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6e1a1801-96c1-3812-7287-91085efec8d7
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['003af7ab-e2df-f444-99cb-644980b9baac']
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their plastic pots, wearing a pair of protective gloves to guard against the thorns, and position them in the tub with the taller roses at the back. Try to disturb the roots as little as you can. Pack in some more potting mix and press down firmly.
4 Take the snow-in-summer plants out of their pots and plant them around the base of the roses. Fill any gaps with more potting mix and give the tub a thorough water.
tip:
In spring mulch around the plants with well-rotted manure or garden compost. Apply rose fertilizer at the start of the growing season and again in early summer. Deadhead the roses throughout the growing season
pretty vintage tin
I like the idea of a garden that you can move round with you as you go about your day. This lovely old cookie tin has been put to good use and is now home to some pretty, small-scale plants that create a sweet little garden with a real feel of a wildflower meadow in summer.
materials
**Old tin**
**Fine gravel**
**Potting mix**
**Plants:**
_Campanula pulla_ 'Alba' (bellflower)
_Erigeron karvinskianus_ (fleabane)
_Penstemon pinifolius_ 'Mersea Yellow'
_Rhodanthemum catananche_ 'Tizi-n-Tichka'
_Rhodohypoxis_ 'Midori'
_Thymus serpyllum_ 'Vey'
1 Make holes in the bottom of the tin (see page 8) and cover the bottom with a layer of gravel to improve drainage. Put some potting mix on top of the layer of gravel.
2 Take the plants out of their plastic pots and gently remove some of the potting mix from around the roots. Arrange the plants in the tin, putting the taller plants toward the back. Press more potting mix around the plants and push the mix down firmly. Keep the tin well watered and remember to place it on a tray to catch the drips while you water.
metal dish displays
I love to cram lots of different plants into containers in order to create a blaze of color or a lush jungle of foliage, but sometimes less really is more. Using just three plants in some lovely old metal dishes creates a truly elegant miniature garden that has a beautiful simplicity about it.
materials
**Shallow metal dishes**
**Long nail and hammer**
**Small drainage crocks**
**Fine gravel**
**Potting mix** with a few handfuls of sand added
**Crushed shells**
**Plants:**
_Aethionema_ 'Warley Rose' (stone cress)
Pink _Armeria maritima_ 'Splendens' and white _A. maritima_ 'Alba' (sea thrift)
_Dodecatheon meadia_ f. album (shooting stars)
_Jeffersonia dubia_ (Asian twin leaf)
_Oxalis adenophylla_ (sauer klee)
_Saxifraga_ 'Red Pixie' (saxifrage)
_Sedum spathulifolium_ (stonecrop)
1 Make some drainage holes in the bottom of each of the metal dishes using the long nail and hammer (see page 8).
2 Cover the holes with a few small crocks for drainage and then place some of the fine gravel in the bottom of the dish.
3 Scoop potting mix into the dish. Take the plants out of their plastic pots and arrange them on top of the potting mix. Pack more mix around the plants, firming in well to hold the plants in place.
4 Cover the potting
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7eea2004-4abf-a762-5953-b83bfbe472b3
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['003af7ab-e2df-f444-99cb-644980b9baac']
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the moss to make a path for the fairies and add miniature toadstools (either store-bought or made from some modeling clay) and other fairy accessories to finish off.
tip:
If the fairies in your area are a little shy, you can easily make your own with a wooden clothes pin. Create a fairy dress with primula leaves, tied to the body with a raffia bow, and add a flower hat to finish.
succulents in drawers
Old wooden drawers of varying shapes and sizes make great containers for a succulent garden. Succulents have shallow root systems so do not need particularly deep containers. These drawers had gaps in the joints, so I didn't need to make drainage holes, but you can drill a few holes in each drawer before you start.
materials
**Selection of wooden drawers** in different sizes
**Gravel**
**Potting mix** with a few handfuls of sand added
**Fine gravel**
**Selection of succulents such as:**
_Aeonium_ 'Zwartkop'
_Crassula ovata_ (money plant)
_Crassula rupestris_ var. _marnieriana_ (jade necklace)
_Echeveria gibbiflora_ var. _metallica_
_Echeveria secunda_ var. _glauca_
_Graptopetalum paraguayense_ (ghost plant)
_Jovibarba sobolifera_
_Saxifraga cuneifolia_ (shield-leaved saxifrage)
_Sedum rupestre, S. rupestre_ 'Angelina,' and _S. rupestre_ 'Aureum' (stone orpine)
1 Arrange the drawers on the surface where you will eventually display your succulent garden. Make sure that all of the drawers are stable.
2 Put a few handfuls of the coarser gravel in the bottom of each drawer to help with drainage.
tip:
The garden should be kept in a warm, sheltered spot. Protect it from too much rain if you can and provide good drainage by putting holes in the drawers and plenty of sand in the potting mix if they are in a very exposed site.
3 Sprinkle some potting mix into each drawer and compartment, filling them until they are about two-thirds full.
4 Take the plants out of their plastic pots and remove any excess potting mix. Plant them in the drawers, spreading out the roots as much as you can. Add more potting mix to hold the plants in place.
5 Cover the surface of the potting mix with the fine gravel, which will help prevent the leaves of the plants rotting if they come into contact with the surface. Water and leave to drain.
topiary garden
These miniature conifers, with their different shades of green and interesting foliage textures, make a very cute little garden. Any small containers will work, but these sweet galvanized tubs work especially well. Alternatively, you can plant the conifers in one big galvanized tub to create a miniature evergreen forest.
materials
**Small galvanized buckets**
**Drainage crocks**
**Gravel**
**Potting mix**
**Moss** (available from florists)
**Plants:**
_Chamaecyparis lawsoniana_ 'Ellwoodii,' _C. lawsoniana_ 'Ellwood's Gold,' _C. lawsoniana_ 'Snow White' (<PERSON> cypress)
_Chamaecyparis pisifera_ 'Boulevard' (Sawara cypress)
_Thuja occidentalis_ 'Teddy' (white cedar)
_Thuja plicata Goldy_ (Western red cedar)
1 Make a few holes in the bottom of the buckets (see page 8) and cover with a few drainage crocks. Put a little gravel in the bottom of each bucket.
2 Scoop a little potting mix into the first bucket.
|
8b69a342-4834-616e-9b16-15b5634f9353
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Community Choice energy programs are a natural vehicle for implementing this new energy model.
# **More Than Just Another Utility**
The above discussion has tried to make the case that Community Choice energy, by placing control of the electricity system in community hands, provides a vehicle for creating the kind of decentralized energy system that can deliver a host of economic, environmental, and equity benefits to our communities.
That is not to say that such benefits are a foregone conclusion.
In fact, many Community Choice energy programs have led to quite different results. Take the case of Illinois, for example, where a few years ago hundreds of communities established Community Choice programs and on that basis were able to shift their purchase of electricity from Consolidated Edison, which had procured relatively costly coal-based electricity sources, to new electricity providers based on cheaper fracked natural gas electricity-generating sources. That meant cheaper electricity for those communities; it also meant an expansion of the extreme fossil fuel extraction method called fracking.
Many of these communities, in an effort to claim that they were reducing greenhouse gas emissions, purchased large numbers of unbundled renewable energy certificates (RECs) on what is called the voluntary REC market. Basically, these unbundled RECs are simply paper certificates and do not add to new renewable energy production.12 In fact, in Illinois, because these RECs were used to greenwash fossil fuel-sourced energy, the market for real renewable power nearly evaporated, suppressing wind energy production in the state.
So the impact of Community Choice in Illinois was not only to encourage fracking but to suppress wind-powered renewable energy in the region as well.
The lesson of this story is that Community Choice is merely a vehicle; it is not a destination. Without a clear destination and a good driver, this vehicle can take us in the wrong direction, to the wrong place.
For a Community Choice program to deliver economic, environmental, and equity benefits to our communities, it cannot be seen as just another locally based utility that simply buys and sells electricity to residents and businesses. Nevertheless, a number of Community Choice programs in California, like those in Illinois, are based primarily on purchasing electricity on the market or from remote generating sources for sale to their customers. This approach is known as Community Choice Version 1.0.
To achieve the kind of decentralized energy system that can deliver economic, environmental, and equity benefits to our communities requires a different community-development approach, known as Community Choice Version 2.0.13
Community Choice Version 2.0 is substantially different from the standard utility model, as shown in table 8–1.
# **The Strategy: Put the Community in Community Choice**
The powerful potential of Community Choice Version 2.0 energy programs to deliver economic, environmental, and equity benefits to our communities rests with our communities exercising real control of these programs. While Community Choice represents a shift of energy decision making away from the incumbent private utility into a public agency, such institutional restructuring will represent a democratization of energy _only if_ our communities are actively involved in shaping Community
|
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well as the attitudes of activists, politicians, and homeowners. One lesson for other movements is that it can be more effective to start with a small, doable, impactful project and build, expand, diversify, and scale from there.
A decade after the Mt. Pleasant Solar Cooperative formed, the District of Columbia is now one of the most solar-friendly cities in America, home to one of the hottest solar markets in the country. Most important, the market is supported by activists from all parts of the city, not merely in the upper-class Northwest quadrant, but also in Anacostia, in Southwest DC, and Brookland, in Northeast DC. With the landmark Solar for All program, DC has the potential to show the rest of the country how solar can truly transform energy markets to benefit all its residents.
# **The CPN Co-Op Model**
Community Power Network (CPN), the national initiative that grew out of DC Solar United Neighborhoods (DC SUN), built on these early experiences working with neighbors across DC to refine its community-led solar co-op model. Solar co-ops today are similar to the Mt. Pleasant project, but the process has become much more efficient, professional, and streamlined. What took the Mt. Pleasant Solar Cooperative two years can now be completed in nine months or less.
The central idea of a neighborhood solar purchase co-op is to enable a group of neighbors to go solar together and get a bulk discount, thereby making solar more affordable and accessible. By going solar as a group, participants save on the cost of their system and get support from their peers as they go through the process. The process is still democratically run by the local community, but CPN provides professional technical assistance so that each group does not have to reinvent the wheel and can benefit from the experience of previous co-ops.
As the local group goes through the solar co-op process, it learns about solar technology, installation, financing options, and policies that impact its ability to go solar. Common barriers include restrictive fire codes and homeowners association rules; net metering limitations; weak or nonexistent RPS standards; and cumbersome permitting, inspections, or interconnection practices. Through engagement in the co-op process, people come to understand how energy policy is made and what kinds of actions are needed to change it. They are motivated to take action because these barriers directly impact their ability to put solar on their own homes.
# **CPN'S FOUR-PHASE PROCESS**
The co-op model Community Power Network has developed is a four-phase process. In the first phase, CPN works with a local community partner to spread the word about the co-op, create excitement about solar, and recruit residents to attend information sessions. This local community partner can be a nonprofit, a church, a local government agency, or simply a group of individuals. At information sessions, CPN explains the co-op process, solar technology and installation, financing, and policy issues, in addition to answering the many detailed questions people ask about solar. Interested homeowners can then join the co-op online. After a participants sign up, CPN does a
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they were sent. You should aim to be the initiator of a chain of good impressions rather than that of a succession of bad impressions.
Being the bearer of bad news — how to do it well
Certain patterns of expression can be used in responding to a range of bad news situations. These patterns offer ways of conveying the bad news indirectly, with tact and sensitivity. Be wary, however, of adopting an unthinking, formulaic approach — many readers will detect such insincerity, and will find it as offensive as a blunt, rude one-line note.
Kisses, kicks, buffers and sandwiches
As has been noted, it is good elementary psychology to embed a bad news message inside a more positive communication. This means opening, and probably closing, your letter with good news or neutral information. This approach is sometimes called the bad news sandwich approach, in which the bad news is surrounded or buffered by other material, or the blow or kick you deliver is softened by the kisses that precede and follow it (see table 2.2).
Table 2.2: the bad news sandwich
Section of sandwich | Effect
---|---
Buffer | Kiss
Bad news | Kick
Buffer | Kiss
A buffer of more positive words and ideas will help soften the blow of bad news. Opening buffers are used to:
* express appreciation
* restate the situation
* explore common areas of agreement
* offer reasons or explanations
* offer alternatives.
Buffers can be used separately and sequentially, or can be combined in a variety of ways, depending on your style preferences.
Appreciation buffers
Appreciation is usually expressed in the opening remarks as shown in table 2.3.
Table 2.3: expressions of appreciation
What is appreciated | How expressed
---|---
Efforts of recipient in having written/made contact | 'Thank you for taking the time to notify us of the difficulties you have been experiencing with your ...'
Good taste of recipient in having chosen our product | 'We appreciate your interest in the Excelsior range of marine insurance policies ...'
Restatement buffers
Restating the situation allows you, the writer, not only to put off the bad news but also to define the parameters of the issue, or just what it is that you and the reader are concerned with. Perceptions of a situation can vary from individual to individual, and your reader may see things differently from you, so it is worth going through this exercise. The details of a situation may, of course, already be summarised succinctly in the subject line, but a restatement in the text of the letter will further clarify the matter. Restatements are often combined with appreciations, for instance, 'Thank you for contacting us regarding your order of 6 June for 32 gross of our Kaylite S30 metabolic transducers ...'
Agreement buffers
It is useful for the writer to express some type of agreement in the opening of a bad news letter, even though all
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|
a phone book, directory, catalogue or other reference book, they will also consult only that information they need, disregarding the rest. Most people read instruction manuals in order to do rather than to learn and so may pick only the content most immediately relevant (a strategy not without peril, of course). In all such texts, although we may not always read them from beginning to end, but rather select the information we need, the documents are in most cases constructed in a linear way.
Online writing, on the other hand, while it developed from traditional writing, tends more to non-linear or mosaic forms than traditional print-based narrative and descriptive text. Conventional writing is two-dimensional — a page has horizontal and vertical dimensions. In most language traditions, the reader starts at the top left of the page, moves across the line to the right margin, then repeats the process, moving down the page, turning the page when necessary. Online writing adds a third 'dimension' within the screen space with hypertext, or electronic links to other parts of the document or to other documents or websites (see figure 6.1).
Figure 6.1: the 3-D mosaic of writing in the online space
Therefore, a book on animals may be constructed as shown in figure 6.2.
Figure 6.2: a linear/narrative approach
On the other hand, a website on the same topic may be constructed as shown in figure 6.3.
Figure 6.3: a non-linear/mosaic approach — hyperlinking is two-way
In the non-linear approach, hypertext links are indicated by underlined text, often in a different colour to indicate that the words are 'hot' — that is, electronically linked to other pages or sites.
In the non-linear example (figure 6.3), the reader can access online information (here the second-level pages are labelled 2A, 2B, 2C and 2D) in any sequence, rather than being constrained by the linear approach most often followed by a book treatment of the same content.
The reader may choose to 'drill down' through multiple structural levels of information or follow a different sequence entirely. This type of branching structure is common in online games and learning modules. The process has much in common with flow-charting, where 'if-then' logic is used to cover a variety of permutations and combinations of events. The online screen, then, has advantages and disadvantages when communicating information (see table 6.1).
Table 6.1: advantages and disadvantages of online/mosaic writing when compared with linear/narrative exposition in hard copy
Advantages | Disadvantages
---|---
Able to hyperlink areas of content | Less information can be contained in a typical single screen than in a typical printed page
Gives the reader more control when interacting with the content and determining the sequence in which the content will be explored or navigated | Screen text may not be as legible as printed page
Able to show movement or animation | More reader effort is needed to scroll horizontally and vertically through screen text than to look at different parts of a printed page
Able to convey sound |
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the plastic falls in sheets
from the back of that animal at the bottom,
the wind tosses them like the ears of a spaniel on the run
and we see the ribs;
let the world not play dumb!
Everyone has a skeleton inside him,
and the snow is a clot,
not powdered sugar.
<PERSON>
To, co się tutaj dzieje
i nad czym nie umiem ciągle zapanować
(cieknący kran, jakiś pies idiota pod oknem),
to przez pieniądze.
Nie starczyło ich, abym mógł
do ciebie pojechać.
POEM AGAINST MONEY
What goes on here
and what I cannot always control
(the dripping faucet, some idiot dog under the window),
is all due to money.
There isn't enough to be able
to visit you.
<PERSON> WIADRZE
Nie wierzę, że wpadłaś tutaj z własnej winy
ani że cię upuścił jakiś ptak koszykarz.
To za to, że ukryłem resztę swoich rzeczy
i to rzucanie w szyby przestało mnie budzić.
Nie myślę, aby w studni gnił ktoś z twej rodziny,
ale mogę jeść śnieg, póki leży. Z myciem
będzie przez trochę jak w ciemnym dzieciństwie,
gdy kryłem twarz w mydlinach po silniejszym bracie.
Odpinam żerdź żurawia i niosąc cię, myślę,
że miałaś swe pięć minut – pięć, bo jesteś mniejsza;
wrzucam cię między śmieci i powoli wracam,
wiadro dla dezynfekcji zostaje na mrozie.
Parę dni mnie nie było, więc ściany w pokoju
zużyły wszystek tlen. Podchodzę do okna i
wietrząc, palcem na szybie szyfruję bez klucza:
"pierścień okrążenia nagle się zacisnął".
A MOUSE IN A BUCKET
I can't believe you fell in here by your own fault
or that some bird basketball player has dropped you.
It's payback for my putting away the rest of my stuff
and that tapping on windows that no longer wakes me.
I don't think any of your relatives is rotting in the well,
but I can eat snow, as long as it's here. Washing
will be like it was during my dark childhood,
when I hid my face in the soapy water left by my stronger brother.
I detach the rod from the pump and, carrying you, think
that you've had your five minutes—five, because you're smaller;
I throw you between the trash and slowly come back,
leaving the bucket for the cold to disinfect.
I was gone a few days, so the walls in the room
used up all the oxygen. I walk over to the window and
airing out, I encrypt, with my finger on the glass, without a code:
"The ring of encirclement has suddenly tightened."
<PERSON>
Zimą, gdy mróz przenika przez ściany,
otwory w swetrze i skórę,
nie uciekniesz stąd,
choć miasto nawołuje najgłośniej.
Ani wiosną. A ona zbudzi wiejskich włamywaczy,
potem komary
i przejdzie na koniec w najsurowsze – lato.
Jesienią wilgoć w kątach,
za szafą, za tapczanem sypiące się farba i tynk,
smród, od którego boli głowa.
Do latryny, pod studnię i dół ze śmieciami,
trzy wąskie ścieżki wydeptane w trawie –
nie uciekniesz jesienią.
MARLEWO
In winter, when frost penetrates the walls,
the holes in one's sweater and skin,
you won't escape from
|
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|
it that I can't
find anything in them? <PERSON>'s?
Mine? Or maybe yours—
you, the owner of the tape player
with which I dine and sleep?
Where are you?
ZIMĄ, NA TRZY GODZINY PRZED ŚWITEM
Zimą, na trzy godziny przed świtem
nawołują się na przedmieściach
jak wilki, pociągi z nocą
opuszczoną do połowy masztu.
Okna domu naszego tak nisko,
otwarte okiennice i wiatr
lekko uderza o ścianę
skrzydłami z pogiętej blachy.
Wolno trawi deski podłogi
wilgoć i czuć w powietrzu
woń gnijącego drewna,
a ubrania stają się cięższe.
Ogrzewamy strzępy pościeli
i ciała przy stygnącym piecu.
IN WINTER, THREE HOURS BEFORE DAWN
In winter, three hours before dawn,
they're calling to each other in the suburbs,
like wolves, trains and the night
lowered to half-mast.
Our house's windows so low,
the shutters are open and the wind
strikes the wall lightly
with twisted metal wings.
The floorboards are slowly digested
by moisture and the air is filled
with the smell of rotting wood,
and clothes are growing heavier.
We're heating shreds of bed sheets
and bodies beside the cooling oven.
TWO
PAN P. WYZNAJE: NIE JESTEM MIEJSKIM PARTYZANTEM
Nigdy nie byłem miejskim partyzantem.
