by Leanne Ogasawara

“The people who came to kill us–they are fanatics & assassins–but above all, they are people who lack a sense of humor.”–Renald Luzier, Charlie Hebdo staffer

I never really understood the expression, “drank the Kool-Aid” –until I went to Jerusalem. It happened at the Western Wall, where I found myself standing in a very long line to the ladies' restroom. The young woman ahead of me turned around to look intently into my eyes as she spoke of her love of Jesus Christ. Talking blissfully of her savior, she told me a bit about the evangelic church tour she was on. Those tours don't spend all that much time in Jerusalem, she explained, for their focus is up in the north, where Jesus had his ministry along the Sea of Galilee. Rarely stopping in churches either; they don't acknowledge their Orthodox and Catholic counterparts as co-brethren.

I was not so surprised by what she said, since the Via Dolorosa had been filled that week with Orthodox pilgrims from Russia; along with Catholics from Africa and southern India and Indonesia. It was a more eastern Christian church along the stations and in the Sepulchre. It was an unfamilar Christianity for an American in many ways, in fact.

What I found disturbing was not what she was saying but by the strange look she had in her shining eyes. So deeply committed to the point of tearing up as she spoke–she appeared almost alngelic in her religious certainty. It scared the hell out of me…

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by Aditya Dev Sood

It’s been three days and our eight teams are already up, pitching for their lives. Watching them from the front row is a series of mentors we’ve curated, from areas like branding, user interface design, product development, technology, business and investing. There’s a tug between the mentors and the startups underway — criticism and backtalk, kicking the tires and trash-talking the car, defending its value and selling its golden possibilities.

Startup mentoring is a lot like teaching, supervising, consulting, parenting — plus maybe running a cult retreat. It can’t happen without a deep and personal bond between the mentor and mentee. That relationship usually arises accidentally, through life circumstances, working relationships and chance meetings. Here we were engineering that relationship into existence, several entities and multiple individuals at a time.

In the run up to our first day, my main goal was to ensure that I made a personal connection with each cofounder. Without this central relationship gelling, the whole thing would fall apart, fall away. In the weeks leading up to the launch of Startup Tunnel I’d been taking long winter walks, doing yoga and actively working on clearing my thoughts to make space for this set of startups and their many needs. I also designed a series of exercises that would allow startup founders to see in one another and in our mentor group a useful set of resources that they could draw from as they developed their business. I scripted every aspect of our initial interactions in detail. There would be a ball to play with, a registration desk, thirty chairs set up against the demodeck, startup names posted along their workstations. There would be self-introductions, peer-feedback sessions, a seminar and workshop on understanding end users.

This way of working is not very old. It brings together three distinct kinds of expertise: entrepreneurial insight, technology capacity and financial investing. It was Y-Combinator, beginning in the summer of 2005, that began putting batches of young entrepreneurs through a common program of enrichment, trying to learn through that process what would work and what wouldn’t, thereby iteratively improving their program and reinforcing observed insights. Y-Combinator has enjoyed extraordinary success over the past nine years, having seeded numerous successful startups, in which the group’s equity holdings now exceed a billion dollars USD. But the scope of their success is even more unfathomable when one considers that they have also brought into existence a significant new business model that inverts everything that most people thought they knew about business: that entrepreneurial success cannot be predicted, that the charisma of the entrepreneur cannot be taught or improved, that entrepreneurship cannot be any better organized or routinized.

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by Leanne Ogasawara

“Every night God takes his glittering
merchandise out of his showcase–
holy chariots, tables of law, fancy beads,
crosses and bells–
and puts them back into dark boxes
inside and pulls down the shutters: “Again,
not one prophet has come to buy.”
–Yehuda Amichai

Jerusalem: utterly obssessed by the place, I even love finding copies of the holy city– both imaginal and real. There are, for example, William Blake's rural England of his imagination (Ah, Jerusalem) and the Puritan's “city upon a hill” in America. There are also the real Jerusalems built of brick and stone.

