlocky mystery right now which mentioned a couple of dog breeds in passing: some sort of terrier, and a Leonburger, with its sweet disposition. I had never heard of a Leonburger, so I looked it up. Turns out it's a huge breed of a dog—so yeah, not for me. 

Having never heard of that particular breed, though, I wondered what others were out there. Medium-sized ones, for example. And HA! 166 breeds just in A–D on the Wikipedia list of "extant breeds." Granted, these "breeds" are not all recognized by any major kennel club, but my own darling doodle Milo is not recognized by any major kennel club, so what do I care? These dogs all have a name, somewhere, somehow, and that's enough.

I'll just mention here a few of the breeds whose names I find especially winning, one from each letter of the alphabet, chosen by their musicality or oddity or geographicality:

alopekis (Greek origin)

bankhar dog (Russian, Mongolian)

chongqing (China)

drever (Sweden)

erbi txakur (Spain)

fila brasileiro (Brazil)

gascon santongeois (France)

huntaway (New Zealand)

Irish terrier (Ireland)

jagdterrier (Germany

kombai (India)

lagotto romagnolo (Italy)

McNab (United States)

Newfoundland (Canada)

otterhound (England)

pungsan (Korea)

rafeiro do Alentejo (Portugal)

Saarloos wolfdog (Netherlands)

tamaskan (Finland)

viszla (Hungary)

Welsh terrier (Wales)

xoloitzcuintle (Mexico)

Yakutian laika (Russia)

zerdava (Turkey

I only had to do one reshuffling to make this a geographically diverse list. And many countries were omitted. This breeding of dogs is a universal thing. It's something that draws us all together. Shouldn't we be focusing on those things that draw us all together? 

Dogs do. For sure.

Here's a picture I took today of my beloved goldendoodle, Milo. He'll be fifteen years old in another couple of weeks. He's showing his age. But he also makes plain his love of life.

We love our Milo so much.