Book Report: Over Tumbled Graves

8. Jess Walter, Over Tumbled Graves (2001) (2/9/21)

I don't even know what made me think of Jess Walter when I was searching for a new, preferably page-turner book the other day. I remember really enjoying his The Financial Lives of Poets (2009) and Beautiful Ruins (2012). I couldn't begin, now, to tell you what the first was about, but I remember the basic plot and mood (ebullient?) of the second. His range is broad and eclectic. And for some reason (maybe the fact that he has a brand-new book out?), Over Tumbled Graves wiggled into my mind the other day, and I happened to know on just which shelf it resided.

This, Walter's first novel (of seven), is a mystery-thriller, but it's also very much about the place it's set in—Spokane, Washington, Walter's hometown—and the relationships of people depicted in it. So it's not just about (a) murder, (b) police investigation, (c) murder solved. It's more than that. With a twist at the end that I expected but was not at all disappointed to see. It wasn't one of those out-of-left-field twists; it felt organic to the whole.

The basic plot involves the search for a killer, which quickly overlaps with the discovery of one, then two, and ultimately five murdered prostitutes, several of them laid out along a riverbank as if to gather attention—of the FBI variety. There are a couple of detectives, good at what they do, who have an unrequited thing for each other. There are a couple of FBI profilers who despise each other. The killer at the start is observed and followed, but although he remains elusive to the cops, we readers get to know him a little, and to sympathize with him. And through all of this, the neighborhoods and shady areas and river of Spokane draw us along.

I did not flag any passages, but I did make a mental note of page 303, and this is what's there. It's from the POV of Detective Alan Dupree, a worn-out homicide detective who's pushing 50 and being superseded by a young, unimaginative guy with up-to-date, high-tech training.

The tired houses and dead lawns at the base of the South Hill reminded him of an old theory. The theory of yard relativity. He believed you could tell a criminal by the amount of yardwork he did. He'd first come up with the theory in neighborhoods like this one, responding to a thousand fights and drug deals and domestics, and after a time it dawned on him that he was almost never called to houses with well-kept yards. This wasn't an economic or racial thing. It was a pure yardwork thing, the basic theory being that criminals don't have the patience for yardwork. That's what crime is, he believed—a lack of patience. Want to get rich quick? Get laid without all the work? Want to get rid of your business partner without the trouble of suing him or paying him off? That's the difference between criminals and real people. Patience.

Walter is a great observer—of detail, but also of character and desire and where a person stands on the sliding spectrum from earnestness to wiseassery, energy to exhaustion, engagement to desperation. The people in his books always seem very real to me. I admire that in any writer, and I admire Walter for pushing the envelope and trying out new situations, characters, and motivations.

Around the World through Food - Netherlands Antilles

The other evening I cooked a rather bizarre dish involving shredded chicken, green peppers, dill pickles, capers, green olives, tomatoes, golden raisins, a Scotch bonnet, ketchup, and tomato paste (some recipes include eggs and/or cashews)—which combination is interesting enough on its own, but what was really different was the fact that the entire mélange is baked within a shell of thinly sliced Edam cheese. It's called Keshi Yena, and it is known as the national dish of Aruba (formerly part of Netherlands Antilles). Traditionally, the meat mixture (which might be ground beef instead of or in addition to chicken) would be baked or steamed within the rind of an empty 2-kilo wheel of Edam cheese, topped with more grated or sliced cheese, but since wheels of used-up Edam are hard to come by, layered slices do the trick.

It may have been bizarre, but it sure was tasty.

Me, I like cooking from recipes, and the more involved or exotic, the better. So Keshi Yena was just the ticket. Nothing like anything I would ever just throw together. Despite the fact that it is, essentially, a little bit of everything, thrown together. I also like researching international recipes, dishes that use interesting spices or combinations of ingredients. I have had it in mind, for example, to do a "project" of savory pastries from around the world: empanadas, pirogi and piirakka, Cornish pasties and scones, hortopita and bučnica, huzzah!