Such real-life copies can be found mainly in European cities, from Cambridge to Bologna. My own favorite “new Jerusalem” is the holy city of Lalibela in Ethiopia, however, where it is believed that pilgrims receive the same blessing visiting that city as they would if they had visited Jerusalem itself. It is a place I long to see someday.

Despite knowing that copies of Jerusalem can be found dotted around Europe, I never really expected to find one so far north as in the Flemish city of Bruges.

In Bruges.

Belgium's greatest poet Guido Gezelle referred to the city as a “copy of the holy land.” But, in the movie In Bruges, the mob boss Harry calls the town a “fucking fairy tale.”

(Ray, however disagrees).

In any event, my astronomer and I were visiting the city on a van Eyck pilgrimage. Starting in Paris, we looked at van Eyck pictures in the Louvre, in Ghent and then in Bruges –and I was struck over and over again by the way time was conflated in the paintings. Like a wormhole connecting discrete and distant points in time, these late Medieval and early Renaissance pictures were stunningly transportive in terms of time and space so that, for example, Mary and the baby or the Lamb were depicted side-by-side with contemporary figures. Contemporary donors appeared in the paintings accompanied by their patron saints, who thereby formed a link between these two worlds. The church authorities not surprisingly clamped down on this practice and the early Renaissance donor portraits disappeared –but it was in Bruges that I realized how wonderful it would be to see oneself in a picture like that. If I lived back then, I certainly would have desired a picture of myself like that, depicted alongside saints, pilgrims and God. Is it not the ultimate selfie?

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Xu Bing’s Phoenixes at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine

standing under Phoenix and his lofted bride
both newly risen in the nave of a church
at a quarter of the height from floor to vault
I am small and still beneath their static glide

a cross in the distance where they might have perched
is centered on choirs set on either side
as simple as the nexus of sinners' faults
at the crux of the moment their songs might rise

these ninety foot creatures made of sweat and steel
and of light and of industry and touch and feel
and of hoses and spades and of wire and sight
and of chain and of pipes and of silent nights
and of canisters pulleys ducts and vents
and of reason for rebirth to where innocence went
and of hope and contrition and of blood and bone
all Phoenixes together here un-alone
.

by Jim Culleny
1/4/15

The Phoenixes

by Matt McKenna

Even without seeing the film, you probably already know if you like Peter Jackson's final installment of the Hobbit trilogy, The Battle of the Five Armies. If you saw any of the previous Hobbit or Lord of the Rings films and got a kick out of elves and wizards and epic, bloodless battles in which thousands of sentient beings perish, Five Armies won't disappoint. However, if you saw any of the previous Hobbit or Lord of the Rings films and thought they were supremely boring, well, this latest one isn't going to do much to improve your opinion of the series. But presuming you're in the first camp, you must be pleased that Jackson has gifted the world one more Hobbit adventure. Likewise, if you're a college football fan, you must be pleased that the NCAA has gifted the world one more game this season as part of the inaugural college football playoff. Though I can't say which team Peter Jackson is pulling for, it is clear he crafted Five Armies to critique the college football playoffs and the institution that created it.

At some point during the climactic battle sequence in The Battle of the Five Armies, you're likely to wonder what collection of entities constitute the armies referenced in the title. Are the dwarves one army or two? Are the men of Laketown an army even though there are so few of them? Do the massive eagles that receive a miniscule amount of screen time count as one of these five armies? Unfortunately, I don't have definitive answers to these questions, but my best guess is that the five armies include 1) the unruly dwarves, 2) the completely irrelevant men of Laketown, 3) the snooty quasi-immortal elves, 4) the convocation of enormous eagles, and, of course, 5) the horde of evil orcs/goblins/computer generated nightmares. Having established the identifies of the five armies in the world of The Hobbit, the next step to reading the film is to understand what these armies represent in the real world.