<PERSON> w barze to dla mnie udręka,
kolejne rzadko pamiętam. Ubrania służą mi do okrywania
ciała, napojami gaszę pragnienie.
W kwestii seksu mam do powiedzenia niewiele –
tak, jestem niesprawiedliwy wobec własnych myśli
i niech tak może zostanie. Widziałem parę filmów,
żaden nie wydał mi się dość dobry, podobnie
było z płytami, na wystawy chodzę w sobotę.
Tylko weekendowe wydania gazety,
jeden tygodnik na tydzień, trzy czwarte miesięcznika.
Sprawy osobiste względnie uporządkowane.
W polityce zawsze po stronie opozycji,
w futbolu za napastnikami. Żadnych napisów na koszulkach.
Okulary słoneczne prędzej włożyłbym sobie w tyłek
niż na głowę, bardzo przepraszam.
Życie nie musi sprawiać mi przyjemności,
sam na nie zapracowałem. Cisza wcześnie rano
we własnym mieszkaniu. Przedział drugiej klasy
w pociągu na przedmieściach, wieczorem, ze mną w środku.
<PERSON>, sprawny prysznic. <PERSON>.
MR. P. CONFESSES: I'M NOT AN URBAN GUERRILLA
I've never been an urban guerrilla.
The first hour in the bar is torture for me,
I rarely remember the ones after. I use clothes for covering
my body, drinks for quenching my thirst.
About sex I've got very little to say—
yes, I'm unfair to my own thoughts
and perhaps that's for the best. I've seen a few films,
none seemed good enough, and the same
goes for records; I attend exhibitions on Saturday.
Only the weekend edition of the newspaper,
one weekly per week, three-quarters of a monthly.
My personal affairs are fairly in order.
In politics, always on the side of the opposition,
in soccer, always behind the forwards. No slogans on the T-shirts.
I'd sooner stick sunglasses up my ass
than on my head, excusez-moi.
Life doesn't necessarily have to give me pleasure,
I've earned it myself. Early morning silence
in my own apartment. Second-class compartment
on the suburban train, in the evening, with me inside.
A bed, a working shower. Cheap, of course.
PAŃSTWO P. I POJAZDY MECHANICZNE
Akcja "Znicz" jak co roku
nie
|
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|
For hundreds of thousands of years: Rahn H, Yokoyama T. _Physiology of Breath-Hold Diving and the Ama of Japan_. Washington, D.C.: National Academy of Sciences–National Research Council; 1965:369.
and some evolutionary theorists: <PERSON> A. Was man more aquatic in the past? _New Scientist_. March 17, 1960. <PERSON> there a _Homo aquaticus_? _Zenith._ 1977;15(1): 4–6.
Generally, most humans: World records. Association Internationale pour le Développement de l'Apnée. www.aidainternational.org/competitive/worlds-records (accessed July 6, 2012).
A number of studies have sought: <PERSON> Physiology and pathophysiology of blood volume regulation. _Transfus Sci_. 1997 Sep;18(3):409–23. <PERSON> Correlation between sectional area of the spleen by ultrasonic tomography and actual volume of the removed spleen. _J Clin Ultrasound_. 1979 Apr;7(2):119–20. <PERSON> is the director of research at Mid Sweden University. Her interest in physiology began after she met native breath-hold divers from several tribes, including Japanese _ama_ and Indonesian Suku Laut and Bajau, who were able to hold their breath for far longer than medical literature stated was possible. <PERSON> has completed a number of studies on the effects of holding the breath on both trained and untrained breath-hold divers. People. Mid Sweden University. www.miun.se/en/Research/Our-Research/Research-groups/epg/About-EPG/People (accessed August 29, 2012).
One of <PERSON>'s studies involved twenty healthy volunteers, including ten who had their spleens removed, to determine the adaptations caused by short-term breath holding. The volunteers performed 5 breath holds of maximum duration (as long as possible for each individual) with a 2-minute rest in between each. The results found that the volunteers with spleens showed a 6.4 percent increase in hematocrit (Hct) and a 3.3 percent increase in hemoglobin concentration (Hb) following the breath holds. This means that after just 5 breath holds, the oxygen-carrying capacity of the blood was significantly improved. However, for the individuals who had their spleens removed, there were no recorded changes to the blood resulting from breath holding. <PERSON> E, <PERSON> JP, <PERSON> M, <PERSON> B. Selected contribution: Role of spleen emptying in prolonging apneas in humans. _Journal of Applied Physiology_. 2001 Apr;90(4):1623–9.
During a separate study by Schagatay, seven male volunteers performed 2 sets of 5 breath holds to near maximal duration, one in air and the other with their faces immersed in water. Each breath hold was separated by 2 minutes of rest and each set separated by 20 minutes. Both Hct and Hb concentration increased by approximately 4 percent across both series of breath holds—in air and in water. Schagatay E, <PERSON> JP, <PERSON> B. Hematological response and diving response during apnea and apnea with face immersion. _Eur J Appl Physiol_. 2007 Sep;101(1):125–32.
The spleen is an organ: Isbister 1997, 409–23.
This means that after as few: <PERSON>, <PERSON>, <PERSON> 2007 Sep, 125–32.
breath-hold divers peaked: A study by <PERSON>´ et al. from University of Split School of Medicine, Croatia, was conducted to investigate spleen responses resulting from 5 maximal breath holds. Ten trained breath-hold divers, ten untrained volunteers, and seven volunteers who had their spleen removed were recruited. The subjects performed 5 maximum breath holds with their face immersed
|
bf1f80b7-fb91-f63f-6fc0-a1d0a051b787
|
['01d4f3bf-de35-b533-4bd3-fb2a02a454e8']
|
provides the potential for an extremely efficient transfer of oxygen to the blood.
As I've explained, oxygen is the fuel that muscles need to work efficiently. It is, however, a common misconception that breathing in a larger volume of air increases the oxygenation of the blood. It is physiologically impossible to increase the oxygen saturation of the blood in this way, because the blood is almost always already fully saturated. It would be like pouring more water into a glass that is already filled to the brim. But what is oxygen saturation exactly, and how does it relate to properly oxygenating our muscles?
Oxygen saturation (SpO2) is the percentage of oxygen-carrying red blood cells (hemoglobin molecules) containing oxygen within the blood. During periods of rest the standard breathing volume for a healthy person is between 4 and 6 liters of air per minute, which results in almost complete oxygen saturation of 95 to 99 percent. Because oxygen is continually diffusing from the blood into the cells, 100 percent saturation is not always feasible. An oxygen saturation of 100 percent would suggest that the bond between red blood cells and oxygen molecules is too strong, reducing the blood cells' ability to deliver oxygen to muscles, organs, and tissues. We need the blood to release oxygen, not hold on to it. The human body actually carries a surplus of oxygen in the blood—75 percent is exhaled during rest and as much as 25 percent is exhaled during physical exercise. Increasing oxygen saturation to 100 percent has no added benefits.
The idea of taking bigger breaths to take in more oxygen is akin to telling an individual who is already eating enough food to provide their daily caloric needs that they need to eat more. Many of my students initially have a hard time grasping this. For years they have been indoctrinated with the "benefits" of taking deep breaths by well-meaning stress counselors, yoga practitioners, physiotherapists, and sports coaches, not to mention the Western media. And it's easy to see why this belief is perpetuated: Taking a large breath can actually feel good, even if it can actually be bad for you. Just as a cat enjoys a good stretch following a midday nap, taking a big breath into the lungs stretches the upper part of the body, allowing a feeling of relaxation to follow. But this leads many to believe that with breathing, bigger is better.
### Regulation of Breathing
There are two main aspects to the way you breathe: the _rate_ or number of breaths you take in the space of 1 minute and the _volume_ or amount of air drawn into your lungs with each breath. Although the two are separate, one generally influences the other.
The volume of each breath of air we inhale and exhale is measured in liters, and measurements are usually taken over 1 minute. In conventional medicine the accepted number of breaths a healthy person takes during that minute is 10 to 12, with each breath drawing in a volume of 500 milliliters of air, for a
|
ac3b878c-5522-2525-498b-a40e303a0bda
|
['01dd6b1a-be66-39ed-d078-c4639defd9b1']
|
at which the old life ends. But is it not happiness enough to be together, wedded in mind and in heart? Listen: I have just left my father. He consents to our union on those terms. I have sufficient influence with the College of Sages to insure their request to the Tur not to interfere with the free choice of a Gy; provided that her wedding with one of another race be but the wedding of souls. Oh, think you that true love needs ignoble union? It is not that I yearn only to be by your side in this life, to be part and parcel of your joys and sorrows here: I ask here for a tie which will bind us for ever and for ever in the world of immortals. Do you reject me?"
As she spoke, she knelt, and the whole character of her face was changed; nothing of sternness left to its grandeur; a divine light, as that of an immortal, shining out from its human beauty. But she rather awed me as an angel than moved me as a woman, and after an embarrassed pause, I faltered forth evasive expressions of gratitude, and sought, as delicately as I could, to point out how humiliating would be my position amongst her race in the light of a husband who might never be permitted the name of father.
"But," said <PERSON>, "this community does not constitute the whole world. No; nor do all the populations comprised in the league of the Vril–ya. For thy sake I will renounce my country and my people. We will fly together to some region where thou shalt be safe. I am strong enough to bear thee on my wings across the deserts that intervene. I am skilled enough to cleave open, amidst the rocks, valleys in which to build our home. Solitude and a hut with thee would be to me society and the universe. Or wouldst thou return to thine own world, above the surface of this, exposed to the uncertain seasons, and lit but by the changeful orbs which constitute by thy description the fickle character of those savage regions? I so, speak the word, and I will force the way for thy return, so that I am thy companion there, though, there as here, but partner of thy soul, and fellow traveller with thee to the world in which there is no parting and no death."
I could not but be deeply affected by the tenderness, at once so pure and so impassioned, with which these words were uttered, and in a voice that would have rendered musical the roughest sounds in the rudest tongue. And for a moment it did occur to me that I might avail myself of <PERSON>'s agency to effect a safe and speedy return to the upper world. But a very brief space for reflection sufficed to show me how dishonourable and base a return for such devotion it would be to allure thus away, from her own people and a home in which I
|
dcb220a0-fc26-0bcd-e44a-68aecfbbd8d9
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['01dd6b1a-be66-39ed-d078-c4639defd9b1']
|
Gy, so learned, so tall, so stately, so much above the standard of the creature we call woman as was <PERSON>, no! even if I had felt no fear of being reduced to a cinder, it is not of her I should have dreamed in that bower so constructed for dreams of poetic love.
The automata reappeared, serving one of those delicious liquids which form the innocent wines of the Vril–ya.
"Truly," said I, "this is a charming residence, and I can scarcely conceive why you do not settle yourself here instead of amid the gloomier abodes of the city."
"As responsible to the community for the administration of light, I am compelled to reside chiefly in the city, and can only come hither for short intervals."
"But since I understand from you that no honours are attached to your office, and it involves some trouble, why do you accept it?"
"Each of us obeys without question the command of the Tur. He said, 'Be it requested that <PERSON> shall be the Commissioner of Light,' so I had no choice; but having held the office now for a long time, the cares, which were at first unwelcome, have become, if not pleasing, at least endurable. We are all formed by custom—even the difference of our race from the savage is but the transmitted continuance of custom, which becomes, through hereditary descent, part and parcel of our nature. You see there are Ana who even reconcile themselves to the responsibilities of chief magistrate, but no one would do so if his duties had not been rendered so light, or if there were any questions as to compliance with his requests."
"Not even if you thought the requests unwise or unjust?"
"We do not allow ourselves to think so, and, indeed, everything goes on as if each and all governed themselves according to immemorial custom."
"When the chief magistrate dies or retires, how do you provide for his successor?"
"The An who has discharged the duties of chief magistrate for many years is the best person to choose one by whom those duties may be understood, and he generally names his successor."
"His son, perhaps?"
"Seldom that; for it is not an office any one desires or seeks, and a father naturally hesitates to constrain his son. But if the <PERSON> himself decline to make a choice, for fear it might be supposed that he owed some grudge to the person on whom his choice would settle, then there are three of the College of Sages who draw lots among themselves which shall have the power to elect the chief. We consider that the judgment of one An of ordinary capacity is better than the judgment of three or more, however wise they may be; for among three there would probably be disputes, and where there are disputes, passion clouds judgment. The worst choice made by one who has no motive in choosing wrong, is better than the best choice made by many who have many motives for not choosing right."
"You reverse in
|
1573aa89-aad6-cd16-c8c1-164650ec3b9a
|
['02dedf49-00bd-06ed-efdc-6287ff791dfe']
|
**The Law of Caring** |
---|---
Most likely there's someone you care about deeply, but sometimes your idea of trying to show your devotion is misinterpreted. Maybe you've done something that you consider loving (such as giving flowers), but the other person has questioned your intentions or wondered about an ulterior motive. The Law of Caring provides some wonderful guidelines for giving and loving in ways that are difficult to misunderstand.
First, let's start with a definition of _caring:_ It's the ability to honor another individual deeply enough to know what their principles are and convey your beliefs in terms of theirs. In other words, you'd be wise to communicate with regard for your loved one's highest values—whatever is most important and valuable to _them_.
The following story illustrates this idea: A married man once sent his wife to me for a consultation because he felt that she needed to change her ways. In his mind, she was wrong in some of her views and manners. Although I normally prefer to work with the person who desires the change, in this case the husband wasn't receptive or available. So I met with his wife, and we spent the day working on his objective. Yet I didn't try to change her—instead, I spent the day _teaching_ her how to communicate her needs and priorities in terms of his. I had her write down all his highest values, which included golf, business success, making money, looking good, driving fast cars, and spending time with friends. Then she listed hers: time with her children, seeing her family, looking good, fixing up the home, and so on. When she finished, I had her role-play her communications with him, and she practiced conveying what was most important to her in terms of what mattered to him.
When she returned home, their whole relationship shifted. In fact, I received a thank-you letter from the husband, saying, "Whatever you did with my wife, it truly made a difference!" What I _really_ did was spend the whole day showing her how to get whatever she wanted from him—and he was thanking me.
She learned and reflected, and then honored him enough to know what his values were. She began to think out in advance (before she spoke) how to communicate her desires in terms of his priorities. For example, when she wanted to go overseas to visit her mom in Europe, she put it this way: "Honey, I believe that right now there's a sale on in Europe, so if I went over there, the amount I could save getting discounts would cover the cost. It wouldn't even cost us anything [his value of conserving money]. And I know that you have a very busy golf tournament coming up. This way you could be left alone and really have an enjoyable time with your buddies [his value of golf and spending time with his friends], and I could get the shopping done—and save at the same time." She communicated in terms of his values so that she could fulfill her
|
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['02dedf49-00bd-06ed-efdc-6287ff791dfe']
|
usually because _they think they ought to be different._ (Perhaps some authority with that particular belief told them that?) Instead of judging yourself for cherishing something to a different degree than someone else does, learn to recognize that your ideals are just as valid, real, and important as anyone else's.
Also realize that just because something isn't your highest value doesn't mean that it's worth nothing to you. It's completely possible that this 14-hour-a-day worker bee does care for family; it's just not at the top of the hierarchy.
**Take a look at how you allocate your waking hours. What claims most of your day?** What comes in second? Third? Fourth? The list may not identically parallel your main concerns, but it will come close. To return to our example, here's what that schedule would tell us:
• _Most time:_ professional success, earning money (14 hours at work)
• _Second most:_ staying connected with people/social (2 hours sending e-mail)
• _Third most/tied:_ family (1 hour having dinner with spouse and kids)
• _Third most/tied:_ health (1 hour exercising)
Your time is only one indicator, which you can combine with all the others as you do your detective work in figuring out your highest goals. In other words, if you look at your prioritization according to time and view it in consideration of the seven categories coming up, then your values begin to come into sharp focus.
_Note:_ It's possible that your time isn't being spent in support of your beliefs, and this is when conflicts are most often played out. The surgeon/new mom had arranged her life without allotting any of her time to her core value—and that's why she was so stressed. Instead of living according to her own hierarchy, she'd allowed a social norm (such as being acknowledged or respected by others) to take over and reorder her life. If you have the sense that you've done something similar by structuring your days around your idea of what someone else thinks your values _should_ be or designing your life around one of the seven fears I outlined earlier, then ask yourself, _How would I spend my time if I believed I had complete choice about it?_
**_3. How Do You Spend Your Energy?_**
You'll find clues as to how your hierarchy is stacked by looking at the following characteristics, which are a direct result of where and how you spend your energy:
• You certainly have plenty of energy to do those actions you truly value most, because doing what you love energizes you.
• You clearly become fatigued easily when you can't see how what you're doing will fulfill your highest values. Doing X, Y, and Z rather than A, B, and C on your daily priorities drains you.
Ask yourself, _What actions do I seem to have plenty of energy for? What activities invigorate me? Where do I love to spend the most effort during the day, week, or month?_
You'll require less sleep and express more life force and vigor when you're doing what you love and
|
98ee3e36-93a9-99ed-e319-5abb6adfd61c
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['0326eaee-4bea-0fc3-0ac6-9d937427da1f']
|
and swallowed two pills. The act itself caused a Pavlovian response in me. When she put the bottle down, I saw that it was Percocet and felt a tremor course through my entire body. I couldn't hear anything she was saying. I just stared at the bottle, fighting with myself not to devise a plan to get inside of it. I refused to let myself fall that low, to steal pills from my sick grandmother.
I had to ask her to repeat some of the grocery items she was craving and took off for the store. I drove the long way, wondering what would have happened to me if my mother hadn't remarried and moved us away from this town when I was in the fourth grade. I'd probably still be stuck here.
Oak Ridge, Tennessee, was one of three towns built to complete the Manhattan Project. The farmers who originally lived there had all been kicked out under eminent domain, the law that allows the government to seize private property for its own use. It was called The Secret City, and lived up to its name. I remember very little about my childhood in Oak Ridge, and what I do remember is always cloaked in shadow.
The town is filled with sirens built onto the telephone poles, and a few times a year they go off as a test, in case anything goes wrong at the laboratory. Our teachers taught us to crawl under our desks with our arms covering our heads.
Besides its nuclear history, Oak Ridge is different from most suburban towns in that most of the houses were built up in the ridges, so they can't be seen by aircraft. All of the winding roads make it sort of like driving through a low-rent, prefab government housing version of the Hollywood Hills. All the houses look the same; there were only seven different versions of the same model with a few sub-models thrown in as well. The town's residents were later granted land at a cheap price to build their own homes.
<PERSON> didn't find out what my grandfather was doing at the lab until after the bombs were dropped in Japan. One morning in August 1945, she turned on the radio and learned what her husband had been working on. He called her almost immediately after to explain. After she hung up, she sat by the phone and wept.
On my way to the store I drove past the children's museum. It was housed in a building that had been an elementary school in the 1950s and then, when I was a child, converted to a day-care center on one side and a day facility for mentally disabled elderly people on the other. The school's decaying gymnasium in the center of the two wings separated life and death. The bathrooms were located on the old people's side of the building, and twice a day, we kids would march down the hallway until we hit the stench of prepared food from the cafeteria. The old people weren't allowed
|
384758bc-973f-181f-a849-0a52e383e5a3
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|
were laughing and chopping vegetables for a salad. My sister opened a window because the kitchen was getting hot from all the pots bubbling on the stove and whatever was baking in the oven. The sun was starting to set over Carroll Gardens. I took a seat at the kitchen table and stared out the open window at the row of brownstones. I poured myself a glass of wine.
"How's work?" my father asked me.
"Fun," I answered. "I just went to LA to interview <PERSON> for the cover."
"Who's that?" he asked.
"Never mind," I said.
"It's your granddaughter's current favorite pop star," my sister told him. "Which goes against everything I've tried to teach her."
It was strange to think of my dad as a grandfather when he was raising children of his own. I watched him add a large amount of pasta to boiling water as he and <PERSON> talked about kids and parenting. Their voices faded away into the steam rolling off the top of the oven. The scene was intimately familiar; when I was younger there were always huge dinner parties at my grandparents' house. My sisters and I would play in the basement or the living room while the adults and their friends drank and cooked in the kitchen. I looked out at the kids all playing together in the living room and shivered. History had repeated itself.
