A poem for the holiday

Thanksgiving 

Karen Solie

From Modern and Normal (2005)

On an afternoon so still it's possible to see 

how the world can fill the holes we make 

and complete itself again. Or how desperately 

we want this to be so. Downstream, 

Dad hauled an 18-pound pike into the boat 

and we saw no change in the river. 

Water closed as its tail left the surface, 

continued to reflect for us what we needed 

from clear sky, wild poplar, red maple, 

from the last warm day of that year. 

Near Bull's Head, mule deer wander the streets 

of Estuary, a village abandoned when CN tore out 

its only bridge for miles. That they feed 

on wild onion and millet, from gardens flung 

to seed, looked fine to us, if not holy, 

though we knew people who had lived there, 

who cried moving their beds from the valley. 

Even Hutterite cattle blunting through wolf willow, 

sweet sage ghosting around them, 

seemed closer to the animal they once were. 

We drove away at twilight, the fish curled 

in a blue plastic basin, gills reaching for the place 

that had so plainly surrendered it. Our heads 

were full of how seldom we are together now, 

and when my mother prepared the flesh 

my father had provided, we took into ourselves 

its longing to be home. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

 My favorite holiday. And let's de-colonize it: Wisdom from the folks at Cafe Ohlone.

Proud member of the subset...

“Science was on the ballot and this means that a significant portion of America doesn’t want science. … Science is now something for a subset of America.” –Holden Thorp, editor-in-chief of Science

Don't forget to vote!

Can Music Be Perfect? Vol. 98

This rendition of the Kern-Hammerstein standard does go on for a bit, but in large part to accommodate Don Pullen's epic piano solo. His best ever? Well, find me a better one.

My Octopus Teacher

If you don't find octopuses endlessly alien, fascinating, and splendid, well, there's not much I can do for you. But if you do, you will enjoy this Netflix original. The footage of the plucky, clever, and apparently affectionate octopus protagonist is simply exceptional. I was less enthusiastic about her smitten human documentarian Craig Foster and the film's questionable narrative style. Still, there's little doubt that Foster is a remarkable creature in his own right: Here's a guy who refuses scuba gear and instead snorkels (without a wetsuit!) in the bracing and shark-infested waters of a South African kelp forest to interact with his special octopus friend. 

It's well known that octopuses are extremely intelligent and curious, that their whole body is essentially a brain, and that their physical abilities as shape- and color-shifters are almost beyond human comprehension. Our octopus hero is in constant danger, especially from sharks, and she has a big bag of tricks up her tentacles: instantaneous camouflage coloration; forming herself into a rock shape that can slowly scuttle across the ocean floor on two tentacle legs; releasing distracting ink clouds during jetting escapes; wrapping herself in kelp or seashells for protection; and, perhaps most mindbogglingly, escaping from the jaws of a very violent and persistent shark by– well, enough spoilers.

The problem is, I'm sorry to say, dishonest storytelling. For example, it is just not plausible that Foster, who is after all holding his breath for every filmed encounter, could follow the octopus over an extended shark chase scene in the water, out of the water, and back in again. 

One may charitably allow this as narrative license. But given the undeniable beauty, suspense, and pathos of each one-breath encounter, it seems unnecessary at best. And the human side of this story– that somehow the love of an octopus gave Foster back his own life and ability to love his own family– is just too schematic and poorly developed to be anything more than sentimentalism.

All that said, watch it. If nothing else, you'll be less inclined to order that grilled tentacle next time you see it on the menu.

East Bay native plant nurseries

I was in the market for a Quercus kelloggii (California black oak) to replace a walnut we had to take down, and discovered it in the inventories of two native plant nurseries I had not visited before: Oaktown Native Plant Nursery, in Berkeley, and East Bay Wilds, in the Fruitvale district of Oakland. Both are excellent native plant nurseries, each with a solid selection of some of the standards, plus some unusual plants you don't find very often, and friendly and knowledgeable staff. At Oaktown I picked up a few things, including several small pots of Tellima grandiflora, a plant I love to find growing trailside– we'll see if it can take my suburban conditions and neglect. Oaktown's oaks were not what I was looking for, so I headed to Oakland! East Bay Wilds had several very nice specimens of black oak, and the one that called out to me was raised from a Castro Valley acorn. The person who helped me seemed a little reluctant to part with that lovely little tree. $25 for a healthy tree in a 5-gallon pot... the price is right. Cash or check only at East Bay Wilds, but the corner store nearby has an ATM.

Go native!

October on the Hamm's Gulch Trail

Windy Hill OSP. Despite the incredibly dry time of year, the buckeyes are covered in lush moss, thanks to the old Douglas-firs, which harvest the fog near the ridge and create their own moist microclimate. Lovely.