23 of 100: Ancient letter of complaint

I'm reading this really good novel right now, Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar, and in one chapter, the main character's Iranian immigrant father, who happens to work on an industrial chicken farm in Indiana, has the stage. And he's reminiscing about raising his son alone, his wife, the boy's mother, having been killed when the US mistakenly shot down the airplane she was traveling in. "Cyrus," he says, "loved to show me stuff he was learning in his books."

Once, he showed me a picture of an ancient clay tablet, Babylonian or Sumerian, something like that, 4,000 years old. I expected it to be something holy, a poem to a fertility goddess, some ancient fable. But it was, Cyrus told me, just a lengthy complaint from a business transaction about receiving the wrong kind of copper. "The copper is substandard. I have been treated rudely. I have not accepted the copper, but I paid money for it." I never forgot that. Cyrus was laughing of course, he thought it was hilarious. "Ancient one-star review!" he said. I'm pretty sure I didn't even say anything....    
     For weeks, I kept thinking about that tablet. Walking around the shavings, hens running from my boots, the image of that ancient stone hung in my mind. For all our advances in science—chickens that can go from egg to harvest in a month, planes to cross the world, missiles to shoot them down—we've always held the same obnoxious, rotten souls. Souls that have festered for millennia while science grew. How unfair, this copper delivery. How unfair, this life. My wounds are so much deeper than yours. The arrogance of victimhood. Self-pity. Suffocating.   
     Maybe it's because we could pass along science. You wrote a fact in a book and there it sat until someone born five hundred years later improved it. Refined it, implemented it more usefully. Easy. You couldn't do that with soul-learning. We all started from zero. From less than zero, actually. We started whiny, without grace. Obsessed only with our own needing. And the dead couldn't teach us anything about that. No facts or tables or proofs. You just had to live and suffer and then teach your kids to do the same. From a distance, habit passing for happiness.
     Go to work. Dig through shavings, find the eggs. Eat. Clean the eggs. Put down new shavings. Clear the driplines. Go home. Eat with Cyrus. Put on basketball, put on a movie. Drink. Dreamless sleep. Medicine-deep. Go to work. Find the eggs.
     What was there to complain about? A murdered wife? A sore back? The wrong grade copper? Living happened till it didn't. There was no choice in it. To say no to a new day would be unthinkable. So each morning you said yes, then stepped into the consequence.

I quote that at length because it's beautiful writing, and heart-wrenching. And true. But it also got me searching the internet for that Babylonian or Sumerian tablet. No problem to find it. Others had made the same joke about the oldest customer service complaint, including, fittingly, the Guinness Book of World Records. Known as the complaint tablet to Ea-nāṣir (𒂍𒀀𒈾𒍢𒅕), a merchant in the Sumerian city of Ur, it was unearthed in the 1920s–30s and dates from c. 1750 BCE. It is about 5 inches high, 2 inches wide, and written in Akkadian, the earliest documented Semitic language. Other tablets were found in the same ruins, all complaining about Ea-nāṣir. I hope the dissatisfied customers got together and found a more reliable copper supplier. Here is the tablet in question. It's beautiful to look at. One can see it in person at the British Museum (making a note for the next time I'm in London).

22 of 100: Carmel Bach Festival: A Celtic Journey

We went to our final concert of the Carmel Bach Festival this evening, "Across the Sea—A Celtic Journey," put together by violinist Edwin Huizinga and guitarist William Coulter, aka Fire and Grace. It featured a string quintet comprising Festival musicians and several guest performers—a couple of whom I will highlight here. 

First up, Brian Finnegan, of county Armagh, on tin whistle (he also played flute this evening), here performing "Slide from Grace" (a slip jig) and "The Queen of Rangoon" (a reel) written by himself and John McSherry:

My favorite piece in this evening's performance was a mash-up of Bach's Violin Partita No. 1 and five songs composed by Finnegan, just Edwin, William, and Brian playing beautifully together. Such fabulous energy.

Also on the program was harpist Maeve Gilchrist, whose featured performance was excerpts from her composition "The Harpweaver," based on a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay:

And here are Fire and Grace (and Ash: mandolinist Ashley Hoyer) from a few years ago, showing what they can do with Bach (also infused with a little Irish):

Also on the program was Andrew Megill, the choral director of the Bach Festival, singing "Danny Boy."  My husband, David, has worked with Andrew over many years—this season, on Shakespeare songs and the "Ode to Joy"—and accords him utmost respect as a director. Turns out, the man can sing too. And isn't it great that Edwin showcased him tonight—putting him in front of the audience, for a change. It bespeaks the camaraderie and mutual admiration that these musicians enjoy during these two weeks.

Book Report: The God of the Woods

12. Liz Moore, The God of the Woods (2024) (7/23/24)

I read Liz Moore's last book, Long Bright River, a couple of years ago and was impressed, so when I saw that she had a new book out, I jumped on it. And I enjoyed it also, perhaps equally. Both books involve a mystery, but they are much more than that. This book is about family, and community, and wealth, and decency, and doing your best. 

The story takes place at a summer camp in the Adirondacks in 1975—a summer camp owned by a family, the Van Laars, whose fancy house sits on a hill just above. It begins when a teenage camper, Barbara, goes missing. Barbara happens to be a Van Laar herself, and she insisted on going to camp—to which her parents readily agreed, as they made plans for a big party to which all their banker/lawyer friends would be invited. Plus, she was rebellious, difficult. They were happy to have her out of their hair. 