My wineglass was empty, but it was being refilled by someone. I tried to remember more about the dinner parties from when I was young. I must have been five or six. The kids would eat in the living room, while loud bursts of laughter would come from the dining room. There was a large open passthrough separating the dining room from the living room. The adults could easily check in on us but it was usually us spying on the adults. We could see them reflected in the glass picture window that stretched along the back of <PERSON>'s house. We almost always stayed overnight after these parties, but it would take a while to fall asleep because of the swearing and roaring coming from downstairs. My younger sister and I would share the sinister room with the slanted ceiling.
<PERSON> called her kids in to set the dinner table, and my father quickly told his kids to help out. I stood up and took my glass of wine with me to make room for them. The children swarmed around the table, dropping plates and napkins haphazardly, eager to get back to their game. I stumbled a little while leaning against the wall. I knew I needed to eat something soon.
We finally all sat down. Plates were heaped and wine was poured. The kids were done almost as soon as they started and rushed off again, this time to play on the patio on my sister's roof. Politics were being discussed at the table, so I got up with my wine and went into the living room to check my messages. I don't discuss politics at
|
80a86c80-b3f2-ef51-45fd-933143133425
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['03d5b08a-e144-4951-c104-d4501fd3812f']
|
of flavour from the broth. In this recipe, I use a cooked chicken, but you could easily poach skinned raw pieces of chicken in the broth instead – just add them earlier in the cooking process and make sure they are cooked through before serving._
SERVES 4–6
**For the matzo balls**
150g matzo crackers
1 tsp bicarbonate of soda
1 tsp ground cinnamon
½ tsp salt
1 tbsp finely chopped thyme leaves
4 eggs, separated
80ml olive oil, plus a little extra for oiling
40ml water
**For the soup**
2 tbsp vegetable oil
1 large onion, diced
1 large carrot, diced
1 large parsnip, diced
3 celery sticks (tough strings removed with a vegetable peeler), diced
6 garlic cloves, finely grated
1 chicken (about 1.4kg), roasted and chilled
1.2 litres chicken stock
1 tsp dried thyme
1 tsp dried sage
100g dried egg noodles
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
For the matzo balls, grind the crackers to a fine crumb using a food processor, or put them into a plastic bag and bash them with a rolling pin until they are finely crushed.
In a large bowl, stir together the matzo crumbs, bicarbonate of soda, cinnamon, salt and thyme. In a jug, whisk the egg yolks, olive oil and water together, then stir into the dry ingredients.
In a separate, large bowl, whisk the egg whites until they form soft peaks. Gently fold into the matzo mixture, using a spatula, until evenly combined and you have a thick batter. Cover with cling film and leave to rest in the fridge for a couple of hours.
Once chilled, get ready to roll the mixture into balls. Lightly oil your hands with a splash of oil – this will prevent the mixture from sticking and make it easier to shape. Roll the dough into 12 balls, roughly the size of golf balls. Arrange them on a tray or large plate and cover with cling film. Chill in the fridge for at least 30 minutes while you prepare the soup.
To make the chicken soup, heat the oil in a large saucepan over a medium-low heat. Add the onion and cook gently for 4–5 minutes, to soften. Add the carrot, parsnip, celery and garlic and continue to cook over a gentle heat for 10–15 minutes, until softened, stirring from time to time.
Meanwhile, tear the roasted chicken into large chunks and discard the skin.
Pour the chicken stock into the pan, bring to the boil and then lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Throw in the dried thyme and sage and season well with salt and pepper. Cook gently for around 10–15 minutes.
Remove the matzo balls from the fridge and add to the soup. Allow to poach very gently in the broth for 15–20 minutes. Add the noodles and cook for a further 10 minutes.
Finally, add the shredded chicken to the pan. If you'd prefer the soup to be less thick, add a little more chicken stock at this stage too. Carefully stir through the soup and cook gently for a
|
3048913f-0608-f370-5024-db185e514f43
|
['03d5b08a-e144-4951-c104-d4501fd3812f']
|
parsley.
6 Serve scattered with the remaining chopped parsley and with plenty of crusty bread alongside for soaking up the tasty juices, if you like.
To freeze: Allow to cool, then freeze in two-portion containers. Defrost fully in the fridge overnight, then reheat in a saucepan over a medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until hot all the way through.
Sausage and bean casserole
Salt cod and saffron fish cakes
Infused with saffron and flecked with peas and roasted peppers, these fish cakes are delicious. All they need is a dollop of aïoli, a squeeze of lemon and a side salad. ❄
**Makes 6**
415 calories per serving
550 calories with aïoli
**600g cod fillet, skin removed**
**4–5 large baking potatoes (1.5kg)**
**300ml vegetable stock**
**2 tbsp olive oil**
**1 red onion, finely diced**
**200g roasted red peppers (from a jar), drained and diced**
**100g frozen peas**
**Finely grated zest of 1 lemon**
**3 tbsp plain flour, for dusting**
**Sea salt and freshly ground black pepper**
**For the salt and saffron cure**
**80g sea salt**
**30g caster sugar**
**A large pinch of saffron strands**
**1 tbsp aniseed-flavoured aperitif, such as Pernod**
**1 tbsp olive oil**
**2 tbsp white wine**
**For the parsley salad**
**4 handfuls of flat-leaf parsley leaves**
**1 red onion, finely sliced**
**60g caper berries**
**2 tbsp extra-virgin olive oil**
**Juice of ½ lemon**
**To serve**
**Aïoli, good-quality, shop-bought (optional)**
**Lemon wedges**
1 For the cure, mix all the ingredients together in a bowl. Check the cod for any pin-bones, then cut into two equal pieces and place in a container in which they fit snugly. Spread the cure all over the fish and place in the fridge for 3 hours.
2 Preheat the oven to 200°C/Fan 180°C/Gas 6. Prick the potatoes all over with a fork, place on a baking tray and bake in the oven for about 1½ hours until tender. Remove and leave until cool enough to handle. Turn the oven down to 160°C/Fan 140°C/Gas 3.
3 Take the fish from the container and rinse well under cold running water for 5 minutes to remove the cure. Place in a small roasting tin and pour over the stock. Cover with foil and bake for 20 minutes. Remove and leave the fish to cool completely in the stock.
4 Meanwhile, heat ½ tbsp of the olive oil in a frying pan over a medium heat. Add the onion and cook for 5–7 minutes until softened. Add the roasted peppers and peas and cook for about 3 minutes until the peas are tender. Remove the pan from the heat.
5 Cut the cooled potatoes in half, scoop out the flesh from the skins into a bowl and mash lightly. Drain the fish and flake into the bowl. Add the onion and pepper mix, with the lemon zest and salt and pepper to taste. Divide into 6 portions and shape into patties. Place on a tray in the fridge to chill and firm up for 1 hour.
6 Line a large baking tray with baking parchment. Heat the remaining 1½ tbsp olive
|
e0742e9b-25d7-95d6-e590-a9fbc295780f
|
['03e635b1-d6f1-22e1-2602-44cadd181900']
|
going, asshole," <PERSON> shouted.
"Sorry," <PERSON> shouted into the back.
<PERSON> popped up and ran for <PERSON>. He grabbed him around the neck from behind and the van started to careen all over the road.
"Say I'm awesome, fuckstick. Say it," <PERSON> shouted into <PERSON>'s ear.
<PERSON> couldn't talk even if he wanted to; <PERSON> was choking the life out of him. He could feel a darkness coming in from his peripheral vision. His fingers began to slip from the wheel.
"Say I'm awesome motherf..." <PERSON> was yanked away from finishing his sentence by <PERSON> who knocked him silly with one slap.
<PERSON> carefully pulled in and steadied himself. "What the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking fuckface motherfucker?" he said as he mimed getting over his seat into the back. Even through his anger, he could see that <PERSON> had enough. It was time.
<PERSON> settled himself and moved steadily back into the flow of traffic. <PERSON> pulled himself into a ball, hugging his last remaining unopened drink, in the back of the van. <PERSON> slid back down into his sitting position on the floor.
They all rode along silently. The arena was drawing closer and the tension of delivering the match began to rise.
"I need to pee," <PERSON> announced desperately.
<PERSON> kept driving. He was sure that <PERSON> and the crew were already asking where he was. "We'll be there in less than five minutes."
<PERSON> took 72nd on Roosevelt and saw the long, dark road open up in front of him. <PERSON> began to hop around in the van. "I need to pee, I said," he screamed.
<PERSON> needed his own space. He was never this late to a building before and he had his pre-match rituals that he needed to get done. Looking at <PERSON> was just pushing him closer to violence, and if there was violence in the back of the VW, there would be no match. He angrily pulled his towel over his face and closed his eyes and tried to zone out.
"Did you hear me?" <PERSON> shouted at <PERSON>.
<PERSON> put his foot down to the floor and switched on the radio. No one was going to say that he couldn't get his job done. Both men would arrive in good time and surely he would get the credit for getting <PERSON> there too.
"I fucking said I need to piss," <PERSON> screamed as he threw his bottle at <PERSON>.
With a dead clunk, the unopened bottle bounced off the back of <PERSON>'s head. He immediately slumped forward onto the wheel and the van shaved the sides off a couple of parked cars. It slammed off the side of an exterior wall and shot <PERSON> and the icebox out through the windshield and <PERSON> from the back to the front. <PERSON> tried to stand up in the toppling van, but was slammed head first off the ceiling as it turned over and smashed into the leg of the railway bridge.
All three men were out. All that could be heard was the
|
43a11dec-2fd9-d14d-75b8-418b30194666
|
['03e635b1-d6f1-22e1-2602-44cadd181900']
|
immediately to get up. <PERSON> held <PERSON> firmly to the ground beside him.
"It's okay, it's okay," <PERSON> said.
<PERSON>, panicked as to what had happened and where he was, began to piece together his last five minutes.
"What happened?" <PERSON> asked.
It was easy for someone as well versed as <PERSON> to see that there was still no one home in <PERSON>'s eyes, yet.
"Take it easy," <PERSON> said as he dragged <PERSON> closer to him.
"Where am I?" <PERSON> asked.
<PERSON> could see the trees and the fallen leaves, and the sky overhead. He knew that he was a long way from prison, from Manhattan, and from home.
**New York.**
**1984.**
**Three hours after <PERSON> got out.**
<PERSON> and <PERSON> were back in the van, and on the bridge into the city. Both men were bruised and sore, but they hadn't said a word to each other since they'd left the forest.
<PERSON> could feel that <PERSON> wanted to say something; <PERSON> could feel the same thing from <PERSON>. They were only a couple of hours away from changing the wrestling business forever, and someone needed to go first.
It was <PERSON>.
"What option did I have?" he cleared his throat. "I loved <PERSON> like a father. He told me that he was going to kill my wife if I didn't..."
"I know what happened," <PERSON> said. "I know what went down, and I don't want to talk about it."
<PERSON> turned to see a few tears make their way over <PERSON>'s bruised face. <PERSON> quickly wiped his cheeks; those tears had been twelve years coming, and only three seconds lasting.
<PERSON> said, "I fought for my life in there. I begged more than one person to let me live. I was like a child. I fucking hated myself that I wasn't bigger or tougher, and that's why I was target number one. There were men in there that would take weeks to break me. They would threaten me, not let me sleep, and not let me eat. I was their entertainment. When I'd give up and just curl into a ball, they would high-five each other. Then, a day or two later, the next one would try to see if he could get me to break, too."
<PERSON> turned to see if <PERSON> cared, but his face wasn't easy to read.
"And I cursed you into hell and back a hundred fucking times. Where were you? Where was <PERSON>? I know what I did, and I wanted to pay for it. I have paid for it with everything over and over and over again. But where the fuck were you guys? Did you even care?"
<PERSON> didn't answer.
"So, what choice did I have? I served my time. I waited, and... nothing. My team wasn't fucking coming to rescue me. So, I took their offer—the only offer I had. I'm sorry."
"We didn't just cut rope on you, <PERSON>," <PERSON> said.
The cracked roads shook <PERSON> and <PERSON>, and the loud honking of New York City outside kept them
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the water, gesturing blindly in different directions, calling out for help. The rescuers ran along the gravel toward the burning wreck and saw now in the glare of the blaze that dozens more people were lying prostrate along the marshy margins of the lake.
<PERSON> clambered wet and shivering up the embankment toward the knot of men and began to deliver a report to <PERSON>. For seven hours he had been moving ceaselessly from passenger to passenger, trying to tend to their needs, and by now he knew where each survivor was and who needed the most help. For over an hour—at the height of the fire—he had stood with his back to the wind, burning embers and smoke howling past him, splashing water onto children who were too frightened to move. When the fury of the fire had abated somewhat, he had ventured out of the lake, searching for and finding people who had not been able to find the water, and leading any who were still alive back to the lake so he could bathe their eyes and their burns with cool water. Then as the evening had grown colder, he had begun pulling people out of the lake, carrying or dragging them toward the burning coal tender, trying to keep them warm and conscious.
Among those <PERSON> had helped out of the lake were <PERSON> and her children. <PERSON> lay on her back now among the charred rushes on the foul-smelling, muddy bank. Her eyes were still swollen shut, and her body numb, but she could hear the excited voices of the men talking to <PERSON> up on the bank, and she knew they were new voices. <PERSON> and <PERSON> were lying beside her, pressed against her for warmth. <PERSON> was a few feet away, also on her back, pale and white, shaking convulsively. From time to time <PERSON> called out for her father, then sobbed quietly to herself for a while. Each time, hearing her, <PERSON> clutched <PERSON> and <PERSON> tighter.
Nearby, <PERSON> was lying on a tussock of unburned grass, just out of the water. One of his ears was nearly burned off, and his hands were also badly burned, but both were numb and he was hardly aware of them. He had been in and out of consciousness for the last several hours, trying to remember where he was and why his parents weren't there. Hearing the low murmur of the men's voices up by the track now, though, he felt comforted and fell back asleep. It had been twenty-four hours since the wind had awakened him in his bed at home the night before.
<PERSON> and <PERSON> asked where <PERSON> was, and <PERSON> gestured down the tracks toward the head of the train. When they reached the locomotive, they held their lanterns high and peered into the cab. They found <PERSON> lying on the iron deck of the cab, blind, blistered, and delirious, but alive.
The locomotive had been separated from the burning coal tender and moved ahead of the rest of
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though, it was accompanied by a sudden reddening of the dark, smoky sky to the south, as if enormous, red railroad lanterns, shining up from below, were illuminating the heavens. Nobody in town had ever heard or seen anything like this. Many thought it must be a tornado, in addition to a fire, because a tornado was the only thing they knew that could make a sound like that.
<PERSON> had no doubts about what it was. He began to run from house to house, pounding on doors, urging people to go to the river. At first, almost nobody did so. A few people began to pack cherished possessions into trunks. A few others decided to cover the haystacks that their cattle would need for the winter. But most people simply continued to go about their business, albeit nervously.
<PERSON> ran down the wagon road to the town's waterworks to warn the man in charge of the pumps there, <PERSON>, pleading with him to go home to get his family. But <PERSON>, afraid, like so many others that day, that he might lose his job if he left, simply sent his eleven-year-old son home to fetch a lantern so that he could see the gauges on the machinery better. <PERSON> tried again with a family he came across as he ran back into town, but they pointed to a few barrels and washtubs of water, which they said they were confident would get them through anything that was likely to come.
When the firestorm hit Sandstone, a little after 5:15 P.M., it rubbed the town off the sandstone bluff on which it sat in mere minutes. As at Hinckley, huge flaming bubbles of gas floated in over the town before the main fire arrived, exploding over the heads of terrified onlookers, raining fire down on their heads and setting both people and buildings on fire. Minutes later, the flaming front rolled through the streets, traveling on the ground but rising more than a hundred feet into the sky. Since leaving the remains of Hinckley in its tracks, the fire had surged unimpeded across nine miles of dense, new-growth pine forests and tinder-dry slash, traveling over gradually rising ground. It was more than ten miles wide now. With near hurricane-force winds propelling it forward, it hit Sandstone even more savagely than it had hit Hinckley.
It was as if a gigantic blowtorch had been suddenly turned on the town. Along First Street, dozens of people ran out of their homes and businesses and were simply incinerated before they could run 100 feet. Out at the waterworks, <PERSON> and his boy jumped into the well inside the pump house, but almost immediately the flaming walls of the building were blown in, collapsing on them. In the cellar of his house, where he and his wife and two children had taken shelter, <PERSON> began to dig frantically at the earthen walls with his bare hands as the house above exploded in flames. He was able to excavate only a few inches
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entry into the middle class comes at the cost of rejecting anything that sets him apart from his colleagues.
<PERSON>'s complex relationship to cultural capital epitomizes the emergence of postwar Jewish identity from the intersection of Jewish entry into the white-collar middle-class mainstream and this mainstream's simultaneous transformation of outsider status into a positive value. In a key passage, <PERSON> describes how, "struck by the reading fever" (193), he hangs on to the books that he is supposed to be stealing for University of Chicago students, a moment that transforms a marginal position vis-á-vis the official culture into a source of pride:
I sat and read. I had no eye, ear, or interest for anything else—that is, for usual, second-order, oatmeal, mere-phenomenal, snarled-sholeace-carfare-laundry-ticket plainness, unspecified dismalness, unknown captivities; the life of despair-harness, or the life of organization-habits which is meant to supplant accidents with calm abiding. (194)
_Augie March_ is, on one level, a fantasy about acquiring the cultural capital necessary for upward mobility while bypassing the putatively deindividualizing institutions responsible for disseminating it.
Within this fantasy Jewishness, as I have suggested, inhabits the site not of group identity but of individual difference. The fact that the end of the book shows <PERSON> writing what will ultimately become the novel reminds us that these questions of mental labor have their formal analog in the book's tripartite linguistic structure. Here the echoes of Yiddish in <PERSON>'s narration—"But toward women he didn't change at all" (119); "that I shouldn't be too good to do as he was doing was of enormous importance to him" (239); "a similar night for me was, years after this, on a crowded ship from Palma de Mallorca to Barcelona" (391)—persist as a linguistic trace of <PERSON>'s ethnic origins parallel to his criminal associations. They exemplify, that is, a colloquial accent that prevents <PERSON> from being submerged within the "cultivated" side of his character. If this cultivated side links him to postwar Jewish upward mobility, his colloquial and "American-Jewish" sides prevent him from experiencing such mobility as assimilation in the bad sense of deracination. <PERSON> retains the marks of his class and ethnic origins in his new "American" speech: new in the sense both that it represents the newly American status of Jews participating in the mainstreaming effects of white-collar culture, and that this new Jewish presence reformulates what it means to be—to sound—American.
<PERSON>, not to put too fine a point upon it, becomes a Jewish intellectual. Although <PERSON> got much right about <PERSON>, he was wrong to claim that "<PERSON>-<PERSON>'s more lasting fictions will probably be those whose personae are not _exactly_ as intelligent as he is— _The Victim_ and _Seize the Day_ [1956]" (135; <PERSON>'s emphasis). On the contrary, <PERSON>'s most enduring novels have been the ones built around characters most like their creator: <PERSON>, <PERSON>, <PERSON>, <PERSON>. In postwar Jewish fiction the Jew becomes the Jewish intellectual, be-cause the latter figure simultaneously exemplifies the concerns about alienating mental labor central to the white-collar middle class and retains a memorializing connection to a culture and
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early-morning passengers on the Milwaukee Avenue street car.
