MACHINE: You have reached the Pilotless Drone Wrongful Death Hotline. For service in English, press or say one. For service in Spanish, press or say two. For service in Arabic, press three. Urdu, four. Pashtun, five. Farsi, six. For all other languages, please visit your local consulate. WIDOW: One. M: Was your loved one a US citizen? W: Yes, he was from New Orl— M: Was your loved one on active duty in any branch of the US military? W: No, he worked at McDonald’s. M: Did the incident involve an illegal border crossing? W: No! He was on his way to work. M: Did it occur on US soil? W: Yes!! M: Was this a moving violation? W: He was speeding when it— M: Please say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Was this a moving violation? W: Yes. M: Enter the GPS coordinates of the incident. W: <tone, tone, tone, tone, tone, tone, tone, tone> M: Was your loved one [switches to second voice] Tom Molineaux? W: Yes, he was. M: The responsible pilotless drone will be punished by reboot at 0600 tomorrow morning. Your reference number for this claim is 4927495-F. PHOTO: From this LA Times article.

MACHINE: You have reached the Pilotless Drone Wrongful Death Hotline. For service in English, press or say one. For service in Spanish, press or say two. For service in Arabic, press three. Urdu, four. Pashtun, five. Farsi, six. For all other languages, please visit your local consulate.

WIDOW: One.

M: Was your loved one a US citizen?

W: Yes, he was from New Orl—

M: Was your loved one on active duty in any branch of the US military?

W: No, he worked at McDonald’s.

M: Did the incident involve an illegal border crossing?

W: No! He was on his way to work.

M: Did it occur on US soil?

W: Yes!!

M: Was this a moving violation?

W: He was speeding when it—

M: Please say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Was this a moving violation?

W: Yes.

M: Enter the GPS coordinates of the incident.

W: <tone, tone, tone, tone, tone, tone, tone, tone>

M: Was your loved one [switches to second voice] Tom Molineaux?

W: Yes, he was.

M: The responsible pilotless drone will be punished by reboot at 0600 tomorrow morning. Your reference number for this claim is 4927495-F.

PHOTO: From this LA Times article.

A few anti-ageing zealots already subsist on near-starvation diets, but Dr Levine’s results suggest a similar effect might be gained in a much more agreeable way, via vigorous exercise.
http://www.economist.com/node/21543129
Pierre stopped a mugging on Rue de la Roquette, a few blocks from the Bastille. He tackled a skinny boy trying to run away with an old woman&#8217;s purse. It was the first time he understood why people had always said he was special, and over the following weeks he developed his powers in secret. His lightning speed carried him to the bus before it pulled away. He used his X-ray vision to inspect the lacy underthings of girls on the street until he decided that this was behavior unsuitable for a superhero. When his grandmother needed help carrying her groceries upstairs, it was Pierre&#8217;s miraculous strength that did the trick. Although he needed to protect his secret identity, he began to drop hints to Marie, his girlfriend. She didn&#8217;t believe him, of course, saying things like, &#8220;Of course your grandmother says you&#8217;re strong, she also says you&#8217;re handsome and clever, but that doesn&#8217;t make it true.&#8221; Pierre, unfazed, continued to improve his control over the gift. Finally, early one evening, he decided it was time to demonstrate his finest power. Marie came to meet him to go to the cinema. When she rang the bell he stepped out onto the balcony, stood calmly at the railing with his hands in his pockets, and called down: &#8220;Marie! I am here.&#8221; &#8220;C&#8217;mon, Pierre, we&#8217;re going to be late.&#8221; &#8220;I just want to show you one thing, then we can go,&#8221; he said with a huge grin, and then — without a moment&#8217;s hesitation — he stepped off the railing and flew down head first to meet her.

Pierre stopped a mugging on Rue de la Roquette, a few blocks from the Bastille. He tackled a skinny boy trying to run away with an old woman’s purse. It was the first time he understood why people had always said he was special, and over the following weeks he developed his powers in secret.

His lightning speed carried him to the bus before it pulled away. He used his X-ray vision to inspect the lacy underthings of girls on the street until he decided that this was behavior unsuitable for a superhero. When his grandmother needed help carrying her groceries upstairs, it was Pierre’s miraculous strength that did the trick.

Although he needed to protect his secret identity, he began to drop hints to Marie, his girlfriend. She didn’t believe him, of course, saying things like, “Of course your grandmother says you’re strong, she also says you’re handsome and clever, but that doesn’t make it true.” Pierre, unfazed, continued to improve his control over the gift.