A search ensues. The action shifts back and forth between the camp and the family home as the authorities enter in. Then it starts to shift back and forth in time as well, as the disappearance years ago of another child, Barbara's brother Bear, is recalled, and the case is reopened. Meanwhile, a convicted killer from the area has escaped, and is suspected to be heading back to his old stomping grounds. Could he be involved somehow?

Told now from various points of view at various points in time, the story gets filled in incrementally. We come to know all sorts of characters: the current camp counselor, TJ, and her father, Vic, now suffering from dementia but who at one time was virtually part of the Van Laar household; the "nation's first" female state trooper, and now a newly inducted investigator, Judyta; Barbara's bunkmate, Tracy; a groundskeeper back in 1961 when Bear went missing, who was blamed for his disappearance. We also come to know the Van Laar household itself. Something isn't right up there. Is it just their patriarchal privilege that rubs wrong, or is it something more?

We do eventually learn what happened to both Bear and Barbara. I was vaguely surprised by the specifics, if not the general outline, of Bear's fate, mainly because the big clues come late in the story, crowded up against the revelation. What happened to Barbara didn't surprise me, but it was carried out nicely, and I found it satisfying. 

This is a quiet book, really. Of the still-waters-run-deep variety. But the characters are well drawn and you get a real sense of society—or societies: the upper crust and plain-living honest folk. And teenagers, too, still figuring it all out.

21 of 100: Beethoven and John Cage

On Sunday evening I went to another performance in the Carmel Bach Festival, this time, mainly, of Beethoven's Ninth Sympony (over an hour long) with its glorious "Ode to Joy." I wrote about the "Ode" a year ago, so don't have any more to say about it here. Except that I was glad to hear the entire symphony, with all its themes and vibrancy. And the fourth movement, which begins with the orchestra only—only to metamorphose into the joyous singing. One forgets that it has a bigger context.

But starting the program were a couple of very short pieces: Anton Bruckner's lovely motet Locus iste—

—and John Cage's 4'33", in three movements, for orchestra and chorus. The joke here being that the entire four-plus minutes are entirely silent. (So, no youtube video—though of course they do exist.) 

Or... not entirely silent: which was Cage's point. We humans make noise; the world makes noise; life makes noise. If we just give it some space, and then listen, we might be surprised. 

Here's from the other night's program notes:

John Cage offered these insights about the work and audience reception after the [1952] premiere [near Woodstock, New York]: "There's no such thing as silence. What they thought was silence, because they didn't know how to listen, was full of accidental sounds. You could hear the wind stirring outside during the first movement. During the second, raindrops began patterning the roof, and during the third the people themselves made all kinds of interesting sounds as they talked or walked out."

It begs the listener to "ponder the nature of silence, intentionality, listening, and performance." Critics have called it "the pivotal composition" of the 20th century. This enigmatic work still invites questions about music and the reimagining of art, remaining as controversial as when it was first performed.

I was especially amused by the growling stomach of the man sitting next to me, and by the music director, Grete Pedersen, turning the pages of her score with quiet deliberation. It was well worth experiencing.

P.S. A brief political statement: I feel like a load has been lifted off my head, my shoulders, my whole being, now that President Biden has exited the race. Seeing Kamala Harris at her Wisconsin rally today was heartening. She has a tough job ahead of her, and we will be seeing big ugliness and a lot of hate, but yes, I feel hope again. The "Ode to Joy" only underscored that feeling. And now, time to get to work.

20 of 100: Babar voyageur

Recently I've been worried: I couldn't find Babar anywhere. Yes, Babar the elephant—who in this case is about three inches high, so easy enough to overlook. I have written about Babar before: back in 2015, and then several times in early 2020 when we visited Chile and Antarctica:

We visited Madagascar together, where we both developed a fondness for pachypodiums ("We match!" he says):

We explored Ecuador and the Galápagos, where he hung out with a couple of buddies:

Traveled by canal boat through England:

We watch movies together on airplanes that we'd never watch at home:

We go camping together:

Here he is with a few of his friends, and some of his favorite reading material:

And here he is checking out my sister-in-law's homeplace in Norway (he especially enjoyed standing on the reindeer antler):

So yes, the other day when I realized that I hadn't seen Babar in a while—and didn't we just hike across England together? why didn't I remember liberating him from my suitcase?—I was, naturally, perturbed. But... I couldn't find him anywhere.

Could he be replaced? Well, yes. I found him offered, many times over and complete with camera, in "vintage" condition on eBay for anywhere from $5 to $15. These posts date him to 1990-ish—which sounds about right: having a few extra euros to dispense with, I picked mine up in Charles de Gaulle airport on one or another layover. So okay, I knew I could replace him, if it came to that. But... would he be the same? No! My Babar has so much travel in his blood (er, plastic). We journey on the same passport! We have shared memories!

So this morning I thought I'd look for him again. Because honestly, I didn't remember him coming to England with me: hadn't he grumbled that his legs were too short for such a long walk? But he did accompany me to my writing residency in southern California in March. And as fate would have it, I still haven't unpacked the boxes of books I took along with me then. Maybe...

And lo! There he was! Happily reading poetry! I don't think he even missed me.

I have now installed him on the shelf near my easy chair—where I can keep an eye on him, and where he can chat with his newest pal, Mr. Buddha. I am glad to have him back. Now, maybe it's time to plan another trip together. For old times' sake.

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...