So I'm thinking of adding a thread to this blog, of dishes from around the world that I grapple with myself. And if I end up going nowhere with this idea, at least I have now saluted Aruba, Curaçao, Bonaire, and Sint Willem for their endemic and delicious cheesy chicken dish.

Book Report: The Biggest Bluff

7. Maria Konnikova, The Biggest Bluff: How I Learned to Pay Attention, Master Myself, and Win (2020) (2/5/21)

This is, in part, a book about poker—specifically, No Limit Texas Hold'em—not a game I play, but one that I find interesting for its blend of chance and skill. Which is exactly what Konnikova writes about, and about how, over the course of a year-plus, she set about becoming a tournament poker champion. Konnikova is trained as a psychologist, and she's a journalist (she is the author of two books, Mastermind: How to Think Like Sherlock Holmes and The Confidence Game, about the art of the con, and she used to write regularly for the New Yorker about these sorts of topics), with a journalist's nose for sources and stories. 

In the second chapter of the book she introduces us to poker world master Erik Seidel, a delightful, understated man who becomes her mentor as she progresses from someone who doesn't know the difference between poker and blackjack to winning the 2018 PokerStars Caribbean Adventure (PCA) championship. Over the course of the book she speaks with many other people, players and academics alike, who offer insights into the game and into human psychology: how we learn, how we approach situations of chance and luck, how we monitor our feelings, how we read other people's behavior, how we adjust our beliefs and understandings of the world in the face of experience, or simply (or not so simply) how to strategize a poker hand. 

In this TED Talk, Konnikova describes poker as a sort of metaphor for life, harking back to the founder of Game Theory, John von Neumann:

Last June she published an article about this yearlong experience, which, truth be told, probably would have satisfied me. Or listening to this Freakonomics podcast. But I had started the book before I learned about these other sources, and I wasn't about to quit, having already invested the time. The book was somewhat confusing in places—especially when poker jargon was invoked (there is a lot of it), but also when she'd mention some concept or person in passing that hadn't yet been covered. There was a tad too much sitting at tables with a motley array of characters—from "fish" to "whales" to "sharks"—as poker hands were played out (and described card by card). It was interesting enough to read about various psychological theories about how we approach uncertainty or apply skill, as well as about various fallacies, biases, and syndromes—the planning, sunk cost, and ludic fallacies, for example, or the beaten dog and impostor syndromes, or the status quo bias—but in the end they only sort of apply to the game of poker—or, for that matter, to life—depending on who you are and who you happen to be playing with, and how recently you had a good meal or how much sleep you got the night before.

In speaking of her experience traveling around the world playing tournaments, Konnikova writes (in this case about Las Vegas, fairly early in her apprenticeship):

Each venue offers a slightly different experience, and with each hand, I start seeing more and more of the patterns I've been learning about play out in real life. It's not all the aggressive shark tactics of the Nugget. There are the passive players, the conservative players, the active players, the loose players. There are the ones who like to drink. There are the ones who like to play and never fold. There are the ones who are vacationing and here to have fun, the ones who take it seriously and are here to win, the ones who are here to take advantage of others, and the ones who simply want to make a few friends at the table. There are the talkers, the stalkers, the bullies, the friendlies. With each game, each bust-out, each hand, I take it all in and write it all down. How do I adjust? How do I make myself known? How do I present myself so that I can finally go from losing to winning?
     I enter a sixty-dollar daily tournament at Bally's [ . . . ] It's small, only two tables' worth of players, but I feel a certain pride in watching the numbers dwindle to a single table, then eight, seven, six. . . . I'm in the final four. And it's hard for me to contain my excitement when I find myself with a flopped set of nines. There's a bet before me, and I joyously shove all my chips into the middle. This is it. All my learning is paying off. I will finally have my first tournament cash. I get called by a flush draw, the flush hits, and I'm out. I'm devastated.

I found myself pushing through to the end (taking breaks with a nifty little Texas Hold'em app for my phone). I'm not sorry I read it, not at all—but now I am ready for a page-turner.