Finally, early one evening, he decided it was time to demonstrate his finest power. Marie came to meet him to go to the cinema. When she rang the bell he stepped out onto the balcony, stood calmly at the railing with his hands in his pockets, and called down: “Marie! I am here.”

“C’mon, Pierre, we’re going to be late.”

“I just want to show you one thing, then we can go,” he said with a huge grin, and then — without a moment’s hesitation — he stepped off the railing and flew down head first to meet her.

Pale old Finucane pulled his horses, who pulled his plow, all so slowly going over a stoney field under grey skies.

Every time he would pass the window of Widow Jones — the newly widowed Widow Jones, it must be noted — he’d pause a moment to listen to her sobbing within, think for a moment and start again.

It was on the morning of the third day of her mourning that he abandoned his work, bit the inside of his cheek hard and worked himself up into a weeping fit before knocking on her door.

Peeping around the door, she saw the state of him and asked:

— Ah, Finucane, what’s the matter?

— I’ve lost my wife who was so dear to me, and seeing you here lamenting your lost husband, I came to thinking: shouldn’t we live together as husband and wife, each doing for the other now that we’re both alone?

She thought it over, posing a few objections that he handily dismissed, until they had agreed that it was to be. Their tears dry and with their smiles newly shining, he gave her a chaste peck on the cheek and returned to field to find his horses and plow gone and stolen!

He set to wailing and shouting and bemoaning his loss, which brought the widow out of her cottage.

— You’re still grieving?

— I am, and this time I mean it!

The Diary of Sebastian Van Der Sloot We were the first civilized men to reach the island. The natives greeted us at the beach, carrying garlands of flowers and fresh fruit. The men, who had been at sea for two months, thought it a kind of paradise. I suppose they were right in a way. These simple people were living in naive cooperation. They helped us build a group of huts at the edge of their village, and we explored and charted the region while our linguists studied their barbaric tongue. Once it was possible, we explained, via translation, that our faith demands competition, winners, losers. They seemed, at first, to understand, showing us the games they play at festivals — wrestling, putting stones, something like the caber toss. At the next festival, we gave the winner of each competition a reward of tobacco, the natives&#8217; most esteemed trade good. The losers expected us to share with them as well, but we made it clear that smokes are for winners. The next festival featured more fearsome competition, including eye gouges during the wrestling. We increased the prize. Within a year they were charging each other tobacco for food, shelter and assistance. We had brought the faith and discipline of the market to these savages, demonstrating once more that it is eternal, immutable — God&#8217;s law. At the beginning of the summer of our second year on the island, the chief and his sons came to our huts dressed as if for hunting, bare-loined with spears in hand. He told us they had learnt a great deal from us, and that they were thankful for our visit, and then asked: &#8220;Your ship, is it whole?&#8221; &#8220;Of course.&#8221; &#8220;Can it carry you back to your homeland?&#8221; &#8220;Yes, with luck and God&#8217;s will.&#8221; &#8220;Will you leave now and never return?&#8221; Their faces and spears told us that though he phrased it as a question, they weren&#8217;t asking. Ungrateful savages. PHOTO: Men of Bathurst Island, C L A Abbott, 1939.

The Diary of Sebastian Van Der Sloot

We were the first civilized men to reach the island. The natives greeted us at the beach, carrying garlands of flowers and fresh fruit. The men, who had been at sea for two months, thought it a kind of paradise. I suppose they were right in a way.

These simple people were living in naive cooperation. They helped us build a group of huts at the edge of their village, and we explored and charted the region while our linguists studied their barbaric tongue. Once it was possible, we explained, via translation, that our faith demands competition, winners, losers. They seemed, at first, to understand, showing us the games they play at festivals — wrestling, putting stones, something like the caber toss.

At the next festival, we gave the winner of each competition a reward of tobacco, the natives’ most esteemed trade good. The losers expected us to share with them as well, but we made it clear that smokes are for winners. The next festival featured more fearsome competition, including eye gouges during the wrestling. We increased the prize.

Within a year they were charging each other tobacco for food, shelter and assistance. We had brought the faith and discipline of the market to these savages, demonstrating once more that it is eternal, immutable — God’s law.

At the beginning of the summer of our second year on the island, the chief and his sons came to our huts dressed as if for hunting, bare-loined with spears in hand. He told us they had learnt a great deal from us, and that they were thankful for our visit, and then asked:

“Your ship, is it whole?”

“Of course.”

“Can it carry you back to your homeland?”

“Yes, with luck and God’s will.”

“Will you leave now and never return?”

Their faces and spears told us that though he phrased it as a question, they weren’t asking. Ungrateful savages.

PHOTO: Men of Bathurst Island, C L A Abbott, 1939.