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by Eric Byrd

Fitzroy Maclean, over Yugoslavia, in Eastern Approaches:

“With a jerk my parachute opened and I found myself dangling, as it were at the end of a string, high above a silent mountain valley, greenish-grey and misty in the light of the moon. It looked, I thought, invitingly cool and refreshing after the sand and glare of North Africa. Somewhere above me the aircraft, having completed its mission, was headed for home. The noise of its engines grew gradually fainter in the distance. A long way below me and some distance away I could see a number of fires burning. I hoped they were the right ones, for the Germans also lit fires at night at different points in the Balkans in the hope of diverting supplies and parachutists from their proper destinations. As I swung lower, I could hear a faint noise of shouting coming from the direction of the fires. I could still not see the ground immediately beneath me. We must, I reflected, have been dropped from a considerable height to take so long coming down. Then, without further warning, there was a jolt and I was lying in a field of wet grass. There was no one in sight.”

Patrick Leigh Fermor, over Crete, in Abducting a General:

“The sierras of occupied Crete, familiar from nearly two years of clandestine sojourn and hundreds of exacting marches, looked quite different through the aperture in the converted bomber's floor and the gaps in the clouds below: a chaos of snow-covered, aloof and enormous spikes glittering as white as a glacier in the February moonlight. Then, suddenly, on a tiny plateau among the peaks, were the three signal fires twinkling. A few moments later they began expanding fast: freed at last from the noise inside the Liberator the parachute sailed gently down towards the heart of the triangle. Small figures were running in the firelight and in another few moments, snow muffled the impact of landing. There was a scrum of whiskery embracing, a score of Cretan voices, one English one. A perfect landing!”

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by Bill Benzon

This essay argues that Western culture is an ideological fiction. There is no such thing as Western culture if by that you mean a coherent and internally unified cultural entity that started back in ancient Greece and the Jewish Levant, took hold in and flourished in Europe, from which it eventually set sail for the Americas and there took root, almost completely destroying the societies of native peoples and their cultures with them. That thing, whatever it is, is not a single entity, internally coherent and different from all other such entities. The idea that it is such an entity is an ideological fiction, as are the entities to which Western culture is often said to be opposed, Eastern culture, Oriental culture, African culture, non-Western culture, and the like. Ideological fictions, all of them.

Some Say African-American Music is Western

The notion of Western culture began to unravel for me I decided to write about the impact of African-American musical cultures on American music. That work forced me to think hard and long about just what we mean when we talk use such phrases as “X culture” where X can be “Western”, “American”, “French”, “European”, “Muslim”, “Japanese”, “Eastern”, and so forth. With this is mind, let’s use music as a test case and see where it leads.

It is clear that African-American music owes a substantial debt to Africa. It is also clear that African-American music has had a strong influence on American music in general. By applying a familiar syllogistic mechanism to those propositions one can see that American music must therefore be indebted to Africa. That it American music is in some measure African. So far so good.

Now let’s look at a passage from Music of the Common Tongue (1987) where Christopher Small (p. 4) asserts that

…the Afro-American tradition is the major music of the west in the twentieth century, of far greater significance than those remnants of the great European classical tradition that are to be heard today in the concert halls and opera houses of the industrial world, east and west.

Small will go on to argue that African-American music carries values which are at odds with the dehumanizing industrial cast of European and American society and that those values are good and important. More recently, and from a more conservative location in the political universe, Marsha Bayles has also claimed Afro-American music for the West (Hole in Our Soul, 1994 p.22):

I realize that a great many musicians and writers will reject the proposition that Afro-American music is an idiom of Western music, on the grounds that it is, root and branch, totally “black,” meaning African. This attitude is usually called “cultural nationalism,” but I prefer to call it “cultural separatism,” because, instead of affirming Afro-American music by sharing it with the world, it takes a jealously proprietary stance.

Bayles will go on to argue that the virtues which African-American music has brought to the world are being threatened by decadence which began at the turn of the 20th century and has become frightfully pervasive in our own time. Both recognize that African-American music is quite different from classical music and European folk musics in its devices and emotional tenor. But neither of them sees this as a reason for thinking the music is not Western.