Here the writer's very self-doubts attest to the individual nature of his chosen profession, for as a "self-anointed" practitioner he has no social logic, no "routines," nothing but his own decision to justify the work he does. <PERSON>'s experience of mental labor, however, frequently contradicted this ideal. <PERSON>, for in-stance, writes of one of <PERSON>'s own early jobs—doing research for the _Synopticon_ designed to accompany <PERSON> and <PERSON>'s _Great Books_ _of the Western World_ series—that "for <PERSON>, a job was simply another form of authority—submitting to regular hours and bureaucratic responsibilities was being told what to do" (93). This formulation suggests that for <PERSON>, employ-ment was simply a subset of the force, inimical to individual agency, that <PERSON> calls "authority" and under which he elsewhere subsumes, variously, high culture (72), "European culture as an oppressively dominating institution" (146), and <PERSON>'s brothers, who became successful Chicago businessmen. "Authority" is, however, a less flexibly existential category than it might at first seem if we under-stand <PERSON>'s conception of individuality as grounded in his particular concerns about work. In this case, all of <PERSON>'s subsets of authority—high culture and Europe no less than his brothers' example and paid employment—threaten not simply his individuality in general but his ability to enact that individuality through writing in particular. The form this threat takes is different—following in his brothers' footsteps or researching the great ideas literally take up time that might be spent writing, while the Western literary canon constitutes a pattern his own writing must struggle to escape if he is to demonstrate his originality—but the general principle is the same: all constitute forms of restraint inimical to <PERSON> understanding of writing as a form of work through which the author ex-presses his individuality.
This principle would subsequently find expression in <PERSON>'s long-running critique of the university as the preeminent institutional restraint upon the writer's work. <PERSON>, one of the first major American fiction writers to make his living as a university teacher, became a notorious critic of the same institution that "provide[d] him shelter" (Atlas 154). In his 1957 essay "The University as Villain," <PERSON> argued _against_ the notion that the university "could not be friendly to [writers] without softening and taming them and making them fat," suggesting instead this attitude was merely " _postural_ " and that—the <PERSON> cult of "experience" aside—writers could do as well in the academy as in "the gutter." As early as 1950, however (while he was composing _Augie March_ ), <PERSON> had written <PERSON> that "I'd as lief work in a factory as remain in what are called intellectual millieux," declaring the latter his "heart's abhorrence" (qtd. <PERSON> 154). And by 1966 he had fully embraced the antiacademic posture, proclaiming in a talk to the International P.E.N. Congress that university intellectuals were "trying to appropriate literature for themselves" and in the process shaping it to their own narrow definitions: "They have projected the kinds of art and literature that suits [ _sic_ ] them, and they have the power
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painful place to reside.
For many people, the best or even only way out is to find someone to love outside of themselves. You'll have lots of company if that's the way you feel you were made. "But stop!" you say. "What if I make the wrong choice and the hurt comes back all over again?" That apprehension alone shows why you must _not_ manage your dealings with others primarily out of fear. Fear won't let you become whole.
Some relationship counselors will tell you that overcoming fear is a process that's going to take plenty of time. How much time? Not thirty days, they will say. Then, you might ask, how much time will it take, really? Thirty weeks? Thirty years?
It's possible to overcome that fear in an instant. Do you have a moment? Because that's all you need to decide to make the right change in your attitude. Take a deep breath, look inside, and find your own source of hope, and boundless love. Incidentally, we're not referring to falling in love again. That's truly likely to take you a matter of months, while you recharge your drained emotional batteries.
This is the day for you to reject your capacity for cowardice. Cast off fear and begin to replace it with an appropriate hopefulness.
Now, if anything's easier said than done, it's to offer dumb encouragement like "just trade your fear for hopefulness." But for just this one day, observe how many ways in which you've allowed your actions to be controlled by irrational fears instead of a promising hopefulness. How has fear caused you to make foolish and self-limiting choices? Or has it prevented you from making any decisions at all? Are the better options life has to offer rushing by you because your fears are too tenacious, too much of a habit of mind?
You don't really need those fears anymore. Now you can surrender them to some uncommon sense. By the end of today, make a list of the ways you'll put more faith in your hope.
TIP 21 . . . _Good News for Your Nose_
THERE'S ONE SENSE that has an inside track to your emotions: your sense of smell. Your nose's sense of odors is directly wired into your limbic system, the old mammalian formation at the base of your brain where sensation and cognition are wedded to emotion to form what we experience in our conscious minds.
What all of this means is that there's nothing like a scent to bring back emotionally charged memories. It also means that your sense of smell can also create positive emotions to offset your feeling of being blue.
The use of smell to buck up your spirits is now touted as a New Age healing art called aromatherapy. We have found aromatherapy ideas useful for dealing with the blues, and even depression. Most often, aromatherapists will recommend specific fragrant oils from plants, called essential oils, as the client's conditions may indicate.
These oils are not taken internally but are made a part of the air
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humor. In the interim, be sure you don't swallow anger in a self-destructive fashion. If necessary, do some private screaming or pounding on pillows. Release your anger in a way that can't come back to hurt you later. Talk about your rage with people you can trust to help you to restore your perspective, ideally, people who can help you see the good side of your own nature, your appeal to others, your basic human worth. In choosing these people, find those who are comfortable with feelings of rage, anger, and hatred, but who don't need to nurse these feelings in themselves in order to accept them in other people.
You need to recognize that your ultimate goal is to pass beyond any anger you feel like directing toward your ex-lover, or toward all men or all women, or toward anyone else you may blame for your breakup—and that includes God. Your highest degree of sanity and self-protection will be found in responsibly accepting your own role in bringing about the end of your relationship, forgiving yourself and your ex, and, finally, in setting aside or even forgetting the pain of your wounds.
Anger can be a useful medicine to help drive you away from your dependency on your ex-lover. But like any medicine taken when no longer needed, it can prove to be self-destructive and addictive, destroying your ability to live in a balanced, life-enhancing manner.
_Day 13_
Creativity
Your Lucky Day
CONGRATULATIONS. YOU'VE COME through nearly two weeks since your breakup and you're still with us, still making progress. That's one way in which this, your thirteenth day of recovery, is your lucky day.
But your real good fortune today will be to discover the wellspring that will give your rate of recovery a special boost. This wellspring is simply your ability to create your own prescription for promoting your own happiness. Even if you have never given yourself credit before for being a creative person, start thinking of yourself that way now. Everyone uses creative faculties in solving the everyday problems of their lives. Once you realize that, you can start using your creativity to find new and more effective ways to move back toward happiness.
As we noted at the outset of this book, our method for promoting your recovery is to urge you to use a variety of techniques to reduce stress and take a series of actions that will help to prevent you from succumbing to depression. As we've also noted, our tips of recommended actions for accomplishing this are far from exhaustive. We've invited you to come up with your own ideas for doing this; today we're going to _insist_ that you do so.
Don't worry; we'll help you start. Here are thirteen nontip tips that may give you some ideas of your own to make yourself feel better. Before you start reading, grab a pencil and paper and start making notes of your own ideas, so you don't forget to act on them later.
1. Treat yourself as you would a baby. Wear flannel
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car."
"Is it true, <PERSON>?" her mother asked.
"Yes, but—"
"But what?" her father asked impatiently.
"But I was going to tell you and I'm so sorry that I didn't, but I knew you'd be angry and—" <PERSON> stopped and looked from her mother to her father. "Anyway, I did it for you and the store. But it all got messed up," <PERSON> said, enraged.
She caught her mother giving her father an angry look and nudging her chin toward <PERSON>. Her father stayed silent.
<PERSON> took a deep breath and continued, "I just thought if I could use Miss Subways to bring attention to the store, I'd be able to fix everything for you."
"And for yourself."
"Yes."
"You're a disgrace," Mr. <PERSON> said under his breath, and walked out the front door.
<PERSON> felt the words like a slap across the face. It was moments like these when she missed her brother most.
"Oh, <PERSON>. I'm sorry, honey. That was dreadful of him." Mrs. <PERSON> gathered <PERSON> up and hugged her.
"He's awful," <PERSON> said, sobbing.
"Come, let's have some tea."
<PERSON> followed her mother into the kitchen and collected herself. "I know I shouldn't have disobeyed you and Papa to do Miss <PERSON>, but I'm twenty-one years old! I'm not a child anymore, and I shouldn't have to do whatever my mommy and daddy tell me to do!"
"You're right. That's why I called."
"Called? What do you mean?"
"I listened to your father call that Miss <PERSON> from the Miss Subways and tell her he forbade you to be considered. I thought that was horrible, so as soon as he left for the store that day, I called her back. I told her to please ignore my husband's call, that he had changed his mind, that he was embarrassed to call back personally, and to allow you to continue with the competition."
"You did that?" <PERSON> was stunned.
"I think she must think your parents are lunatics." Mrs. <PERSON> laughed. "But yes, I did that."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"But why didn't you tell me so I could go back there? As far as you knew, I wasn't going to disobey Papa's decision."
"I knew you'd go. At least I hoped it. And when you came back that day saying <PERSON> had given you a makeover, I knew for sure you had. But why did you think they would let you participate? Were you planning on going in there to plead your case?"
"You sure you want to hear this?" <PERSON> asked, smiling and covering her face with her hands.
Mrs. <PERSON> smiled tentatively and nodded.
"I had <PERSON> call Miss <PERSON>, pretend she was you, and rattle off a similar script to the one you used."
"But that would mean Miss <PERSON> received two calls from your mother that day."
"That's right," <PERSON> said, confused. "I'll have to ask <PERSON> about that."
"Well, I'm glad it all worked out. And congratulations on winning. That's marvelous."
"None of it matters, though. I'm still where I was when I
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<PERSON> was fumbling with her keys, trying to get the right one. She finally had the key in the lock and had turned toward <PERSON> to give him a telepathic message to shut his door when she saw <PERSON> come out of the elevator.
"Hey, <PERSON>," <PERSON> said, smiling.
<PERSON> turned to look, and <PERSON> felt her stomach drop.
"Hey, man," <PERSON> said kindly when he saw <PERSON> standing there.
"<PERSON>, this is <PERSON>. <PERSON>, this is <PERSON>." She cringed, but she felt like <PERSON> and <PERSON> wouldn't see her as anything but calm.
<PERSON> moved the envelopes from his right hand to his left and put his right hand out to shake <PERSON>'s.
"Hey. Nice to meet you," <PERSON> said.
"Yeah, man," <PERSON> said. "Nice to meet you too." He turned toward <PERSON>. "I thought you lived next to an old lady."
<PERSON> winced. "An older lady," she said, emphasizing the "er." "And <PERSON> is her grandson. We just had a little game night," <PERSON> added, smiling warmly at <PERSON>.
"Nice," <PERSON> said.
<PERSON> was looking at <PERSON> quizzically, but she just continued to smile as if it were normal to have good-looking men come to her apartment late at night. She didn't owe <PERSON> an explanation. So why was there part of her that felt like she did?
<PERSON> walked toward <PERSON>'s apartment and turned back to <PERSON>. "Hey, it was nice meeting you, <PERSON>. See you around."
<PERSON> nodded, and <PERSON> went into <PERSON>'s apartment.
<PERSON> was about to follow him inside but turned toward <PERSON>, who was about to go back into his grandma's.
"Hey, <PERSON>," <PERSON> called.
"Yeah?" He turned around, a dejected look on his face.
"Are you going to read those letters?"
"Not sure."
"Okay," <PERSON> said gently. "Good night. Thanks again."
<PERSON> nodded and turned away again. <PERSON> felt a pang of something she couldn't quite interpret. And then she followed <PERSON> inside.
CHAPTER 15
<PERSON>
MONDAY, MARCH 21, 1949
<PERSON> flew down the stairs. The telephone had rung several times, and she wanted to answer it before the caller gave up, since she was anticipating a response from one final agency. She would most likely hear via letter, but, <PERSON> thought, it wouldn't be completely out of the ordinary if they decided to phone her instead.
The plan was that if it was another no, she'd put on her most comfortable shoes and her most confident expression and walk up one side of Madison Avenue and down the other until she found a suitable placement. At this point, even unsuitable would do. She'd actually considered canvassing the engagement notices to see if any of the girls were in advertising, their impending nuptials most likely indicating their present employer would soon need to fill a seat.
"Is this <PERSON>?" a familiar voice asked. <PERSON> sensed a bit of urgency in the voice, like a drop of grapefruit juice in a morning glass of OJ.
"It is."
"This is <PERSON> from the John Robert Powers Modeling Agency. <PERSON>, our first selection
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she had unwittingly served as a touchstone for many people who, as in the case with all celebrities, used her as a scrim for their own projections and feelings about the place of sex workers in general.
Presumably, some investigated her music out of sympathy, and surely others did so to satiate their cynicism (to hear for themselves if she could actually sing, of course), but what nobody seemed to notice was the exact historical lineage this connoted. <PERSON> was merely the modern-day version of the historically exalted courtesan, an iconic figure of beauty and charm, and what could even be less prosaic than the fact that she was a singer as well? In the days of the ancient Greeks, women were almost always kept at home to tend to either cooking or children, and the only Greek women allowed to walk unaccompanied in public were actresses, musicians, and courtesans.
Whatever the era, the services of a courtesan always come at a price, paid as a measure of faith, hope, and worship (as opposed to charity, since nobody ever works in the escort business out of charity). What did <PERSON> have that was so special, many people wondered, that would make a closet rake like <PERSON> fork out US$4,300? (The willingness to forsake the use of condoms was one such specialty, <PERSON> later admitted, but she wasn't saying much more. Not, presumably, until the book and movie deal were closed.) There are apparently things that make an escort worth her price, while her lowly streetwalker sisters ply their trade for much, much less.
Not everyone is that fussy, though, and the sex tourist is often spoiled for choice, especially in Asia. In Singapore, for instance, the Thai, Cambodian, Laotian, and Vietnamese ladies of the night, on any given night, will settle for S$250 while the Filipinas working the Duxton Hill bars have been known to charge as much as S$500.
Only the upscale escorts at the other end of the food chain will meet their clients much more discreetly, usually in some swanky hotel's top-tier suite, for S$1,600 a night. Short-time, quickie deals are often struck at S$800 (S$500 for the girl, S$300 for the agency) so the overnight deal is often better for all concerned (S$1,000 for the girl, S$600 for the agency). Some girls have been known to complain, but never about the money—usually, it's about the nature of the job or the client.
<PERSON>, one night in late 2007, talks of weighing the pros and cons of getting her thousand bucks while having to endure the all-night snoring of a corpulent, beached whale. "At least he's nice," she concedes, "and he's already promised to take me to Las Vegas to celebrate the new year. When I got to the hotel, he immediately had us upgraded to the Presidential Suite. I think he's got some serious connections with the hotel management. I can't say the sex was great, though. Fat men just can't do it right. Plus he's not circumcized. I hate all that foreskin when I'm giving
|
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are here for. I'm very service-oriented and I make them feel like they're being entertained, as _much_ as possible."
Perhaps it's easy enough to say that when the biggest perks of the job include a lot of travel, always at someone else's expense. In the past year, <PERSON> has been to Hong Kong, Japan, Australia, Germany, and the United States. "I went to New York for a night job," she recalls. "A client booked me to go there. He paid for my flight and my hotel and I went there and he met me there, he picked me up."
She stayed at The Drake (now Swissotel The Drake, at 440 Park Avenue and East 56th Street) and calls it "the best experience of my life." The client was a rich Japanese businessman. "Not the spanking guy, another one. He had to meet a few of his other clients there so he needed me to accompany him. New York is really big. And you get to spend the entire day with the client. So I had to be with him 24/7, unless he had to go for a meeting. When that happens, he goes for his meeting and gives me shopping money, and I go out shopping. That's when you feel your secret life is worth it. Certainly in that case it was, because he paid me quite well.
"Australia was also interesting. I was there for a week, in Sydney and the Gold Coast. I traveled with the same guy, as his companion for both places, back and forth. It was my first time there and I quite liked it even though it was winter and quite cold. This was a couple of years back. My latest overseas trip was to Hong Kong, again in winter—just this past February. He's Australian, actually he's Australian Chinese, and he goes to Hong Kong on business. I stayed at the Marco Polo, in Kowloon. Unfortunately, I couldn't shop as much there. I wish I could have. The only shopping area was the one by the harbour. I didn't know where to go. Basically, we have to follow their arrangements. If they want us to stay with them the whole trip, then we have no choice. That time, he left me alone because he had his own room. It's actually quite unusual for me to have my own room on these trips. I prefer this kind of arrangement, though, because I have my own privacy."
The oddest consequence of her secret life, <PERSON> says, was realizing how it was impacting her own personal relationship. Things with her boyfriend began to get strange, for reasons she hadn't expected. She began to demand more from him sexually, and also found herself needing more attention from him. "Because I give so much attention to my clients, so I need attention myself when I'm at home. You keep giving and giving and not receiving. I didn't expect him to buy me presents like my clients. What I really needed was nothing material, but rather attention and time."
They'd been together
|
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a faulty clockwork doll unwinding. What he actually lives on he gets of his mother, many times during the day. Meanwhile the flies are wakening more and more thickly and meanwhile, too, the dogs and cats have assembled under the table, in postures which would do honor to any Bethlehem stable painting of the Holy Family. The dogs are fed at length—mainly on cornbread. Nobody likes the cats or ever pays them any sort of attention; they have to fend for themselves. As the meal disorganizes, <PERSON> flows up on the bench, insinuates his snaky skull and grabs what he can. He and his companion make it up on fast lizards, fat rats, and an occasional snake.
<PERSON> has left before it is all over. He is working in the fields, or working at the sawmill, or looking for work. During chopping time, <PERSON> and <PERSON> and <PERSON> work all day with him; during the picking season, <PERSON> helps, too. And even in the emptier times of year there is work for his family, and the whole weight of living is in work: clearing the table, washing the dishes, milking the cow, churning, sweeping the floors, scrubbing them once or twice a week, cultivating the garden, shifting the cow to fresh feeding, breaking off corntops, gathering vegetables, drying peaches, peas, and beans, canning, making jelly, laundering, mending clothes, making clothes, minding the children, slopping the hogs: plenty of work. It is done steadily, at a quiet place, and though there is a lot of it there is also a good deal of leisure: a leisure which, as a rhythm of the day, is a sliding into blank and glassy quiet of water: a space in the hot middle of the morning, another in the afternoon, when a woman is just sitting, in the blue shade of the porch next the white edge of heat, with all her joints disengaged and her eyes nearly as bare as a child's; while her baby sleeps on the floor, beneath a flyswarmed floursack, and her children convolve in any chance stage between heat-enchanted silence and rampant cruelty against each other or the animals. It is the time of morning when Mrs. <PERSON> comes in gray-faced and gasping from the sunlight among the dark green shadows of her house, falls into a chair, wipes her delicate reeking head on her skirt and, reviving a little, from between lip-pressing fingers squirts snuff-water over the heads of her children into the fireplace. There is always more talk among the <PERSON> than elsewhere: someone has always been hurt, or is feeling poorly, or has done something laughable. In season, in the middle of the morning, a melon is cut and divided and everyone eats by wet hand or knife while the hens stab at the slippery seeds. Everyone is hungry by that time of morning, and the melon gives a better illusion of fulness than the cold cornbread on which, in other times of year, the children fill up. Blown up with soda as it is, the melon is
|
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['076ff479-388b-0383-ff97-5f9eb28aec07']
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tonsils, or infected hand); and late the night before it, in the hospital, I felt grave about it. I am curious about what I did, and didn't do, under those circumstances. I wrote <PERSON> a long letter, including messages to friends (and needless to say including you), and took care to leave it where it would be found, in case I didn't come through it. In writing it I couldn't either believe or disbelieve in my death next morning. But by the time I finished it I had written myself out of my sense that it was at all likely, or even that it would happen at all. I then thought a little of trying to get a priest to come, before the operation; but could no longer take the possibility of dying seriously enough. Then I looked out over Lexington Avenue, without any particularly valetudinary feeling, until I fell asleep. It did not occur to me to pray, before I slept. In the morning, I felt so much better I was sure this immediate attack and infection were over. Since this was an inconvenient time of year to have the operation, I was eager to consult my doctor and, if he thought possible, postpone it. He gave me no chance to present my arguments—walked out quickly. A nurse came in and gave me an injection. I thought it was the routine "quieting" injection, which I'd heard is always given before wheeling you in; so I made no objection. My only further chance to talk with my doctor was bang in the operating room. I was blandly told that I was full of morphine, and so couldn't of course be taken seriously. It certainly weakened my capacity for argument. Besides, it was reasonable enough that the appendix should come out: all I resented was the railroading. So I submitted—and throughout my unconsciousness, apparently delivered myself of my entire complex on the subject of the pseudo-sacredness and power-mania of doctors and scientists. In short, I was too preoccupied with argument to think of praying.