Herons

Today's Facebook feed brought me this delightful photo, by Alex Shkolnik, of five little egrets (Egretta garzetta), a black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax), and a purple heron (Ardea purpurea), at a fish pond in northern Israel. Poised for a quick snack.

The comments included a debate over the Egretta species, one person insisting that "here" we call them snowy egrets. Turns out, the heron world is larger than that commenter knows, because: those are little egrets, not snowies. They look similar, but they are different species. (Snowy egrets are E. thula.) The identifying mark, besides size—littles are a little bigger than snowies—is their "lore": the patch of skin separating beak and eye. Snowies' are orange, red, or bright yellow, depending on the breeding season, while littles' are green, dull yellow, or gray. Easy!

But all that got me wondering how many types of herons there are overall. Turns out, 64—and these include herons, egrets, and bitterns. They are in the family Ardeidae, with three subfamilies.

According to Wikipedia, "Although herons resemble birds in some other families, such as the storks, ibises, spoonbills, and cranes, they differ from these in flying with their necks retracted, not outstretched. They are also one of the bird groups that have powder down. Some members of this group nest colonially in trees, while others, notably the bitterns, use reed beds. A group of them is called a 'siege.'"

One heron that formerly made up its own lonely monotypic family, but now has been rudely shoved into the large and diverse Ardeidae, like it or not, is the boat-billed heron (Cochlearius cochlearius), found in mangrove swamps of Mexico south to Peru and Brazil.

The two (out of 18) main genera within the Ardeidae family are Ardea and Egretta: the herons and egrets, making up a third or so of the total species. There are also whistling, capped, pond, green-backed, night, and tiger herons, not to mention the bitterns. Here are some exemplars. They are beautiful birds.

Green heron, Butorides virescens.
Photo by Barbara Houston

The largest heron, Ardea goliath, lives in
sub-Saharan Africa. It stands 4 to 5 feet tall,
with a wingspan of 6 to 7.5 feet, and
weighs 9 to 11 pounds.
Photo by Guy Poisson.

One of the smallest herons is the least bittern
(Ixobrychus exilis), 11 to 14 inches in length and
weighing a mere 2 to 3 ounces.
Photo by Jim McCormac.

Bare-throated tiger heron (Tigrisoma mexicanum),
found from Mexico to northern Colombia.
Photo by Linda Murdock.

Capped heron (Pilherodius pileatus),
inhabiting rainforest from central
Panama to southern Brazil.
Photo by Andreas Trepte

Great egrets (Ardea alba).
Photo by Fraida Gutovich

And finally, here is a black heron (Egretta ardesiaca) using its "wing umbrella" to hunt, at Rondebult Bird Sanctuary, Johannesburg, South Africa:

You may have noticed that the "black heron" is an Egretta, while the "great egret" is an Ardea. The common names are a bit like the difference between prawns and shrimps*: that is, common usage. "Egrets" are, basically, white herons, while "herons" are anything else. Unless they're a bittern. But let's not complicate matters.

Where I live, we have great egrets, great blue herons, green herons, snowy egrets, cattle egrets, black-crowned night herons, and American bitterns. And maybe others as well, though I haven't seen them. The great egrets and great blue herons nest in trees near Elkhorn Slough and Pt. Lobos. It's always fun to watch them squabble and carry on, up there on high.

*For the record, prawns are large, shrimps are small—in common usage. But scientifically, shrimps brood eggs, whereas prawns release them into the water--and then there are various anatomical differences. The Monterey Bay spot prawns that I love to eat? Shrimps.

Mary Randlett, photographer

This morning on FB (that seems to be my usual refrain anymore for launching these posts) the poet Kim Stafford posted a beautiful photo of a feather, with the following comment: "I remember seeing the raptor's nest high in an old pine, and on a hunch walking downwind . . . and there was the feather at my feet." 

Someone commented that the photo reminded her of Mary Randlett's (1924-2019) work, so of course I had to go check her out, because I find this feather exquisite. 

She did indeed do lovely work. Here is a sampling of some of her Pacific Northwest landscapes, though she is also known for photographs of architecture, public art, and Northwest artists and writers, working eventually for the University of Washington Press. (Click to see them large.)

