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9/26/08: Chirgilchin at the Getty Center


Chirgilchin is one of the more famous traditional music groups from Tuva, an isolated, semi-autonomous country in the South of Siberia. In the rest of the world, throat-singing (or overtone singing, the Tuvan version of which is known as Khoomei) is the most well-known of Tuva’s cultural traditions, mostly because of its difficult-to-describe, eerie multi-tone sound. Put in really simple and inadequate terms, it’s a drone-like note made with the vocal chords, over which one or several whistly tones are created by manipulating the air after it passes the vocal chords, allowing the singer to produce a variable chord of sorts instead of a single pitch. Chirgilchin are masters, and they operate annual music camps in Tuva and Northern California. They played in LA twice recently during the World Festival of Sacred Music, and we were lucky enough to be at one of their performances. The video clip above is about 3/4 of their encore song.


Chirgilchin plays music for goats

Dates for the rest of their current US tour here.

Bloody Chapel

This is the Bloody Chapel at the top of Leap Castle’s central tower keep in County Offaly, Ireland. We visited because of the castle’s reputed most-haunted-place-in-Ireland status; supposedly it’s home to not one but many spirits, including children, a murdered monk and a malevolent, inhuman elemental presence that looks like a dead sheep and is redolent of rotting flesh. We were shown around by Martin, resident carpenter and historian, who is restoring the castle (which is partially in ruins) with its owner, Sean Ryan (the Ryans have lived here since the 80′s). Before the tour, Martin shared some tea with us next to a giant fire and told us a bit about the castle’s history. Most of what he related concerned wars, changes of ownership, destruction of the castle’s wooden guts by fire, re-construction, etc., and very little of what he said involved paranormal stuff of any kind. He only mentioned that he himself had never experienced any kind of ghostly occurrence here.

The castle was built around 1250 on a high rocky spot, strategically important for control of the valley below, and as part a chain of 29 or so castles that were each within sight of another, so that emergency communication could be quick. Leap is one of the few left in any kind of un-ruined state. The castle’s site was important to the pre-Christian residents of the area also, as bronze-age artifacts uncovered around the castle attest. It’s said that, when the castle was built, stones from a previous ancient structure, most likely a tomb, were incorporated into the walls (a practice which was common), and that human blood was mixed into the mortar. The spirits of whomever was interred in the pre-existing tomb provide a kind of foundation cursedness. For many years the area was controlled by the O’Carroll clan, a family so brutal and cunning that they’d already been kicked out of the North of Ireland, and, many years later, banished from Ireland completely, settling mostly in Maryland, in the US. Leap Castle was the seat of their power for hundreds of years.

The Bloody Chapel is the most infamous of the castle’s rooms for at least two reasons. One is the fact that, on the right side of the far window, hidden from view in the above picture’s angle, is the opening to an oubliette, which is a kind of death-shaft, sometimes covered with a drop floor, used to conveniently dispose of enemies. If you were tossed in the Bloody Chapel’s oubliette, often referred to as its dungeon, you’d fall ten or more feet onto long spikes, and the remains of your new tomb-mates. If you didn’t die right away, you’d spend your last hours or days in agony, forgotten, hence the name. The oubliette was emptied in the 1800′s, and “three cartloads” of bones were hauled away. Knowing victims would sometimes request to be thrown in head-first, so that the chances of a quick death would be better.

The second reason is a story about fratricide. In 1532 the clan’s leader died, leaving his sons to vie for chief-hood. Although Martin pointed out that one of the brothers, a priest, apparently had a nearby church/monastery to run, which could have meant that he wouldn’t have been much of a threat, the story goes that his brother, who was obviously more ruthless, wanted him out of the way regardless. He invited his brother to say mass in the tower’s chapel, then cut his throat at the altar. The priest’s ghost is supposed to be haunting the chapel now, and his spirit might be what tossed one of the American paranormal investigators on the floor in one episode of “Ghost Hunters.” While Martin was showing us the chapel, I brought this story up, and he pointed out the fact that so many people had been killed here, including an entire dinner party of neighbors that the O’Carrolls owed money to (who were poisoned and then slaughtered, their bodies thrown down the oubliette, their heads kicked out the windows like footballs), that it would be hard to figure out just who was haunting the Bloody Chapel. More likely, I think, if it’s possible at all, it’s the accumulated, concentrated killing, and the viciousness of the deaths, which are causing any haunting. The room’s atmosphere was unsettling to me in what I might best describe as a calm way. It’s creepy, not least because you have to climb the last bit of the spiral stone stairway by candlelight, since there are no electric lights in the top of the castle. Martin gave each of us our own candle holder to carry. Gail and I returned together to take this picture, since I was too freaked out to be up there by myself. I’ve never had a serious, wide-awake ghostly experience, but I think if I could have stayed the night in this room, maybe in a sleeping bag on the floor, or awake all night with a few candles, I’d have as good a chance as I ever will.

berserking (5)

We raid a Holiday Inn. Little resistance, a weird look from two desk clerks.

Dwarf yells: Prepare for death and eternal Winter!