All I can make out, then, is that I felt no fear of death, and no religious feeling. I would give a great deal to know how much more of both I might have felt if my sense of the possibility of death had been more acute—or if I had not worked it off, characteristically, with the thing that first concerned me: my relationship with other human beings.
Incidentally, I didn't have ether, but some intravenous anesthetic (in the crook of the elbow): no nausea, no dreams, nothing but a loose tongue; slept a couple of hours afterward; out very fast; pleasant experience.
No great pain from the wound: discomfort mainly from gas, coughing and laughter. Laughed very easily, the first few days. In fact, with loss of physical and nervous strength, and stamina for thought, etc., recovered much of my gaiety of about 20 years ago. I wish I could slip into that at will, and am going to try to learn more about it. I miss its
|
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|
sworn he hadn't known about it. The other two were <PERSON> and <PERSON>.
This gravelly voice on the phone was none of those, but he had to be connected to one of them. At this point, he could represent either side of the law.
But whatever he represented, <PERSON> wanted nothing to do with him and didn't want to have to spend a lot of time on him. This week wasn't so bad, but after this week the bank job could happen on any day. He needed to find out who this guy was, who he was connected to, and what he wanted. And then he needed, one way or another, to make him go away.
Two hours and fifteen minutes outside the diner. It was now three hours since the call. <PERSON> started the Lexus and drove away from there, not seeing any sudden activity in his mirrors.
He drove to the turnoff at the lake road, made the turn, and then drove very slowly, watching the intersection back there. He was almost around the first curve to the left, which would block the view, when a small black car made the turn into his mirror.
He accelerated around the curve, then slowed again. This road went all the way around the lake, partly straightaways and partly left-leaning curves, and then came back out onto the state highway two miles farther west.
Because he'd accelerated into the curve, then slowed, the small black car was closer when it next appeared, but it immediately braked, its nose dipping, then came on more slowly, trying to hang farther back.
It was the stutter that said this was no civilian. <PERSON> drove on past his own driveway, with the mailbox marked <PERSON>, the name <PERSON> used around here. Behind him, the black car kept pace, well back.
At the far end of the lake was a clubhouse <PERSON> had never entered. The summer people used it for a number of things; then it was open weekends only, in fall and spring. It was closed now, the vehicles of a few maintenance workers clustered up against the low clapboard building. <PERSON> turned in there, stopped among the other parked cars, and watched the black car, a Honda Accord with the mud of many miles on it, stream steadily by. The driver, alone in the car, was a woman. It was hard to see her face, because she was talking on a cell phone.
<PERSON> pulled out of the lot and followed the Honda, pacing it the way she had paced him. She must have seen him back there but did nothing about it, kept a steady thirty-four miles an hour all the way around the lake, signaled for a right at the state highway, and turned north, toward the Mobil station.
And beyond. He followed her across the bridge at the Delaware Water Gap and into a mall on the other side. She drove to the parking area in front of a supermarket, left the car, went into the store. She was tall and slender,
|
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['07d5e34a-0344-87b6-ef3b-fceeb196e65c']
|
is <PERSON>."
"Oh, yes, Mr. <PERSON> left your names." Opening a folder on his desk, he said, "If you could just sign the register."
The register was a sheet of paper with columns to be filled in: name, date, time, company, member to be visited. They both wrote things, and the man behind the desk gestured at the inner door behind himself, saying, "Mr. <PERSON> said you'll find him by the handball courts. That would be straight through, down the stairs, and second on your right."
<PERSON> thanked him again, and he and <PERSON> went through the door into a plush dark interior, just slightly seedy. Downstairs, they found three handball courts in a row like three stage sets, side walls not meeting the ceiling, windowed at the interior end to face bleachers where spectators could sit. Only the nearest court was in use, two players in their forties, both of them very fast and very good. They made noise, but not too much.
<PERSON> sat on the third row of bleachers, watching the game, then nodded when he saw <PERSON> and <PERSON> come in. He patted the cushioned bench beside him, and they came over, <PERSON> to take a seat at <PERSON>'s right, <PERSON> choosing a place on the second row, just to their left, where he could sit sideways and look up at them both.
<PERSON> nodded to <PERSON> and said, "Before we begin, just let me make the situation clear. I assume you did not come here trailing police—"
"No," <PERSON> said.
"No, of course not. But to consider the possibility, however remote, if in fact we _are_ interrupted by an official presence, I will explain that we were meeting to work on the details of your turning yourself in, and _you_ will say the same."
"Naturally," <PERSON> said.
"Good." <PERSON> turned to <PERSON>. "Now, to _your_ friend. The police seem unable to learn her true identity."
"They never will," <PERSON> said.
"I begin to believe you're right. She was paying for her hotel room with a credit card under the <PERSON> name. They have now learned from the credit card company that the bills are sent to an accountant in Long Island, who pays with money taken from the account of a client of theirs named <PERSON>. They have not physically seen <PERSON> in some years, but send him statements to a maildrop in New York City. They manage a few money market accounts for <PERSON>, and he occasionally sends them more money—How, if I may ask? The police don't know, or at least didn't tell me."
"Money orders," <PERSON> said. "Every once in a while, top up the tanks with some money orders."
"So Ms. <PERSON> is not their customer, nor can they directly reach <PERSON>, who pays her bills."
<PERSON> said, " Does she give them a story?"
"The police here?" <PERSON> smiled, almost in a proprietary way, as though it were a story he'd made up himself. "She says," he told them, "she is fleeing an abusive husband. Court orders didn't help,
|
98aa8b1f-0c45-d18b-2372-e68be5594b11
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['08f924a7-49f1-8296-519e-941e598696c9']
|
those already deployed by industry. In <PERSON> vision of the "city of the future," "all the buildings are made of a special paper product so they can be torn down and rebuilt during every spring and fall cleaning." And "every fourth factory is built at the edge of a steep drop. The end of the assembly line can be turned toward the front gate or the back gate. If demand is low, the line turns toward the back gate, and the excess of refrigerators or other products disappears into the drop, directly into a garbage dump, and never even reaches the consumer market."
Socially produced wealth is not yet destroyed in such spectacular ways as arson or direct delivery to garbage dumps. Industry is still trying to overcome saturation of the consumer market by producing "a new model" every two years; or by spending millions on research that has less to do with improving products than with selling them; or by resorting to consumers' private garbage cans for the deposit of useless, but expensive, profit-making wrappings (the consumer pays the costs of garbage removal); or through advertising that is as radically hypocritical as it is costly. Millions in effort, time, and investment are wasted on built-in obsolescence, on planned wear and tear, so that the refrigerators, electric razors, stockings, toys, or light bulbs fall apart earlier than necessary, considering the time and energy invested in producing them, and all to artificially maintain a demand that in turn will increase rates of profit through production and sales, profits which will be invested privately, not to satisfy social needs but to facilitate the accumulation of capital. (What capitalism provides can be bought in a department store. What cannot be bought in a department store, capitalism provides only partially, incompletely, or insufficiently: hospitals, schools, kindergartens, health systems, etc.) In any case, when socially produced wealth is destroyed by setting fire to department stores, this does not differ qualitatively from the systematic destruction of social wealth through fashion, packaging, advertising, or built-in obsolescence. From this perspective, setting fire to department stores is not an anti-capitalist action; on the contrary, it maintains the system and is counter-revolutionary.
The progressive aspects of setting fire to a department store do not lie in the destruction of goods, but in the criminal act, in breaking the law. The law that gets broken in the process does not protect people from seeing the effort and labor they invested and the value they produced destroyed, spoiled, and wasted. It doesn't protect them from the lies that advertising tells them about their own products; nor does it protect them from being separated from the products they produce because of the way their workplace is organized and the way information is concealed, which subjects them both as producers and as consumers to the mercy of those who make the profits and invest them according to their own tastes. According to their own tastes means according to the logic of profit, in other words, investing where they can make other, even greater
|
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inciting violence. These measures fostered an atmosphere of outrage, frustration, and paranoia, and in many cases justified fear of the police and the state. The term used by media and police to discredit the Left was "sympathizer swamp."
German citizens were asked to participate not only in the hunt for members of the so-called "Baader-Meinhof Gang," but also in the hunt for sympathizers and clandestine supporters. Contrary to the assumption of the RAF that people would refuse to participate in the hunt, police fielded thousands of calls. Group members reportedly dressed and acted like ordinary citizens, drove nice cars, and lived anonymously in suburbs. Citizens were asked to keep a careful eye on their neighbors, as they may turn out to be terrorists or terrorist supporters.
Popular reporting on the hunt for terrorists was often highly eroticized. "Tender Nights in the Berber Tent" read one headline of a story reporting on the group's stay at the Jordanian guerilla training camp. <PERSON> was portrayed as "the ice-cold seductress." The portrayal of <PERSON> oscillated between descriptions of her as a desexualized crusader, a tragically misguided <PERSON>, and a highly eroticized seductress who took and dismissed lovers and incited young men and women to violence. The popular news and lifestyle magazine _Quick_ featured a photo essay on "<PERSON> and her Savage Girls." The cover showed <PERSON> surrounded by smaller photos of suspected female terrorists, including a bare-breasted <PERSON>. _Quick_ suggested certain common traits of the women involved in militant violence: they come from bourgeois homes; they have been spoiled; they have a tendency to "act like men" (i.e., they're homosexual), or they have radical boyfriends through whom they have entered the militant scene. In <PERSON>'s case, _<PERSON>_ suggested the cause of her turn to violence may have been related to the brain surgery she underwent, and that her psychological development may have been caused by an unfulfilled need for love. Similarly, the tabloid newspaper _Bild-Zeitung_ speculated that the cause of her turn to militant violence lay in her inability to find satisfaction in being a mother: "She wasn't able to experience the family as a community of love and emotional bonds. Her children were a daily reminder that she was incapable of being a mother." Widely circulated photographs of <PERSON> and her children reminded readers that "Once this was <PERSON>."
The <PERSON> story that _Bild_ , _<PERSON>_ , and _Quick_ told was a story caught between arousing pity for the woman with a fatherless childhood, outrage over the abandonment of her children, and an abhorrence of her cunning challenge to the established order. The real scandal was thus not militant violence, but the rejection of a traditional female role.
In November 1971, _konkret_ published an open letter by <PERSON> with the title "Give up, <PERSON>." <PERSON> urged <PERSON> to rethink her militant practice and to recognize that the activities of the RAF only provided an excuse for the state to launch a massive anti-Left campaign. <PERSON> urged <PERSON> to come to the realization that the
|
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get on the wrong side of him. He loved his boxing, and you got the impression he might knock your head off. Like me, he has also had to deal with tragedy in his family when his son drove his car off a cliff on the south coast.
<PERSON> was a big thinker about the game. He knew everything about the opposition. His reliance on analysis was very un-Manchester United. We were all about playing off the cuff. The club was geared up for personalities. Sir <PERSON> started that and the Doc carried it on. Then along came <PERSON> with his tactical nous and professionalism that had worked brilliantly for him at Chelsea and Queens Park Rangers. His approach was more in keeping with what I had known at Celtic. In the short term, <PERSON> was just what United, a club built on flamboyance, needed after the <PERSON>; but in the long term his methods ran counter to the United culture. Ultimately that would cost him. He was hopeless for the press, guarded and private. He hated fuss and attention. He wanted to get on with things quietly. That was never going to work with the journalists after the <PERSON> and <PERSON>. But the players loved him.
Before every game <PERSON> would walk around the dressing room speaking to each of us players individually, trying to build you up, improve your performance. When he stood in front of you face to face, <PERSON> was very convincing. There was a steely aggression about him. He was a hard man. Sometimes he could get his message across with a look. That never came across to the public. They heard this softly spoken figure and assumed he was weak. The public also misunderstood his methods. They saw him as overly regimented, defensive. He wasn't. Training was based around attacking strategies. It was all about going forward. If there were complaints from the players they came from defenders who moaned that there was not enough time spent on the defensive side of the game.
<PERSON> had a generous nature. He treated the players well. He gave us all a gold watch as a sign of his appreciation for what we had done. When we got to the FA Cup Final in 1979 after beating Liverpool in the semi-final, he gave each of the players a painting by <PERSON>, which he paid for himself, and a gold sovereign. <PERSON> had done sixteen special paintings of Old Trafford with a player standing on the pitch. I know of one lad, who had no appreciation of art, who threw his in the bin. I won't name him. All I can tell you is that he regrets it now.
We finished tenth in 1978, <PERSON>'s first season, and ninth in 1979. That was tough. On a personal note, my time under him could not have got off to a better start. I scored a hat-trick against Birmingham City at St Andrew's on the opening day of the 1977–78 season, <PERSON>'s first match in charge. Only three other players in
|
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cost nearly £4,000. The board weren't that keen on it. One of the board members worked for the insurance company that sponsored the team, Lowndes Lambert. The chairman asked him if the company would insure the club for that £4,000. Every penny was a prisoner at Swindon. Insuring the club in the event we got knocked out of the FA Cup seemed like good business. The board member promised to come back with a figure.
For whatever reason, that didn't happen. The game was by this stage upon us, so we went to Newcastle and checked into the hotel without the insurance in place. <PERSON> decided to cover himself with a wager at Ladbrokes. Obviously he didn't want Swindon to get knocked out of the FA Cup – there was real money to be earned from a run in the competition – all he was interested in was covering himself so that he got the expenses money back if we lost. It was a no-lose situation. In the event we were hammered, which is what most people expected. The chairman picked up his cheque from Ladbrokes and banked it. There was no question of us deliberately losing the game. There was more money to be had from a win. Besides, had the chairman been acting in a sinister manner as part of a betting ring, he would hardly be accepting a cheque and putting it in the bank. He'd want to hide that kind of activity. But there was nothing to hide because it was an innocent bet.
The journalist who reported the story was acting on a tip-off from within the club. There was a so-called consortium in Swindon desperate to get rid of <PERSON> and take over the club. Some members of the consortium were on the board. They had a vested interest in forcing <PERSON> out. The newspaper denied it was a board member who provided the information, but I believe the tip-off was politically motivated. The reporter screamed scandal, and everyone fell for it. He gave the impression that this was not an isolated incident, it was a deep-seated problem at the club, and many games were involved. Bunkum.
To add weight to his theory, he interviewed the players about the Newcastle match. He got hold of <PERSON>. 'What did you have for your pre-match meal? And what do you normally have?' <PERSON> replied that at the army camp the players normally ate scrambled eggs and toast. That then got compared to the spaghetti Bolognese and steak and chips they'd had at the hotel. It was presented in a way that suggested the players had been stuffed with heavy food in order to compromise their efforts on the pitch, to slow them down. 'Did you feel different on the night, <PERSON>?' 'Well, you'd have to say after getting beaten 5–0 I felt a lot different on the night.' He then moved on to another player, and asked the same questions. What did you have? Steak and chips? How many chips did you have? And so on.
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c0be8abb-1b9f-0cb8-7553-cb74786c293e
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demands for which his technique was not always fully prepared.
The claim that <PERSON> was a simple environmental determinist or a prisoner of the putatively dated school of naturalism has largely been discredited. <PERSON> himself criticized the limitations of the naturalist perspective as early as his 1936 _A Note on Literary Criticism:_ at that time he linked naturalism to mechanical materialism and accused it of fostering an expansive rather than an intensive approach to art. In 1964 <PERSON>, <PERSON>'s most reliable critic, published a convincing essay, "Freedom and Determinism in James T. Farrell's Fiction." <PERSON> demonstrated that <PERSON>'s "functional conception of the self" in his fiction was one that exhibited "a full pattern of human conduct . . . that accommodates freedom." <PERSON>'s conclusion that <PERSON> is a "critical realist" seems apt.
<PERSON>'s greatest weakness as a writer was that he failed to develop either sufficient consciousness about or a sophisticated theory of the uses of language in writing fiction beyond admirable but rather simple notions that language must serve the end of accurately recreating character and environment. There is no doubt that his heavy reliance on personal experience made <PERSON>'s work appear redundant to many critics. In short, his prose failed to communicate to many readers the true diversity of the experiences he aspired to depict.
A famous man by the time he was thirty, <PERSON>'s three decades from the mid-1940s to the mid-1970s witnessed a reversal of fortune; his survival as a writer became an ordeal. Hounded by censors in 1948 when Philadelphia police attempted to stop the sales of _Studs Lonigan_ , sneered at by a herd of literary detractors, and harassed by publishers who did not find his books sufficiently marketable, he persisted in a curmudgeonly sort of rebellion and drifted into near obscurity. In the 1950s friends urged him to settle down to a teaching post, but he refused. Unwilling to let monetary considerations influence his writing and inhospitable to new cultural trends, he persisted in using his art idiosyncratically to tell the truth as he saw it. At one point he was evicted from his apartment for nonpayment of rent, and on another occasion financial desperation forced him to sell the movie rights to _Studs Lonigan_ for a pittance. But he only became stronger in his belief that he must resist commercial forces. In 1961, at what was probably the nadir of his career, he publicly declared, "I began writing in my own way and I shall go on doing it. This is my first and last word on the subject."
Future biographers will have to probe the psychological causes and artistic consequences of such single-minded determination, but <PERSON> himself justified his defiant pursuit of his own literary objectives in terms of social value. Quoting from <PERSON>'s _What Is Art?_ (1897–98), he explained that the purpose of his writing technique is to "infect [the reader] with feeling" so as to awaken the reader's mind to the social forces at work in shaping one's life. "The most important thing that a person can do is teach,"
|
ca791f48-7cdc-0680-0abd-a4abc9e7e38e
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to publish his repudiation of Marxism in the _Partisan Review_ under the pseudonym "<PERSON>." He then vanished from the political arena to begin a new life as a professor of philosophy at Brandeis University.
These instances of sudden and almost shameless _volte-faces_ were only the latest in a long stream that stemmed back to the late 1930s. The Trotskyist movement was by no means unique in this phenomenon. Among the most extraordinary cases were those of <PERSON> and <PERSON>, arch-theoreticians of the <PERSON> group. A few weeks before the <PERSON> organization disbanded in 1940, <PERSON> appeared at a meeting to plead with the members not to change their Leninist-internationalist opposition to the coming war, as <PERSON> himself had just done. In a moving voice he declared, "I have never supported imperialist war; I will never support an imperialist war; and I am breaking a lifelong friendship with <PERSON> over this issue because this war is no different from any other imperialist war." Yet within weeks, <PERSON>'s position became the same as <PERSON>'s.
<PERSON> was a man with a fantastic courtroomlike capacity to build up a case for any position he wanted. Yet with astonishing ease he showed himself just as capable as <PERSON> and <PERSON> of switching from one position to its opposite. A specialty of <PERSON>'s was demolishing all arguments in favor of theology. When he discovered that <PERSON>'s young secretary, <PERSON>, was an agnostic, he marshaled such a barrage of evidence to demonstrate the nonexistence of God and the social evil of religion that <PERSON>, fifty years later and a retired professor of criminology, could still feel the force of his logic. Yet <PERSON> himself went directly from militant atheism to wearing a yarmulke and praying, eventually establishing himself as one of America's leading theologians.
Quirky behavior, political quiescence, and extraordinary turnabouts were among the least objectionable manifestations of apostasy exhibited by these defectors. <PERSON> embarked on a course that veered between pathos and tragedy, while <PERSON> was worthy of performance by the Theater of the Absurd. At least a year before resigning from the Workers Party, <PERSON> had fallen into a political malaise. Unable to practice law because he had been disbarred, worried about supporting a young wife he had met and married during his Smith Act trial and a son born in November 1948, <PERSON> drove a taxicab for a while before accepting his brothers' generous offer to set him up as assistant manager of the Courtesy Car Service, a limousine taxicab company in Chicago. But business was so poor that <PERSON> himself had to do much of the driving. In these years Goldman underwent strange changes in personality and appearance. Formerly a hearty man, nearly six feet tall with brown hair, he now became extremely thin and even foppish in appearance. He declared himself a vegetarian, developed a cleanliness fetish, and insisted on boiling all his drinking water. Old friends found him hardly recognizable.