Above Paradise, Mt. Rainier, 1992

I find her work rather reminiscent of one of my favorite photographers, Michael Kenna. Beautiful images. I'm glad to have encountered her.

Kobayashi Maru

A flashback this morning on Facebook to three years ago, when a friend of mine, Tracy, also my wilderness first responder instructor, posted this photo: 

It seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it. The Usual Suspects? I asked. (There is a Kobayashi in that movie, and there is a ship.) Not even close. Star Trek, he answered. "It is actually a very famous reference to no-win situations or situations that can only be 'won' by redefining the problem. I actually named one of my pre-hospital [EMT training] scenarios after the Kobayashi Maru, but I call it the 'Little Wooden Ship,' which is the translation, so the students who are familiar with Star Trek don't realize that they are walking into a no-win scenario." Tracy teaches EMTs and paramedics. His scenario involves a room filling with poison gas. What do you do? Do you keep working on your patient, or do you get out, fast, dragging them with you if you can? 

The answer should be obvious—as first responders, our first duty is always to ourselves and our fellow workers—but in the heat of the moment, of course you want to do what you are trained to do: save lives.

The situation originally plays out at the start of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Saavik (Kirstie Alley) is in command of the USS Enterprise when a distress call from a civilian freighter is logged. She orders Helm Officer Sulu to plot an intercept course with the imperiled ship, but he warns her that this violates the Neutral Zone declared by Federation/Klingon treaty. She overrules him. Soon contact with the Kobayashi Maru is lost and three Klingon battle cruisers appear headed toward them. Outgunned, Saavik orders a retreat, but it's too late. The Klingons overwhelm the Enterprise, and most key personnel—including Uhura, Sulu, McCoy, and Spock—are killed. 

It turns out—of course, because why wasn't Kirk in charge of the ship?—that this is a training exercise. Saavik failed. She protests that the test didn't properly reflect her command abilities, but Kirk explains that it is intended to reveal how the subject confronts an impossible situation, and that how one deals with death is as important as how one deals with life. There is no correct resolution; the scenario is a test of character.

As backstory, we learn that Kirk himself took the test three times while at Starfleet Academy, and on the third occasion he cheated by reprogramming the simulator—for which "original thinking" he received a commendation. ("I don't like to lose," he shrugged.) When Saavik protests that he's never actually faced a no-win situation, he replies that he doesn't believe in such a thing. 

Later in the film, of course, Kirk gets his own Kobayashi Maru experience, which results in Spock's selfless death to save the Enterprise.

Here is a flowchart showing various possibilities one could follow in the simulation. All of them, of course, lead to failure.

As one critic points out, the fact that Kobayashi Maru is a simulation—which, naturally, everyone involved knows—renders it somewhat moot. I've certainly experienced the frustration of training in a serious skill—Search & Rescue technical rope rescue and medical triage, Red Cross crashed-plane and active-shooter scenarios—knowing that, in a sense, it "didn't matter" what I did because the point was to learn, not to save actual lives. 

And how often do we find ourselves in truly impossible situations? They do happen, to be sure—if by "impossible" we mean that death could result, depending on choices we make in an instant. I'm flashing now to Captain Sully Sullenberger and Flight 1549—or to those in command of wartime battles. Even to a more mundane situation, such as a motorist traveling at 65 on a freeway whose car all of a sudden malfunctions. Never mind the sheer helplessness of being in a plane that is about to crash, which I can't begin to imagine.

I hereby resolve to keep my life as event-free (along those lines, at any rate) as possible.

My point in writing about this today? No point, really. I was just surprised to rediscover that old Facebook conversation with Tracy, which I'd completely forgotten about. I don't see Tracy anymore except on FB, and probably never will again in person (he's moved, I'm no longer in SAR), so it was nice to have some old, pleasant memories float up. Tracy is a mensch, and as I commented in signing off from that conversation, I am happy to know his good noble indefatigable self. 