Jared Marechal took his eye from the telescope and wrote in his log book, marking &#8220;no change.&#8221; He had been watching the Earth daily since before the second Indo-Paki War set off American automatic defense measures that had triggered Armageddon, before a series of electromagnetic pulses had destroyed most technology on the surface, and left it — still, thirty years later — a sparsely populated feudal wasteland. &#8220;Sir, the citizens await you at the Biodome assembly field.&#8221; &#8220;Yes, Anderson. Let&#8217;s not keep them waiting.&#8221; Jared walked to the center of the once grassy area reserved for civic assembly, his brown robe trailing him slightly, his head hung down as if by the weight of his grey beard. Climbing onto the podium, he looked out over four generations of Colony families and winced at the hope he saw on the faces of those old enough to know what was happening. As the crowd grew quiet he began: &#8221;Our botanists have had no success combatting the mutant fungi.&#8221; Murmurs rolled through the crowd like leaves do in the wind depicted by Earth films. &#8220;Most of our root stock has been destroyed. Air crops, food crops — both have fallen below sustainable levels.&#8221; The murmurs intensified. Jared held up his hands until they quieted themselves. &#8220;Do not lose hope. We have been in radio contact with Earth, and they have made considerable progress on the rescue ship. We just need to hold out until they get here.&#8221;

Jared Marechal took his eye from the telescope and wrote in his log book, marking “no change.” He had been watching the Earth daily since before the second Indo-Paki War set off American automatic defense measures that had triggered Armageddon, before a series of electromagnetic pulses had destroyed most technology on the surface, and left it — still, thirty years later — a sparsely populated feudal wasteland.

“Sir, the citizens await you at the Biodome assembly field.”

“Yes, Anderson. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Jared walked to the center of the once grassy area reserved for civic assembly, his brown robe trailing him slightly, his head hung down as if by the weight of his grey beard. Climbing onto the podium, he looked out over four generations of Colony families and winced at the hope he saw on the faces of those old enough to know what was happening.

As the crowd grew quiet he began: ”Our botanists have had no success combatting the mutant fungi.” Murmurs rolled through the crowd like leaves do in the wind depicted by Earth films.

“Most of our root stock has been destroyed. Air crops, food crops — both have fallen below sustainable levels.” The murmurs intensified.

Jared held up his hands until they quieted themselves.

“Do not lose hope. We have been in radio contact with Earth, and they have made considerable progress on the rescue ship. We just need to hold out until they get here.”

1.

Friday night, after working a double shift at the diner, Audrey walked in the trailer door, tossed her keys on the table and sank into the sofa, not even stopping to turn on the lights.

After a few minutes, she reached over and lifted from the coffee table a cheap souvenir snow globe that a lover had given her many years before. Moonlight shined in through the open window, illuminating the tiny metropolis within. She shook it gently and watched the falling snow and twinkling lights inside, shimmering almost as if they were real.

2.

Other than a freak blizzard at Halloween and a few brisk days, the city’s autumn had lasted all the way into January, but that night a layer of fine snow drifted down, coating four hundred years of grime with a temporary whitewash.

Snow muted the city’s sounds and made it seem like anything was possible, like magic was real just for that one night.

In Chinatown, an ancient ex-ballerina pushed a shopping trolley full of bottles and cans down the street, its wheels drawing ledger lines in the show, her dancing feet dotting those lines with the notes of a symphony long forgotten.

On the city’s most famous bridge a suicide jumper reconsidered his decision after an owl flew down and regarded him with curiosity from the railing. In another borough, an estranged son called his mother to tell her that he loved her.

3.

Audrey set down the snow globe and drifted off to sleep, feeling at peace without knowing why or how.

Freckles

The most disturbing paragraph of non-fiction I’ve read this month:

But Freckles is a long way from normal. She is an extraordinary creation, an animal that could not have existed at any point in history before the 21st century. She is all goat, but she has something extra in every one of her cells: Freckles is also part spider.

The process of writing has something infinite about it. Even though it is interrupted each night, it is one single notation.
Elias Canetti

Leonard Cohen Interview

When asked if he works out ideas by writing songs:

“I think you work out something. I wouldn’t call them ideas. I think ideas are what you want to get rid of. I don’t really like songs with ideas. They tend to become slogans. They tend to be on the right side of things: ecology or vegetarianism or antiwar. All these are wonderful ideas but I like to work on a song until those slogans, as wonderful as they are and as wholesome as the ideas they promote are, dissolve into deeper convictions of the heart. I never set out to write a didactic song. It’s just my experience. All I’ve got to put in a song is my own experience.”