By 1950 he described himself as a "right-wing socialist" in a letter to _New Leader_
|
ff2dd74c-a5c4-2ab3-6364-c9475f4b4b6b
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['0ae77617-dace-534f-fe2f-af8cb929e9aa']
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the toes pointing to the ceiling. Hinge forward from the hip while maintaining a neutral spine. Finish all reps, then repeat with other leg.
**Too easy?** Stand upright and extend one leg straight in front of you with your foot on a chair or counter. Flex your ankle. Hinge forward from the hip while maintaining a neutral spine. Finish all reps, then repeat with other leg.
## Shoulder workout
While busy hands often get all the credit, the most mundane daily tasks—brushing your hair, sweeping your wallet off the dresser, reaching for the front doorknob—can't be done unless your shoulders position your arms and hands in the right spots.
### **Shoulders 101**
Although we refer to the shoulder as if it were a single joint, in reality four joints loosely connect several bones. Riding above the rib cage are four bones that form the shoulder girdle: a pair of collarbones (clavicles) at the front, and a pair of triangular shoulder blades or wing bones (scapulae) at the back. The inner end of each collarbone is linked to the breastbone (sternum). The outer end of the collarbone fits into a small joint meeting up with the front edge of the shoulder blade (forming the acromioclavicular, or AC, joint), so that the four bones largely float above the ribs, suspended by several strong muscles and ligaments.
The long bone of the upper arm (humerus) fits into a larger ball-and-socket joint at the shoulder blade (see Figure 5). This allows the arm to move freely in many directions, making it possible to serve a tennis ball or push a vacuum. Yet it also makes the shoulder joint inherently unstable and easy to injure.
A tendon bridging four small muscles creates the rotator cuff. The cuff covers the ball of the shoulder joint and permits you to rotate your arm and stabilizes the joint. Even a basic action, like lifting your arm, requires every part of the shoulder girdle to move in turn and calls into play rotator cuff muscles plus a raft of strong muscles of the shoulders, back, and chest.
#### **What this workout helps**
**Shoulder impingement.** A common cause of shoulder pain occurs when the front portion of the shoulder blade impinges on the rotator cuff as you raise your arm. This may cause bursitis or tendinitis or a tear in the rotator cuff. Shoulder impingement causes pain and limits movement considerably, occasionally creating a "frozen shoulder." Common causes include overuse of rotator cuff muscles in sports like tennis, swimming, and baseball, work like painting that repeatedly involves reaching overhead, and minor injuries.
**Osteoarthritis.** Sometimes dubbed "wear and tear" arthritis because it starts when cartilage cushioning the joints wears down, osteoarthritis of the shoulder is a common cause of pain in people over age 50. Prior injuries, aging, and overuse are all factors.
**Bursitis.** Small, fluid-filled sacs called bursae cushion the movement of bones against muscle, skin, and tendons. Bursae above the rotator cuff are prime candidates for inflammation (bursitis) prompted by causes similar to those for
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|
buying new ones every 350 to 550 miles.
**Stability ball.** Stability balls come in several sizes (55 cm, 65 cm, and 75 cm are most common, but smaller and larger balls are available). To select a ball, check the package for a size chart based on your height. When you sit on a ball, your hips and knees should both be at 90-degree angles. Select a durable, high-quality ball, such as Max Fitness or Spri brands.
**Yoga strap.** This is a nonelastic cotton or nylon strap of 6 feet or longer that helps you position your body properly while doing certain stretches. Choose a strap with a D-ring or buckle fastener on one end. This allows you to put a loop around a foot or leg and then grasp the other end of the strap.
## Getting started
Often, the slide toward an increasingly sedentary life starts with painful joints because discomfort curtails activities. Although a doctor may prescribe temporary rest after an injury or surgery, week after week of inactivity compromises your health and abilities. Our simple walking plan can help you turn around this unhealthy trend. If walking isn't possible, see "When walks are too hard" for alternative activities.
### **A simple cardio workout**
Like all aerobic (cardio) activities, walking tunes up the heart and lungs while burning calories. Because it doesn't jar joints terribly or raise the heart rate to dangerous levels, it's safe for almost everyone. Our walking plan ramps up slowly. Follow these tips to get the most from your walks:
**Find safe places to walk.** Quiet streets with sidewalks, park trails, athletic tracks at local schools, or indoor malls are safest. If you're looking for a flat surface, the latter two choices are best.
**Buy a good pair of shoes.** Look for thick, flexible soles that cushion your feet and elevate your heel a half to three-quarters of an inch above the sole. Choose shoes with "breathable" uppers, such as nylon mesh or leather.
**Dress for comfort and safety.** Since exercise warms your body, wear lighter clothes than you'd need if standing still. Dress in layers so you can peel off garments if you get hot. Wear a hat with a brim and sunblock when needed. Light-colored clothes and reflective strips, a reflective vest, or a lightweight flashing light can help drivers notice you.
**Do a warm-up.** Walk at a slower pace for several minutes as you start out.
**Practice good technique.** For example:
• Walk at a steady, moderate-intensity pace (see Table 2 or "A walking plan," below). Slow down if you're too breathless to carry on a conversation.
**A walking plan**
Our walking plan is designed to safely boost your physical activity even if you are very sedentary. It's the minutes that count, not the miles. If you aren't in the habit of exercising, start at the beginning. If you're already exercising, start at the level that best matches your current routine and build from there.
|
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have commanded small sailing craft in some of the stormiest seas in the world, but that little schooner—with her 40-ft main boom, trying to take charge—flogging her way south from Cape Horn to the pack-ice in the dead of winter, beat them all.
Again they encountered the ice, the auxiliary engine broke down, and again they were forced to retreat. At last the Chilean navy came to their rescue, and in the little steamer Yelcho they groped their way through fog and ice and reached the camp on Elephant Island. As <PERSON> carefully maneuvered the steamer through icebergs and reefs, <PERSON> scanned the beach through binoculars:
I heard his strained tones as he counted the figures that were crawling out from under the upturned boat. "Two—five—seven—" and then an exultant shout, "They're all there, <PERSON>. They are all safe!" His face lit up and years seem to fall off his age.
Not one man had been lost.
<PERSON>'S EXTRAORDINARY NAVIGATIONAL feat in the James Caird depended as much on good judgment as on his skill with a sextant. He knew that his DR calculations were wildly unreliable, and experience told him that he could not safely rely on his latest longitude estimate as they closed the northwestern tip of South Georgia.
<PERSON> exploited every clue offered by close observation of the natural world around him, though in this he was not unusual. Successful navigation, in the pre-electronic age, depended on the skillful integration of information from many different sources. It was never just a matter of compass, log, and sextant observations: the journals of all the great explorers are full of references to the color of the water, its depth, the nature of the "ground," wave and swell patterns, the clouds, and much else besides. Animal behavior—especially that of birds—was also crucial. <PERSON> commented that he was "not at all surprised that the early voyagers should have taken so much notice of the appearance and flight of birds, when out of sight of land; since in my very short experience I have profited much by observing them, and I am thence led to conclude that land, especially small islands or reefs, has often been discovered in consequence of watching particular kinds of birds, and noticing the direction in which they fly, of an evening, about sunset." Seasoned navigators all over the world instinctively attend to such natural phenomena.
For thousands of years mariners relied on their unaided senses to find their way when they ventured on the open sea, but the native navigators of the Pacific islands were probably the most sophisticated and daring exponents of this kind of "natural navigation." As <PERSON> noted with amazement, Polynesian seafarers were able to make successful landfalls without instruments or charts—even on low-lying atolls—after crossing hundreds or thousands of miles of ocean. Modern research has shed a good deal of light on their methods and some of their long ocean passages have been replicated. In 1976, for example, a 65-foot double canoe named Hōkūle'a—the Star of Gladness in Hawaiian, or Arcturus—whose design was partly based
|
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major inlet that would give access to the interior. As far as possible he avoided the "running survey" method. Instead he anchored frequently, and when he went ashore used the theodolite to connect fixed positions by triangulation. He relied heavily on chronometers for his survey work but checked them as often as possible by lunars and sometimes, when ashore, by the moons of Jupiter. On one occasion he observed an eclipse, which proved a useful index of the accuracy of his methods after he had returned home.
<PERSON> also made an extended series of observations of the strangely erratic behavior of magnetic compasses aboard ship. Their tendency to give different bearings of the same object depending on which way the ship's head was pointing had long been a mystery and was a matter of great navigational significance. <PERSON> realized that this "compass deviation" was due to the influence of magnetic metals aboard the ship, and he devised a means of correcting it that was tested successfully after his eventual return to England. Though it was many years before his proposal was adopted, compensatory "Flinders bars" eventually became a standard feature of steering-compass installations on board every modern ship. <PERSON>, who kept careful records of the barometric pressure, was also among the first to investigate carefully the relationship between changes in this variable and the behavior of the wind, a study that was to be taken further by another distinguished hydrographer—<PERSON>.
Like so many other voyages of exploration, this one was marked by human tragedy. In February 1802 the master of the Investigator, <PERSON>, along with seven other men, was drowned on an expedition in one of the ship's boats in rough waters off the south coast of Australia. <PERSON>, who had earlier sailed with <PERSON> and <PERSON>, was both an old friend and a much-valued colleague. The site of the accident was appropriately called Cape Catastrophe and the grief-stricken Flinders named an island after <PERSON>.
While the fruitless search for the lost men was under way, <PERSON> learned that <PERSON> before leaving home had visited a fortune-teller who had told him that he was going on a long voyage and that his ship would be joined by another vessel after reaching her destination; he, however, would be lost before that happened. The superstitious crew of the Investigator were very struck by this prophecy, but <PERSON> coolly observed that other commanders should discourage their crews from consulting fortune-tellers.
Oddly enough, they did have an unnerving chance encounter with another vessel some weeks later. This was Le Géographe, commanded by the French explorer <PERSON>, who was proceeding along the south coast in the opposite direction. Uncertain of the Frenchman's intentions, the little Investigator cleared for action and veered around as she passed the larger ship in order to keep her broadside to her. Flinders then hove to and went aboard Le Géographe. It seems to have been a slightly tense encounter. <PERSON>'s lack of interest in the identity of his interlocutor, or even in his reasons for being in this remote
|
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You have to supply extra heat from the torch the whole time (about 10 to 15 seconds once it starts). That's when you are most likely to get a flare out from the end of the tube.
**6** Let the tube cool, then dump the contents into a long-handled metal measuring cup. Make sure it's completely cool or residual magnesium powder will catch fire when you dump it out.
**7** Prepare a bowl of diluted acid by adding about one cup of concentrated muriatic acid (HCl) to five cups of water. Always pour acid into water, never the other way around.
**8** In a fireproof area, quickly dump the powder from the measuring cup into the acid. If it doesn't catch fire, it means you didn't heat it well enough in steps 4 and 5, or your sand wasn't silica sand.
**A REACTIVE MOMENT** Magnesium, hydrogen and silane burn off while the purified silicon falls to the bottom.
**TORRID TUBE** To get the magnesium powder inside hot enough, you'll end up destroying the test tube.
**Real DANGER alert: This experiment uses magnesium powder, which is explosively flammable when distributed in the air, as well as concentrated acid. Effective wraparound eye protection and fire-resistant clothing is absolutely _essential_. The test tube regularly fails during the heating phase, so be prepared. If it does, there will be a magnesium fireball. This will not hurt you if you are properly protected; it will permanently blind you if you are not. Spectators should be protected behind a shield.**
# ODD COUPLING
## Combine hydrogen peroxide and chlorine to make a glowing (and poisonous) mixture that's a window into the weird world of quantum physics
**B EFORE THE** discovery in the 1920s of quantum mechanics—laws that explain the way the world works on the very small scale of atoms and electrons—the fact that bleach and peroxide glow when mixed would have seemed like just another chemical reaction that gives off light, like fire or fireflies. But it's actually a glimpse into the impossible.
Hydrogen peroxide decomposes when it meets chlorine, releasing molecules of oxygen, each of which has one electron in a high-energy state. When the electrons inevitably return to a low-energy state, the excess energy comes off as a photon of light, creating a glow. Simple—but there are two problems.
First, quantum calculations show that the energy created in this transition is only enough for a photon of infrared light, which is invisible. Second, there are three separate laws of quantum mechanics that say this particular transition (a lone oxygen molecule going from high to low energy) can't happen anyway.
Why should we believe in the abstract, common-sense-defying math of quantum mechanics? Because two impossibles sometimes make a possible.
It turns out that since the transition is forbidden, the molecule is stuck in its "excited" state—until, that is, it eventually collides with another excited molecule, breaking one of those laws (symmetry) and allowing two electrons to return to lower-energy states simultaneously. Together they release a single photon with twice the energy: a photon of visible orange-red
|
bbc856b7-86b5-4f39-bbd7-e1381947f20f
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['0c6d898e-6c07-43e1-7a96-1b36b45e2fa9']
|
couple hundred thousand years, most of the 239Pu has decayed into 235U, and there it sits for a very long time because 235U has a half-life of 70 million years. But eventually, after several additional stages of decay, the end result is 5/6 of a pound of stable lead (82), 207Pb.
Where did the other 1/6 pound go? Consider the first decay from 247Bk to 243Am. Americium has two fewer protons than berkelium, and its mass number is four less (243 vs. 247), meaning that two protons and two neutrons were lost. When the 247Bk decayed, it shot two protons and two neutrons out in the form of an alpha particle, accounting for some of the loss of mass. (What physicists call an alpha particle is the nucleus of what chemists call a helium atom.)
Other stages in the decay—for example 239Np to 239Pu—change the element number (the number of protons) but not the mass number. Since the mass number doesn't change you might think that a 239Pu atom weighs the same as a 239Np atom, but this is not the case. In fact the 239Pu is very slightly lighter—the extra mass in the 239Np has been converted directly into energy according to <PERSON>'s famous formula, _E_ = _mc_ 2 (in words, "energy equals mass times the speed of light squared"). The speed of light, _c_ , is a very big number, meaning that a small amount of mass converts into a huge amount of energy.
So the answer is that the missing 1/6 pound has turned into a combination of helium (2) (from the emitted alpha particles) and pure energy. (And in practice, that energy means you'd never be able to keep an actual pound of berkelium on your desk, it would be far too dangerous.)
Virtually no practical applications have been found for berkelium. But, surprisingly for such a high-numbered element, there are actually a few real applications for californium.
The great seal of the University of California at Berkeley, where <PERSON> discovered berkelium and many other elements.
The decay chain of 247Bk, described in detail in the text. In most cases a given isotope decays almost entirely into one new isotope, but sometimes there is more than one possible decay pathway. Shown here are those paths that occur at least 1% of the time. The chain stops when it reaches a stable element, in this case almost all the material ultimately ends up as the lead isotope 207Pb. Yes, this is transmutation of the elements just like the alchemists dreamed of, only more expensive.
# Californium
<PERSON> is a name you run into a lot around this part of the periodic table. He is on the list of those credited with the discovery of californium, and also plutonium (94), americium (95), curium (96), berkelium (97), einsteinium (99), fermium (100), mendelevium (101), nobelium (102), and seaborgium (106).
The last one is of particular note because it is the only really unambiguous case of an element named not only for a person involved in its discovery, but also for
|
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was seventeen. But my parents never told me why, not until <PERSON> and I were already married. And ever since then, I've felt like my own body was booby-trapped, and it was my job to examine every inch of its terrain, like it was enemy territory. Now my worst fears are coming true."
<PERSON> nodded, taking in everything I said, rolling my words around in his head the way he always did.
"You know, I'd like for everyone to just go away," I said. "I really would. The prodders and the pokers. The experts trained to peer and stick and cut. The ones who read charts and type up notes. The ones who train their X-rays on the innocent and hold their glowing film up to the light before surprising you with secrets you've been keeping from yourself. I feel so alone, <PERSON>. Like I've been marked—singled out."
"I understand," <PERSON> said. "Whenever we must carry a health legacy from the past, it can be too much to bear."
A cold wind swept across the yard just then. Instinctively, we turned to face the mountains, but in pivoting, <PERSON> became unsteady on his feet.
"Oh, Lord," he said. His cane slipped from his grip. I tried to grasp it as it fell, but missed. The grass received it, shuddering. His cotton shirt blew up against his chest. I saw how thin he had become.
"I've upset you. That was selfish. I'm so sorry, <PERSON>."
One of <PERSON>'s neighbors checking mail across the street called out to ask if we needed any help. She lingered at her mailbox, pretending to inspect the hinge, when all the while I sensed that she was just one of those people who had radar for gossip of any kind. I told her, no. We were fine. <PERSON> and I dropped our voices to a whisper.
"This morning, we received some news as well," <PERSON> said, while I retrieved his cane. "<PERSON>'s visa is going to come through. We've known this was a possibility for quite some time, but now it is confirmed. It is a matter of days."
"Oh, <PERSON>! That's wonderful. We'll have a celebration when she gets here." I stepped closer to him, hoping to convey how excited I felt about <PERSON>'s arrival.
If only I had known about the good news, I would have waited to share my burden with him. But his troubled expression persisted. I expected him to be overjoyed, but instead he looked sadder than I'd ever seen him.
"There is something which I have not told you," he said. "It is regarding my condition." He paused. "It is something that makes <PERSON>'s arrival a matter of the greatest urgency. I have wanted, many times, to tell you . . . of the underlying reason for this stroke and my decline . . . but we were always working in the garden and the moment never came."
His eyes shone in their earnest way, and I waited patiently for him to continue. A plane was descending toward the airport, a view
|
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But feeling sorry for myself was like rolling down a grassy hill—I picked up speed the more I did it and it got harder to stop.
<PERSON> had offered to go with me for the follow-up ultrasound, but I told him no, he shouldn't even think of it. What I didn't tell him was that I couldn't stand sitting there with his fears as well as my own, feeding off of each other and somehow multiplying. I told him that he shouldn't worry, I could easily ask <PERSON> or another female friend to go with me. But even as I said that, I knew I would go alone. I didn't want to be the cancer hostess while my friend tried to be reassuring, or while I tried to be positive for her sake. The most I could handle was to sit in that waiting room by myself, arms wrapped around my own torso as if to physically hold myself together.
After that I would stay in hiding for a few weeks, avoiding searching glances and prying questions while I prayed that everything would be okay. I didn't mind telling the details of my medical adventure after a benign result was reached. After the happy ending, it might even be entertaining to admit that while I was outwardly cool I was really a panicky mess. I could joke about fearing the worst and my argument with <PERSON>. I would manage the facts and control my message. Maybe that's what my mother was doing when she had them roll her away in the hearse.
I popped a Xanax and grew drowsy. On the edge of sleep, I heard <PERSON>'s weary footsteps on the stairs. The moon was pale and cold. It peered at me through an opening in the curtains. I threw the covers back and waited in hope for <PERSON> to come lie beside me.
• • •
Three days later, feeling dizzy in a little cubicle, I took my sweater off. My bra came next. I hung it on a hook. Heaven help me, I'd avoided wearing pink. Today I chose colors I liked better and that felt more fitting for the occasion—muddy brown and deep gunmetal gray.
One of the nurses stuck her head into my dressing room and said, "Don't forget to get a bumper sticker for the Big Pink Parade. It's for Breast Cancer Awareness month. This year, the mayor is going to speak."
I studied the nurse's expression. She looked sincere. If I were going to think up a parade for breast cancer it certainly wouldn't feature pink. Instead, I would have liked to see a line of scientists in lab coats trooping over distant hills. They would be sexless men and women with their hair cut sensibly, their glasses on and pencils sharpened. And they'd be looking for a cure. I thought of an acquaintance, <PERSON>, who once said she'd kept a positive attitude when she was called back for some further pictures, and she attributed the benign results that came her way to managing her thoughts.
|
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Regulation and the Politics of Public Service_ , Mansell, London, 1999, p. 34.