N.B. 7/5/21. I am FB friends with a woman, Amanda Sowards, who happens to be the daughter of the screenwriter of Star Trek II, Jack B. Sowards. She posted today about having to curate some uninvited additions to her father's Wikipedia page—and deletions, since this non-invitee edited Amanda and her two siblings right out of that page. (As she said, "Ouch!") Curious, I took a look at the page and learned this: "Sowards created the term Kobayashi Maru . . . , naming it for his next-door neighbors in Hancock Park." So, there's that as well.

Ghazal

From October into early December, I participated in an eight-week poetry workshop with Mark Doty. It was hard work: I am not a poet. But it was also satisfying work: I love poetry (well, much of it . . . some of it is pretty opaque). Today, five of my eight fellow workshoppers met and shared a poem each—something that we intend to continue to do on a monthly basis. It was lovely to see them again, and to talk shop. 

Ana mentioned participating in a "living room craft talk" series hosted by poet Ellen Bass, and recommended it. I bit. (Of course I did!) After I signed up, I received a syllabus, complete with suggested reading. On the list was Tony Hoagland's Real Sofistikashon: Essays on Poetry and Craft. Which I happen to own. (Of course I do.) So I found it in the garage, and started reading. And am hooked. It's just what my seeking mind wants right now.

In the first chapter, on the "three centers of power" in poetry—imagery, diction, and rhetoric (these are Hoagland's construction, but they make sense in his explication)—I came upon a poem I love, immediately but all the more so after reading Hoagland's analysis. (It is included in the "diction" category: intrinsically semantic, consciously making reference to historical contexts and usages, providing personality to the poem.) And I felt moved to include it here in my blog, which has become far too book report–heavy.

Sheffield Ghazal 4: Driving West 

     by Galway Kinnell

A tractor-trailer carrying two dozen crushed automobiles overtakes a tractor-trailer carrying a dozen new.
Oil is a form of waiting.
The internal combustion engine converts the stasis of millennia into motion.
Cars howl on rain-wetted roads.
Airplanes rise through the downpour and throw us through the blue sky.
The idea of the airplane subverts earthly life.
Computers can deliver nuclear explosions to precisely anywhere on earth.
A lightning bolt is made entirely of error.
Erratic Mercurys and errant Cavaliers roam the highways.
A girl puts her head on a boy's shoulder; they are driving west.
The windshield wipers wipe, homesickness one way, wanderlust the other, back and forth.
This happened to your father and to you, Galway—sick to stay, longing to come up against the ends of the earth, and climb over.

What is a ghazal, you might ask. (I did, so I looked it up.) It is a form, often about the pain of loss or the beauty of love despite heartache, originally Arabic but popularized by Persian poets. Typically a ghazal is constructed of couplets, with repeating words (or phrases) at the ends of the first two, fourth, sixth, eighth, etc. lines, that word preceded by a rhyming word (or two)—and the last couplet always contains a proper name, usually the poet's own. From what I can tell, "Driving West" only adheres to that last rule. Here is a ghazal that follows the formal rules, if not necessarily the thematic one. 

Hip-Hop Ghazal

     by Patricia Smith

Gotta love us brown girls, munching on fat, swinging blue hips,
decked out in shells and splashes, Lawdie, bringing them woo hips.

As the jukebox teases, watch my sistas throat the heartbreak,
inhaling bassline, cracking backbone and singing thru hips.

Like something boneless, we glide silent, seeping 'tween floorboards,
wrapping around the hims, and ooh wee, clinging like glue hips.

Engines grinding, rotating, smokin', gotta pull back some.
Natural minds are lost at the mere sight of ringing true hips.

Gotta love us girls, just struttin' down Manhattan streets
killing the menfolk with a dose of that stinging view. Hips.

Crying 'bout getting old—Patricia, you need to get up off
what God gave you. Say a prayer and start slinging. Cue hips.

I wanted to find a perfect illustration of singing, gliding, struttin', swinging blue hips in shells and splashes to illustrate this poem. But I did not. And really, in this case, no image could do this poem justice. But here's Patricia Smith, whom I found on searching for "shells + splashes + hips + hip-hop":