In a cavern which is doubling as a convention hall, we sweep a catering table, stuffing staleing muffins and dinner rolls into the backpack, on top of Bog Man. Because we are running, no one can stop us. Someone at a podium stares, a few people get knocked out of chairs and their coffees spill. Into a commercial kitchen, we find some satisfying challenges. A security guard steps in front of Pingpong, and I toss him the tureen that I’ve just tried to drink old pancake batter out of, having spilled a lot of it on my shirt. Pingpong bangs the metal into the guard’s face, hard to tell the force of the blow, but it looks bad and the guard goes down, and then we are propelled out a back door and over a dumpster-sized grease bin, then away.

Jogging across a field of star thistles we eat stolen M&M’s with cashew nuts mixed in. I bump into something that might be a monster ground sloth or giant short-faced bear specter. I’m slowed but not stopped. Big shapes moving through grey air, Pleistocene in size. Whatever it was, it was furry and smelled like wet dog.

In a Target parking lot, Dwarf and I are resting on the hood of a Celica, and Pingpong’s walking off his run. The last of the Sun’s sucking itself down a hole in a row of buildings.

Proto flapjacks turn out to be not so good; I can feel the batter sloshing around in my gut, and the feeling’s turning into a sick pressure. Dwarf says to puke myself, so I stick my hand in my mouth, which is easy due to the fact that my jaw’s become unhingeable, and trigger a huge vomit event, after which I feel much lighter. The parking lot’s almost empty, and we bisect it looking for a place to hide. There’s a field behind the Target, and we lay down in it, wherever, in a pile, because as a group we are suddenly exhausted. I fall asleep thinking that Love has been killed by Disease, and I dream about Bog Man’s previously encarcassed self, killing things, and then it’s dawn again, like the movements of the solar system have been sped up, then slowed down.

Pingpong’s dead; we find him fetally posed in a few yards from last night’s sleeping spot. At first it looks like he’s levitating, but it turns out he’s not: he’s stiff and balanced on a piece of wood. Dwarf sticks two fingers on the side of his neck to make sure of the dead part. He falls off the wood. There’s a smoggy-looking cloud to my right, so thin it’s almost a smell. That’s Bog Man. Apparently, he got to kill something after all, but it’s impossible to say how he might feel about it, since he never communicated much even when he could write, and now he’s reduced to a fume. At this point a voice speaks to us in our backbones, at the top where the spine meets the skull. The effect is really unpleasant, like someone yelling into a fifty-five gallon drum, and you’re the drum. The voice tells us that killing Pingpong was actually an accident, and that the voice’s name is Eeyore.

I look at Dwarf, and for some reason we are running.

Your name sounds a lot like Eeyore, I say out loud.

It doesn’t matter, says the voice. Do what I say.

california desert pioneering evidence

This is a “cave” in Joshua Tree National Park, near the boundary, that, according to my book of hikes, was built in the 40′s as a waystation of sorts between a certain area of the exterior of the park and Barker Dam inside, where there is a small lake. Over the years the boulder cave has been stocked to varying degrees and log-booked. We got there the hard way, from within the park, through, among other things, a “challenging” boulder-filled canyon which turned out ot be rather dangerous. Known as “Oh-Bay-Yo-Yo,” the shelter is not on the topo map, and we found it through luck more than anything. The above-mentioned book has what we found to be a cursory description of the route to the cave, but when you’re out there (in the Wonderland of Rocks area, also a Bighorn Sheep preserve) everything looks exactly the same: massive piles of car-sized boulders separated by washes and yucca plants. I’ve read that you can obtain the UTM coordinates from friendly rangers. Inside we found a fire pit, some logs for sitting, battered kitchen utensils, greeting cards (blank), a hardened suitcase containing various paper items, pens, a can opener, some dead lighters, and a spiral-bound logbook.

revolutionary poop from Oregon

“We know a human made this turd, whereas we don’t know if that was a campfire.”

The items pictured above are coprolites, or fossilized shit, found in desert caves1 in the Paisley 5 Mile Ridge in South-central Oregon. One of these has maybe finally laid to rest the much-challenged date of first human colonization of North America, or the “Clovis-first” theory. Coprolites are part of a larger group of animal remains called ichnotaxa, including also gastroliths, regurgitaliths, nests, cocoons and pupal cases. The challenging of a predominant scientific theory is not rare (for evidence, see the ‘Out of Africa’ model, which attempts to explain the origins of modern humanity, and which is squared off with the multiregionalist model; the fight’s not nearly over), and so The Clovis date (based on a particular kind of stone tool found in the ’30s in Clovis, New Mexico and subsequently elsewhere), which has been challenged before, is now most strongly threatened by the hard evidence of ancient turds. After a new DNA extraction technique found unmistakable human DNA in samples from the Paisley coprolites (as well as certain genetic markers found only in Native American populations), the archaeologist whose students found them, Dennis Jenkins from the University of Oregon, sent samples to two different labs for radio carbon dating, and the results were identical: the excretion moment of these turds was 14,300 years ago, making them the oldest remains-based evidence of modern humans ever found in North America.

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  1. I emailed Dr. Jenkins, because I was concerned about the proximity of the shit to possible food-prep areas. He wrote back to say that feces were usually deposited in certain areas of a cave, such as cracks, pits, etc., or just outside. These were caches for later use in case of emergency, since many seeds would pass through the digestive tracts of the cave-dwellers un-digested. These could be recovered, cleaned and reconsumed. He also mentioned that the Seri indians of Sonora, Mexico refer to this practice as the second harvest.