Ibid., pp. 41–2.
<PERSON>, 'The Identity of English Liberalism', _Politics and Society_ , p. 23.
<PERSON>, 'Liberal Legislation or Freedom of Contract' in _The Liberal Tradition_ , p. 182.
<PERSON>, 'Liberalism' in _The Liberal Tradition_ , p. 192.
Ibid., p. 194.
Ibid., p. 214.
<PERSON> and <PERSON>, _Philosophy in the Flesh_ : _The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought_ , Basic Books, New York, 1999, p. 91.
<PERSON>, _The New Liberalism,_ pp. 102–3.
<PERSON>, 'The Identity of English Liberalism', _Politics and Society_ , p. 19.
Ibid., p. 30.
<PERSON>, 'The General Election: A Sociological Interpretation', _The Sociological Review_ , 3 (2) 1910, p. 108.
Ibid., p. 109.
Ibid., p. 114.
Ibid., p. 113.
<PERSON>, _Imperialism: A Study_ , James Pott & Company, New York, 1902, p. 381.
<PERSON>, _The People: The Rise and Fall of the Working Class_ , John Murray, London, 2014, p. 14.
<PERSON>, 'The General Election: A Sociological Interpretation', _The Sociological Review_ , 3 (2), 1910, p. 117.
For a critique of the politics of <PERSON>'s book, see <PERSON>, 'Militancy, English Socialism and the Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists' in _Journal of Contemporary History_ , 20 (2), 1985, pp. 283–303.
<PERSON>, _Thatcher and Friends_ : _The Anatomy of the Tory Party_ , Pluto Press, London, 1983, p. 48.
<PERSON>, _English Culture_ , p. 144.
It also means he was probably disappointed by the advent of Thatcherism, since while Thatcherism reinstalled the profit motive as the most important incentive in society, it also rapidly advanced deindustrialisation, combining a more typical version of conservatism: economic liberalism and its various rentier and service sector capital formations.
<PERSON>, _English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit_ , Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2004, p. 128.
<PERSON>, _Grierson on Documentary._ Edited by <PERSON>, Collins, London, 1946, p. 98–9.
Ibid., 86.
Ibid., p. 138.
Ibid., pp. 139–40.
Ibid., p. 139.
Ibid., p. 198.
<PERSON>, _<PERSON>: Life, Contributions, Influence_ , Southern Illinois Press, 2000, p. 47.
Ibid., p. 139.
<PERSON>, _Grierson on Documentary_ , p. 126.
See <PERSON>, _Propaganda_ , G Publishing, Brooklyn New York, 2005.
<PERSON>, _Grierson on Documentary_ , p. 140–1.
Colin Leys, _Politics in Britain_ , Verso, London, 1989, p. 50.
<PERSON>, _Grierson on Documentary_ , p. 171.
Ibid., p. 141.
Ibid., pp. 184–5.
Ibid., p. 185.
Ibid., p. 144.
Ibid., p. 195.
Ibid., p. 196.
<PERSON>, _The English: A Portrait of a People_ , Penguin, London, 1999, p. 163.
<PERSON>, '"A Good Day to Bury Bad News?": Journalists, Sources and the Packaging of Politics.' In _News, Public Relations and Power_ , (ed.) Simon Cottle, Sage, London, 2003.
<PERSON>, _The
|
162eab3e-df77-a1ce-bc01-3a0d7ef4e3e1
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could only depend on the relative strength of the 'forces in struggle', the balance between them at any strategic moment, and the effective conduct of the 'politics of signification'. We can think of many pertinent historical examples where the conduct of a social struggle depended, at a particular moment, precisely on the effective dis-articulation of certain key terms, e.g. 'democracy', the 'rule of law', 'civil rights', 'the nation'...
Are the forces in struggle that <PERSON> refers to here more than discursive? Is the 'balance' anything more than rhetorical power or is everything absorbed into the 'politics of signification'? How far did the outcomes of the struggle to advance democracy within capitalism by the working class depend on 'the effective disarticulation of certain key terms' and how far did the latter emerge from the lived experience of class conflict, which of course always had to be 'signified' in some terms to be made intelligible but which it is extremely reductive to think of primarily in the linguistic terms of 'articulation/disarticulation'. Of course <PERSON> could argue that discursive struggles are always woven into material practices, organisations, collectives of people coming together to do something, but, there is a tendency to slide into a world of discourse in which the latter eclipses all those other factors, such as how much economic resources and political power different combatants can commit to a struggle and how that determines the scale, reach and to some extent, nature of their 'discourse'.
Yet we must admit that the question of determinations is a deep and profound methodological problem, one that confronts all inquiry with inherent complexities. <PERSON> attempted to formulate the problem with his concepts of conjuncture and organic conditions. Conjuncture refers to those periods in which a certain configuration of forces struggle for ascendancy to define a new direction for future social development. This is the moment where political agency can break the mould and shift the course of events. The conjuncture is 'not a slice of time', argued <PERSON>, although of course it requires some periodisation, elastically conceived according to what one wants to study or demonstrate for the purposes of analysis. But it is above all 'the accumulation/condensation of contradictions' such as we have analysed in relation to the referendums of 2014 and 2016.
Organic conditions refers to the longer-term structural arrangements that the political forces are attempting to 'restore' to health or fundamentally change. They are the basis of the conjunctures which are in turn the basis of deciding which direction those organic conditions are going to take as the result of the outcome of the struggle to forge new historic blocs. This language of conjunctures and organic conditions or movements was <PERSON>'s rethinking of <PERSON>'s base-superstructure metaphor. '[I]n studying a structure', <PERSON> wrote:
it is necessary to distinguish organic movements (relatively permanent) from movements which may be termed 'conjunctural' (and which appear as occasional, immediate, almost accidental). Conjunctural phenomena too depend on organic movements to be sure, but they do not have any very far-reaching historical significance; they give rise to political criticism of a
|
d43170e4-529d-6128-bf73-1aefd84aa894
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|
his literary criticism and journalistic writing to take jabs at American social and cultural weaknesses: pretension, provincialism, Christian radicalism, and the "booboisie"—the uncultured, unthinking middle class of America.
# HE SET THE STANDARD.
27 April 2011
Editor, Washington Post
1150 15th St., NW
Washington, DC 20071
Dear Editor:
<PERSON> is correct that the recent run-up in gasoline prices isn't the fault of President <PERSON> ("President <PERSON> says that gas prices reflect supply and demand," April 27). But Mr. <PERSON> is wrong to pity Mr. <PERSON> for nevertheless being blamed by the public for their pain at the pumps.
Mr. <PERSON>, like so many elected officials, won office by deluding voters with a grand image of a government that, in the right hands, can fix nearly every problem that troubles the good people of this republic—a government that can fix all that is broken, can cure all social ills (and many physical ones, too), and can transform this vale of trade-offs, scarcities, chance, and imperfections into a paradise in which the only suffering is that of Evil Villains finally brought to justice for the depredations that they've for so long inflicted upon the pure, noble, all-deserving We the People.
Because Mr. <PERSON> assured us that with him at the helm <PERSON> powers to "change" society would be vast and amazing, he deserves no pity for being held accountable for his inability to perform the marvels that he promised to perform.
Sincerely,
**"We will be able to look back and tell our children that this was the moment when we began to provide care for the sick and good jobs to the jobless; this was the moment when the rise of the oceans began to slow and our planet began to heal."**
–Candidate <PERSON> after winning the Democratic nomination for president in 2008
# GOVERNMENTS CAN BE BUILT; NATIONS MIGHT
BE BUILT; CIVIL SOCIETIES, ALAS, CAN NEVER
BE BUILT. THEY MUST EMERGE.
23 February 2011
Editor, Washington Post
1150 15th St., NW
Washington, DC 20071
Dear Editor:
<PERSON> argues that "American principles" require <PERSON> to intervene more vigorously—with force, if necessary—in the revolutions now sweeping through the Middle East ("Obama's moment in the Middle East—and at home," Feb. 23).
I disagree. While we should cheer for liberalization to grow and spread throughout the Middle East, American principles counsel our government _not_ to interfere. One of these principles, after all, is that government (even our own) is an inherently dangerous agent best kept on as short a leash as possible. Another of these principles is that top-down social engineering is bound to have undesirable unintended consequences—a fact that is no less true when the social engineers are headquartered in the Pentagon and the State Department as when they are headquartered in the Department of Health and Human Services and the Department of Education. The same government that Mr. <PERSON> so often, and rightly, criticizes for making a mess of matters here at home is unlikely to become a shining example of efficiency, rectitude, and Solomaic wisdom
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avoid the stupidity of tribalism.
My fervent hope is that by 2032 Americans will have rejected once and for all the ignorant intolerance of today's bigoted, big-mouthed, and benighted xenophobes.
Sincerely,
# REALITY AIN'T OPTIONAL: THERE'S NO
FREE LUNCH, OR FREE HEALTH CARE.
21 January 2010
Editor, Los Angeles Times
202 West 1st Street
Los Angeles, California 90012
Dear Editor:
Hoping for the electoral defeat of members of Congress who vote against Obamacare, <PERSON> asks your readers to think of these Obamacare opponents "Every time you have to pay an extravagant co-pay, every time you must make up a huge deductible" (Letters, Jan. 21).
In other words, Mr. <PERSON> asks me to be angry whenever I actually have to pay for resources that I use—to be peeved that someone else isn't footing my bill—to be upset that <PERSON> hasn't arranged for me to free-ride on other people's nickels—to strike back at politicians who refuse to force Mr. <PERSON> to pay my health-care expenses and me to pay his.
I reject Mr. <PERSON>'s childish advice and his predatory principles.
Sincerely,
The term _free lunch_ originally referred to free food offered by American saloon keepers to attract drinkers into their establishments. This advertisement for a Milwaukee saloon appeared in the _Commercial Advertiser_ in June 1850:
_At The Crescent..._
_Can be found the choicest of Segars, Wines and Liquors..._
_N. B.—A free lunch every day at 11 o'clock will be served up_.
If you purchased drinks, you got a free lunch. In addition to being criticized by the temperance lobby, many pointed out that the lunches weren't "free" but were paid for by the customer in the price of the drinks they had to buy—the same point behind the twentieth-century economic concept of "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch."
In fact, according to www.phrases.org.uk, some saloon owners were charged with false advertising, since customers couldn't get the "free" lunch without turning over money first, even if it was for drinks.
# HOWE WE'VE PROGRESSED BEYOND THAT PETTY
18TH-CENTURY NOTION OF INDIVIDUAL RIGHTS.
22 February 2010
Editor, Washington Post
1150 15th St., NW
Washington, DC 20071
Dear Editor:
<PERSON> observes that "Every advanced society, including the United States, has a welfare state. Though details differ, their purposes are similar: to support the unemployed, poor, disabled and aged" ("Greece and the welfare state in ruins," Feb. 22). True, but incomplete.
The founder of the modern welfare state, German Chancellor <PERSON>, wanted, as he said, "to bribe the working classes" into devotion to the German state. What better way to ensure that families are willing to send ample supplies of their young men off to die for the Fatherland?
And it's telling that an American admirer of this German system, <PERSON>—who was influential in planting these "progressive" ideas in America's upper Midwest—admitted that one result of government-dispensed welfare is that "The individual exists for the state, not the state for the individual."
If Mr. <PERSON> is correct that
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for a month or two, tops—money that is actually spent on monthly expenses, then replenished with earnings or other income. Keeping this down to known expenses for two months is important because the return will be so low. Use a checking account and perhaps also a money market fund. Often a fine deal can be had with a money market fund that earns enough interest to cover checking fees or get them waived. Even if you use a credit card for groceries, this fund pays off the charges before interest is applicable. Be sure to read the credit card terms to know when interest is actually applied! This fund is for known, repeating expenses, plus an extra month's worth for modest discretionary expenditures.
Tier 2 is for expenditures that you can reasonably measure if you keep a budget that shows intended expenditures versus actual expenditures. The extra expenditures represent either spending you should consider trimming or expenditures you know are likely to occur sometime during the year, yet are not precisely known as to amount or timing. Track this budget, using a spreadsheet or Quicken or whatever, over a year so you can revise your estimate of the needed size of your cash reserves and so you can get a handle on disposable income. (Planners need to have this information to project the effect of extra savings that you might be able to capture.) Examples of items to place in the budget include maintenance on your vehicle, taking visitors out to eat, replacement of things that generally take a year to wear out, and vacations. Getting reasonable estimates of these expenses requires a two-column budget in a spreadsheet or Quicken or similar software packages. If you fail to record what is actually spent compared to what was intended, or if you do not have all categories on the spreadsheet, then you will underestimate your expenses of this type. There is merit in expanding the time horizon for this fund up to five years, and including estimated home repairs and the like. This fund should receive excess funds from Tier 1 whenever that first tier exceeds the size you have calculated (from your budget) you need. It also should be invested in funds that seek the highest return you can find with no more of an early withdrawal penalty than the interest it is likely to earn in a year; no aggressive bond funds, no stocks at all unless it is a multi-year fund (up to five). Even then, your advisor must be asked to help you select investments that have minimal risk of market loss. That's because when you need these funds, you really need them!
Why an exclamation point? Well, there are other potential expenses to estimate and increase the size of the fund by that number: What if you have a brief disability or job loss? Tier 2 is for these contingencies, not just maintenance items. Besides, if you have a fund that can cover a year of likely maintenance expenses plus all expenses for a year in case you
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|
maxim of "never lose money." Because these do not lose money, the lower return from interest that follows the index caused the account value to beat the hypothetical index investment almost all years if given at least a decade of returns! One carrier, American Equity, has a long history to show (other carriers changed products, which prevents them from publishing or advertising as much history, but this performance is typical of EIAs). Assuming no taxation of the index or of the annuity (deferral), a hypothetical $100,000 investment at 9/30/1998 grew to $223,837 by 9/30/2016, whereas the index grew to $206,700. There was only one period when the index fund had a higher account balance: 1998 to mid-2000. Because of this no-loss-but-follows-the-index characteristic, combined with the unique ability for annuities to match payout to expenses, I strongly recommend equity-indexed annuities for the limited scope task of that income-expense matching. Bar none, EIAs are the most appropriate investment for this purpose, but carefully note the following description.
How EIA income works: Once you start guaranteed income, which is an age-at-start percent of the income account value, that IAV no longer receives the previously guaranteed interest—it freezes and can only be reduced by taking withdrawals in excess of the guarantee. Again, for some contracts, great performance in the index can be higher than the income draw percent, and this would increase the IAV, resulting in ratcheted up lifelong income. The potential to increase the IAV during income draw, if allowed at all, stops at some age limit, usually 80.
That continuation of income after cash value exhaustion requires that you take only the guaranteed income. If you take some excess, for most contracts, the ratio of the excess to the cash value at the time of withdrawal becomes the percent reduction in the IAV (the base for income from which 4% or 5% or whatever is guaranteed for life). Guaranteed withdrawals do not reduce the IAV, but excess withdrawals reduce per that ratio. This results in that guaranteed percentage being applied to a lower IAV and so a new, reduced income. For example, taking half the remaining cash value cuts the income for life by half. As for interest-crediting methods to pick, there is simply no way to know which method would be the one yielding the highest growth.
Another caution regarding income riders for EIAs and VAs: Don't be fooled by shopping "rates." A carrier can easily have the best guaranteed interest rate for its IAV, yet low payouts for the eventual lifetime income withdrawal. How? The rate that is applied to the IAV once you start income could be low. Conversely, a carrier might tout the highest rate of payout applied to the income account value, but then accrue interest to that IAV only slowly. The only "rate" you should care about is the guaranteed income itself: the dollars you get when you turn on lifelong income.
Some EIAs offer a rider that doubles income for up to four or five years. The trigger is either the need to be in a long-term
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drawn by the beat: the instant <PERSON> sings the word "boy," the meter changes; and the instant he returns to the conversation with the woman in the verse, everything reverts to the initial (although unsteady) backbeat. The contradictory emotional states these rhythms conjure up—the frustrated pull between idealized innocence and the overbearing complexity of a deeply personal disillusionment—are framed by the inevitable stages of human life: birth, middle age (the singer/narrator), and death.
"She Said She Said" raises unspeakable fears from the subconscious (Is death a mockery of birth? Does life ultimately cheat us all?) and poses them as essential questions. In "Money," <PERSON> cried out for all the freedom that life can give; in "She Said She Said" he acknowledges all of life's chains. In expressing rage and conflict in such demanding terms, "She Said She Said" finds a certain liberation—a rush of amorphous feeling finds expression, if only briefly. At the core of <PERSON>'s pain is a bottomless sense of abandonment, the same primal loss that gets recast in "Strawberry Fields Forever" and again in "Julia" and "Mother." All these songs have constricted facades and deep, irrepressible subtexts of hurt. None of the loose ends are tied up in "She Said She Said"; they're simply left squirming as vocal elisions fold into each other and the band jumps into double time. By ending side one with this song, the Beatles continue the moods of three earlier songs ("Taxman," and "Eleanor Rigby" and "Love You To"). The love song ("Here, There and Everywhere") and the romp ("Yellow Submarine") are concluded with animated despair.
SIDE TWO BEGINS with the expectant pulse of guitar and piano; before the drums usher the sound into the refrain, the mood is hushed, a spring waiting to be released. The exclamation of the refrain deserves such suspense, and it bursts through with all the warmth of the sunshine it describes. Unlike the unhinged giddiness of "She Loves You," the restraint of "Good Day Sunshine" is mature, and the soft-shoe verse that follows (in a different key area) has just the right amount of camp to it. Other Beatles songs that celebrate nature ("Here Comes the Sun," "Dear Prudence," "Mother Nature's Son") don't have the same playful soft focus. With pianos double-tracked on both channels, there's no need for guitar; the song points toward the pub-band charm of "When I'm Sixty-four," and if it weren't for the vibrant colors of the harmonies on the refrain, it would be positively as old-fashioned. The ragtime piano solo that caps off the second verse (replacing a second stanza) is round with Joplinesque pleasure.
The two-key layout resembles that of "Here, There and Everywhere," only simplified: the romantic verses in A major are bathed in the warmth of B major for the refrain (the last line hinges on E major, the common harmony between the two). <PERSON>'s kicks gently prod more than they jerk at the motion—modesty is its ultimate appeal. The final refrain has one of the few modulations (up one step for effect) in the entire Beatles catalogue. Voices cascade
|
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|
ITS BITTER tone, <PERSON>'s "Think for Yourself" is a cousin to his first song, "Don't Bother Me," and the fuzz bass adds just the right guttural cynicism. It's a step beyond the flaccid "I Need You" and the forced amorousness of "You Like Me Too Much." The rhythmic impulse changes between the verse and the bridge, and the angular harmonic turns are offset by <PERSON>'s triplets (after "Go where you're going to"); but <PERSON> doesn't practice what he preaches about self-reliance (he doesn't do much with "Although your mind's opaque/Try thinking more if just for your own sake"), and it's far from the melodic sonorities and layered texture that make side two's "If I Needed Someone" every guitarist's hook-bound fantasy. "Think for Yourself" is still <PERSON> as contrast, providing odd relief to the <PERSON> songs he interrupts.
THE PIANO THAT stumbles into "The Word" is a quirky yank away from <PERSON>'s putdown. The song is a philosophical cousin to "Nowhere Man" and a spiritual source for 1967's Summer of Love; this sentiment will grow into the restraint of "Dear Prudence" and "Across the Universe," but here the band latches on to a medium-tempo groove that leaves little room for fooling around. Its punchiness places it above the wafting utopianism of "All You Need Is Love"; "The Word" is more rooted in reality: "love" can be found in books both good and bad. <PERSON>'s accented kicks nail <PERSON>'s rising bass lines down behind the syncopated harmonies ("It's so fine/It's sunshine") and follows them up with tart little fills; vocal harmonies grow continuously toward the high end of the final verses; and <PERSON>'s brief bass flurry in the middle of the third refrain shows just how succinct all the motion is. This message has since grown trite, but it tapped an attitude that was then enlisting activists in the civil rights and antiwar causes; that the Beatles would soon publicly denounce Vietnam made this song relevant in ways pop had never been before. (By the time this sentiment reaches "All You Need Is Love," its self-righteousness is parodically exposed.)
"MICHELLE" SOUNDS as if <PERSON> were selfconsciously writing another standard instead of letting the song inspire its own setting. It tries too hard, and it's a classic despite itself. ("Yesterday" works better; its music is as nostalgic as its words.) The language barrier between lovers might have been suggested by <PERSON> "La Juanda (Español)," about a man who pretends he doesn't understand a Mexican prostitute's price. But <PERSON> aims more for charm and sophistication with his French, like <PERSON> in "Darling, Je Vous Aime Beaucoup" (1955)—instead of developing the idea of lovers who speak in different tongues, he pines over it, and the conceit never achieves its potential. <PERSON> is still playing with the way major and minor can set different sections off one another ("Michelle, ma belle" is in major; "I love you, I love you" turns into minor), but it lacks the wavering indecisiveness of "Fixing a Hole" or the hopeful desolation of "Eleanor Rigby." His understated bass lines at
|
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besides <PERSON> "little one" since she'd gotten home from the hospital. <PERSON> was pretty easygoing, but she demanded attention in a way that <PERSON> found shocking—how was it possible for a person to be so helpless? She needed their mother for everything, and there was an obvious shift, the noticeable insertion of a tiny extra person into everything they did.
"Let's get you cleaned up, <PERSON>." Her mom stood slowly and they went into the bathroom and she started running a bath, not her usual remedy for nighttime accidents—usually she just stripped and remade the bed, still half-asleep, like a robot, and had you change into new pajamas. "Want bubbles, darlin'?" she asked, and <PERSON> nodded, feeling a smile bloom onto her face, and climbed into her mother's lap, towel-wrapped, as they waited for the tub to fill, and her mom began to hum into her forehead, her voice husky with sleep. Usually it was "My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean" or "Big Rock Candy Mountain," but tonight she was singing something else, something folky and sad.
"What's that song?" she asked, and her mother paused.
"It's—" She faltered. "I can't for the life of me think of the name. Isn't that funny?" She gave <PERSON> a feeble smile. "I'm just tired, not crazy, honey, I promise."
Her mother proceeded to give her a bath, the longest she'd taken maybe ever, humming and engaging in dialogue with the various rubber animals they kept on the ledge—a cow, an elephant, a penguin. When they finished she poured warm cups of water over <PERSON>'s head to rinse her hair, and <PERSON> shivered with pleasure.
"Hop out, <PERSON>," her mother said, and she held open the towel. She wrapped her tightly and kissed her wet hair. "You know I'm still here, sweetheart, don't you? I'm always here. I know things are different now but I'm always, always around."
"I know."
"Some times are easier than others," her mom said oddly, and she nodded, uncomprehending. Her mom kissed her forehead. "You're my old soul." She dried <PERSON> off and helped her into new pajamas and guided her into her own bedroom, where she pulled back the covers on her father's side. "You sleep in Daddy's spot tonight, pumpkin." She thought this a fantastically exclusive invitation but realized later that they were probably just out of clean twin-size sheets; her mom had been doing about half as much laundry as usual lately. Her mother crawled in next to her and held her until she fell asleep.
Her dad ended up coming home early, slipping in just as her mom was finishing with the baby's 4:00 a.m. feeding, and <PERSON> watched them woozily from her place in her parents' bed.
"I called <PERSON> and had him take over for me," he whispered to her mom, taking the baby from her arms. "Go back to sleep."
"<PERSON>'s in our bed," she said.
"I'll sleep in her bed."
"She peed in her bed."
"I'll sleep on the couch," he said, and there was a long quiet, a kissing noise.
A
|
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at the top of the slide, her head had immediately morphed into a flip-book of gruesome injuries. She couldn't set foot in a hospital again, not anytime soon. There was a time when <PERSON> would have understood this. But now she'd taken a stance and she had to follow through; all of the parenting books she'd read over the years drove this home. Be firm in your punishments. Don't back down. Don't let your spouse undermine you, even when he is being a childish asshole.
<PERSON> slid despondently down the orange slide, weeping; it would have been funny if <PERSON> had been in the mood.
"<PERSON>, come here," she said, but her daughter ran instead to her father. <PERSON> stooped to pick her up and <PERSON> buried herself in his threadbare polo shirt.
"Thanks for this," <PERSON> said sarcastically, looking at her over <PERSON>'s head.
"Don't talk to me like that," she said. "I'm leaving. I don't know how late I'll be. She needs a bath after dinner tonight."
"No I _don't,_ " <PERSON> wailed into <PERSON>'s chest, kicking her legs.
She felt suddenly jealous of her daughter for her position in <PERSON>'s arms. When she touched <PERSON>'s back, her daughter stiffened, crowed anew. She flicked her eyes up to <PERSON>.
"Bye," he said, and she thought it might have hurt her too much to reply, so she didn't.
A home health nurse cared for <PERSON>'s dad three times a week, but <PERSON> had been spending her Sundays puttering around his house and making him dinner. In <PERSON>'s living room, she thought of how much she seemed to annoy <PERSON> lately, of how he had moved fluidly from guilt and attempts at redemption to this kind of perpetual disdain for her. He hadn't looked at her like that since they lived in Iowa City, when they had the first three girls and were both constantly exhausted and embittered and within arm's length of both a baby and two small children. At least then it made sense; at least then they commiserated, once the kids were in bed. At the house in Albany Park, she was hot and irritable. She held her ponytail away from her neck. She'd just helped <PERSON> with his washing-up and he'd requested a recess before they dove into their requisite marathon of Scrabble. He was in his armchair with his eyes closed and she decided, feeling her own fatigue settle over her like a fog, to rest as well. She hadn't been sleeping much lately. And <PERSON> was working more. She knew his evenings with <PERSON> had ceased but in their stead he had picked up extra clinic hours in earnest, as if to karmically atone.
"<PERSON>?" she asked, lifting the material of her shirt and dropping it, creating a breeze. She was going to ask him for something about <PERSON> as a little kid, some story that might awaken some tenderness within her. She paused. "Never mind."
"Everything okay?"
"Sure. Fine." She felt tears in her eyes but blinked them away.
"You have so many wonderful qualities,
|
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['0f094242-770a-9ee2-d2f1-1c3816f982a0']
|
universality class of directed percolation. (We are preparing a manuscript contained a detailed analysis of this situation using renormalization group techniques, along the lines of <PERSON>'s analysis of stochastic Lotka–Volterra equations.) (iii) We have also shown that the mean-field dynamics of the case can be analyzed around the BT bifurcation, and that the generalized <PERSON> equations for Hebbian and anti-Hebbian plasticity drive the patch dynamics to a weakly stable node near such a bifurcation, and in doing so reduce the dynamics to the dynamics of a single patch.
In summary, we conclude that an array of -patches will self-organize around critical points of the directed percolation phase transition and, when driven by a weak stimulus, will oscillate between an UP state and a DOWN state each of which generates avalanches consistent with directed percolation. The array therefore exhibits SOC and replicates the behavior of the original sandpile model of [1]. We can also conclude that an array of patches will also self-organize to a weakly stable node located near the critical point of a directed percolation phase transition so that fluctuations about the weakly stable node will also follow a power slope with a slope characteristic of directed percolation. We refer to this as SONC. We note that there is some experimental evidence to support this conclusion [29, 30].
## Acknowledgements
Some of the work reported in this paper was initially developed (in part) with <PERSON>, and thereafter with <PERSON>, then with <PERSON>, and later with <PERSON>. The current work was supported (in part) by a grant to <PERSON> from the Dr. Ralph & Marian Falk Medical Trust.
### References
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2. 2. <PERSON>, <PERSON> and <PERSON>, D. (1996) Landau-ginzburg theory of self-organized criticality. _Phys. Rev. Lett._ , **76** (21), 3991–3994.
3. 3. <PERSON>, H. and <PERSON>, J. (1972) Excitatory and inhibitory interactions in localized populations of model neurons. _Biol. Cybern._ , **12** , 1–24.
4. 4. <PERSON>, N. (1981) _Stochastic Processes in Physics and Chemistry_ , North Holland.
5. 5. <PERSON>, K. (1971) Renormalization group and critical phenomena. I. renormalization group and the <PERSON> scaling picture. _Phys. Rev. B_ , **4** (9), 3174–3183.
6. 6. <PERSON>, J., <PERSON>, J., <PERSON>, B., and <PERSON> W. (2013) Self-organized criticality in a network of interacting neurons. _J. Stat. Mech._ , P04030.
7. 7. <PERSON>, H. (2000) Non-equilibrium critical phenomena and phase transitions into absorbing states. _Adv. Phys._ , **49** (7), 815–958.
8. 8. <PERSON>, K. and <PERSON>, D. (2011) Competition and Cooperation in one-ddimensional stepping-stone models. _Phys. Rev. Lett._ , **107** (8), 088–103.
9. 9. <PERSON>, M. and <PERSON>, J. (2007) Field theoretic approach to fluctuation effects for neural networks. _Phys. Rev. E_ , **75** , 051–919.
10. 10. <PERSON>, T., <PERSON>, H., <PERSON>, F.,
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63e410f9-3b12-a675-cc6a-e8b9297a3361
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['0f094242-770a-9ee2-d2f1-1c3816f982a0']
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_et al_. (2002) Fractal dynamics in physiology: alterations with disease and aging. _Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. U.S.A._ , **99** , 1.
5. 5. <PERSON>, C. (2005) Nonlinear dynamical analysis of EEG and MEG: review of an emerging field. _Clin. Neurophysiol._ , **116** (10), 2266–2301.
6. 6. <PERSON>, A., <PERSON>, Y. _et al_. (2008) Noise during rest enables the exploration of the brain's dynamic repertoire. _PLoS Comput. Biol._ , **4** (10), e1000196.
7. 7. He, <PERSON>, <PERSON>, J.M. _et al_. (2010) The temporal structures and functional significance of scale-free brain activity. _Neuron_ , **66** (3), 353–369.
8. 8. <PERSON>, <PERSON> (2010) Frontiers: fractal physiology and the fractional calculus: a perspective. _Front. Fractal Physiol._ , **1** , 12.
9. 9. <PERSON>, P. (2005) A mechanism for cognitive dynamics: neuronal communication through neuronal coherence. _Trends Cognit. Sci._ , **9** (10), 474.
10. 10. <PERSON>, G. (2006) _Rhythms of the Brain_ , Oxford University Press, New York.
11. 11. <PERSON>-Hansen, K., <PERSON>, V.V. _et al_. (2001) Long-range temporal correlations and scaling behavior in human brain oscillations. _J. Neurosci._ , **21** (4), 1370.
12. 12. <PERSON>, <PERSON> and <PERSON>, D. (2003) Neuronal avalanches in neocortical circuits. _J. Neurosci._ , **23** (35), 11167.
13. 13. <PERSON>, <PERSON> and <PERSON>, J.M. (2005) Critical branching captures activity in living neural networks and maximizes the number of metastable states. _Phys. Rev. Lett._ , **94** (5), 58101.
14. 14. <PERSON>, O. and <PERSON>, M. (2006) Optimal dynamical range of excitable networks at criticality. _Nat. Phys._ , **2** (5), 348–351.
15. 15. <PERSON>, A., <PERSON>, J.M. _et al_. (2007) Dynamical synapses causing self-organized criticality in neural networks. _Nat. Phys._ , **3** (12), 857–860.
16. 16. <PERSON>, <PERSON> and <PERSON>, T.C. (2007) The organizing principles of neuronal avalanches: cell assemblies in the cortex? _Trends Neurosci._ , **30** (3), 101–110.
17. 17. <PERSON>, <PERSON> and <PERSON>, D. (2008) Neuronal avalanches organize as nested theta-and beta/gamma-oscillations during development of cortical layer 2/3. _Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. U.S.A._ , **105** (21), 7576.
18. 18. <PERSON>, S., <PERSON> A. _et al_. (2008) Avalanche dynamics of human brain oscillations: relation to critical branching processes and temporal correlations. _Hum. Brain Mapping_ , **29** (7), 770.
19. 19. <PERSON>, T., Thiagarajan, T.C. _et al_. (2009) Spontaneous cortical activity in awake monkeys composed of neuronal avalanches. _Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci._ , **106** (37), 15921.
20. 20. <PERSON>, D.R. (2010) Emergent complex neural dynamics. _Nat. Phys._ , **6** (10), 744–750.
21. 21. <PERSON>, D., <PERSON>, S. _et al_. (2010) Self-organized criticality occurs in non-conservative neuronal networks during/up/'states. _Nat. Phys._ , **6** (10), 801–805.
22. 22. <PERSON>, M., <PERSON>, O. _et al_. (2011) Neurobiologically realistic determinants of self-organized criticality in networks of spiking neurons. _PLoS Comput. Biol._ , **7** (6), e1002038.
23. 23. <PERSON>, P., <PERSON>, C. _et al_. (1987) Self-organized criticality: an explanation of the 1/f noise. _Phys. Rev. Lett._ , **59** (4), 381.
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au Seigneur._
Pr 20, 10
_Une balance faussée est en horreur au Seigneur mais un poids exact a sa faveur._
Pr 11, 1
La sagesse populaire a retenu l'injustice que représentent deux poids et deux mesures. Une balance fausse est aussi le symbole des exactions que les marchands peuvent exercer auprès de ceux qui leur achètent des marchandises et paient un prix qui ne correspond pas au poids exact. De ce dicton ressort aussi le double jugement fait avec bienveillance pour les uns et au contraire une sévérité accrue pour les autres : où est la justice ?, s'exclament ceux qui sont les victimes d'un jugement défavorable. Mais dans le vocabulaire biblique, une balance mal équilibrée fait horreur au Seigneur parce qu'elle symbolise le mensonge, le mensonge étant le péché par excellence. <PERSON> ment à <PERSON> en travestissant les paroles de <PERSON>. <PERSON> ment à <PERSON> quand, au cours de la tentation dans le désert, il utilise la parole de <PERSON> pour en dévier le sens. Les faux témoins mentent pendant le procès de <PERSON>. Ainsi, ces deux proverbes, à partir d'un fait de la vie courante, mettent en évidence le mensonge qui s'oppose à la vérité. L'Apocalypse reprendra cette image avec l'exemple d'un cavalier qui porte une balance fausse pour exprimer les désordres économiques qui ravagent le monde (Ap 6, 5).
_Mieux vaut un plat de légumes là où il y a de l'amour qu'un bœuf gras assaisonné de haine._
Pr 15, 17
L'image du repas, l'un pauvre mais chaleureux, l'autre riche mais plein de pièges, est significative et va bien au-delà de la simple anecdote. <PERSON> a connu un repas où l'on épiait ses réactions. C'était chez <PERSON> le pharisien. Survint une femme qui versa du parfum sur ses pieds et <PERSON> se dit que, si <PERSON> était vraiment un prophète, il saurait que cette femme menait une vie indigne (Lc 7, 36-48). Transposons cette maxime à l'époque contemporaine. Elle fait penser à des familles chaleureuses où il n'y a pas beaucoup de moyens mais où l'on vit ensemble en témoignant chaque jour aux uns et aux autres une affection précieuse qui ne s'achète pas. Au contraire, le bœuf gras représente l'argent avec lequel on se débarrasse de ceux qui nous encombrent parce que nous voulons être libres de faire ce qui nous plaît au bon moment. Alors on paie pour que d'autres s'occupent des enfants ou des personnes âgées : tant pis s'ils cherchent en vain quelque regard compatissant et s'ils quêtent un geste affectueux qui n'a pas de prix ! Ils auront compris que le bœuf gras n'est pas forcément signe de bonheur.
## PSAUMES
_C'est l'héritage du Seigneur que des fils, récompense que le fruit des entrailles, heureux qui en a rempli son carquois._
Ps 127, 3-5
Avoir une famille nombreuse représentait, jusqu'à une époque relativement récente où la mortalité infantile était élevée, une vraie bénédiction. Cette béatitude est l'écho de la promesse reçue par <PERSON> : il aurait une descendance innombrable comme les étoiles du ciel et les grains de sable du bord de la mer
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21da7d9a-3e80-c129-c1b3-e9fd11d05d09
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religion à des fins superstitieuses. Dieu a donné sa Loi à Moïse, laquelle proposait à la fois l'adoration du Dieu unique qui avait sauvé les Hébreux de la prison égyptienne et une éthique de vie dans les rapports entre les hommes. <PERSON> la fausse religion qui a existé quels que soient les siècles : mener la vie que l'on a envie de mener sans s'occuper d'aucune règle envers les autres, et en même temps accomplir des rites dans le but de se rassurer soi-même. <PERSON> dénonce cette hypocrisie avec des mots très forts que <PERSON> reprendra lorsqu'il chassera les marchands du Temple : « Cette Maison sur laquelle mon nom a été proclamé, la prenez-vous pour une caverne de bandits ? » (Mt 21, 13). <PERSON> montre que le culte n'a aucun sens s'il n'est pas accompagné d'une attitude morale. La substitution du culte à la morale fait de tout l'appareil liturgique une énorme supercherie.
_Cessez de faire le mal, apprenez à faire le bien, recherchez la justice, apprenez à faire le bien, recherchez le droit, secourez la veuve et l'orphelin._
Is 1, 16-17
N'est-ce pas l'idéal de tout homme de bonne volonté ? Mais cela est-il à notre portée ? <PERSON> résume bien cette impossibilité de l'homme d'être bon naturellement quand il dit : « Le bien que je veux je ne le fais pas, mais le mal que je ne veux pas je le fais » (Rm 7, 19). Toute la prédication des prophètes, en particulier <PERSON>, <PERSON> et <PERSON>, est de dire que ce rêve de bonté est impossible à l'homme par sa seule force, sa seule volonté, son seul désir de bien faire. Cette transformation du cœur de l'homme, Dieu seul propose de l'accorder. Comment ? En donnant à l'homme un cœur nouveau. Il s'agit donc d'une recréation, mais on tombe éternellement sur le même problème : comment concilier la liberté de l'homme et la sainteté que <PERSON> lui propose ?
_Ces idoles sont comme un épouvantail dans un champ de concombres ; elles ne parlent pas, il faut bien les porter car elles ne peuvent marcher. N'en ayez aucune crainte, elles ne sont pas nuisibles mais elles ne peuvent pas davantage vous être utiles. Comme toi, <PERSON>, il n'y a personne !_
Jr 10, 5-6
Au-delà des idoles dans un champ de concombres qui appartiennent à un temps révolu, de tout temps de nouveaux dieux habitent le cœur de l'homme. Ce sont des idoles insaisissables aux conséquences matérielles multiples. Elles ont pour nom Argent, Luxe, Pouvoir. Mais il y a aussi des idoles spirituelles, ce sont celles que l'on se fabrique en s'appropriant Dieu et sa révélation pour en faire sa religion personnelle qui permet de choisir ici et là ce qui nous plaît et de rejeter ce qui nous paraît trop contraignant. La grande tentation est de se forger une idée de Dieu qui convienne à la liberté capricieuse de chacun. Pour se dépouiller de ses idoles, il faut payer le prix d'un long exode où l'on abandonne ses illusions. Être capable d'affirmer que
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in Data Studio
AV task used in "Tokenization is Sensitive to Language Variation" paper, Arxiv link.
Note that "Contrastive Learning" Train/Dev files were used with contrastive learning (SupConLoss) to fine-tune BERT models. Then a threshold was chosen based on the Thresholding Dev file and the performance was calculated on the Thresholding Test file.
@article{wegmann2025tokenization,
title={Tokenization is Sensitive to Language Variation},
author={Wegmann, Anna and Nguyen, Dong and Jurgens, David},
journal={arXiv preprint arXiv:2502.15343},
year={2025}
}
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