I Say It’s Not

I find this situation most curious. For it seems to me that if Western music is defined in such a way that it is home to both Ludwig van Beethoven (19th C. European classical) and Charlie Parker (African-American, bebop jazz), to J. S. Bach (18th C. European classical) and Bessie Smith (African-American, blues), then it is not entirely clear to me whether or not Western music should not also encompass the sitar playing of Ravi Shankar (North Indian classical) and the singing of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (Sufi devotional song from Pakistan) as well. And if we admit them into the fold, can any music reasonably be excluded? But what purpose (beyond that old devil, cultural imperialism) could possibly be served by a conceptual scheme which sees much, perhaps most, possibly even all, of the world's music as Western?

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by Josh Yarden

The Bible in all its poetic minimalism and rich ambiguity has given rise to seemingly endless meditations and diverse interpretations. There are times when I imagine the narrative as a prism of words, as though etched into cut glass, reflecting and refracting the light shining on the surface of the text from myriad angles. How might these words have landed on the ears of listeners thousands of years ago? We don't really know how the heard the symbols and the metaphors, but we are forever assuming and inserting our understandings of the contexts of our own lives in order to understand what the biblical authors had to say about theirs. We ask questions and provide our own answers… some better than others, some brilliant, some foolish.

Depending upon the angle from which we perceive it, the prism of Torah sends forth seemingly infinite reflections. They are all reflections of ourselves projected agains the text and reflections of the words on the scroll in our eyes, beams of light bouncing off the walls in the room and off the far recesses of our minds. As long as we accept that the text is open to interpretation, we can continue to shed light and to enlighten one another. But the book goes dark when it is closed. People stop reading, stop listening, stop thinking, and sometimes they take to fighting over their beliefs. A closed book is a blunt instrument.

Different people read different books. Sometimes they read the same books differently. Sometimes they argue beyond reason, stop reading, stop listening, grow increasingly impatient for any number of legitimate and illegitimate reasons in which they believe, sometimes with all their might. As long as we keep asking questions, illuminating the texts and the contexts of our lives, we can maintain dialogue and a mutual commitment to exploring and finding solutions to our differences. If not, the power of an angry thought can be divisive, even irrevocably destructive.

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by Misha Lepetic

“Data made flesh in the mazes of the black market.”
~ William Gibson, Neuromancer

Sometime last September, to add to what was already a fairly stressful month, I received a text message from my bank inquiring about some charges that had been made to my credit card. Once I got on the phone with a representative, I was asked if I had spent a few thousand dollars the previous evening at a nightclub in Sofia, Bulgaria. I told them that I hadn't, and that I was furthermore upset that I hadn't even been invited. Two large dropped in a dump like Sofia – it must have been quite the party. The bank made me whole again, but I was left to wonder, like so many other people these days, about the inscrutable question of how my card had been procured and deployed with all the instantaneity allowed by today's global flow of money and data – concepts that are becoming increasingly interchangeable or even undifferentiated. In all likelihood, neither I nor the bank will ever know what happened, and the event was written off simply as a cost of doing business.

This event reproduced itself more recently on a much larger scale. What has become known as the “Sony Hack” is continuing to reverberate across several worlds: computer security, entertainment and even foreign policy, to name a few. Much of the conversation seems to be concerned with the whodunit aspect of things: Who could possibly have had the skills and chutzpah required to not only spirit away approximately 100 terabytes of information of every stripe from underneath the multinational's nose, but then also proceeded to wipe much of the data from the network itself? Even though the breach was noticed on November 24^th, it's a good bet that Sony itself still hasn't assessed the full extent of the damage. While things are nowhere near to shaking out, let's consider some of the consequences that have so far followed the smashing of this particular piñata.

Fast forward about, umm, fifteen minutes after November 24^th, and we already had our culprit, which could be no one other than North Korea (I guess Iran got a bye because we need them right now in order to fight Islamic State). I find it challenging to believe North Korea was involved. Eleven years ago, Kim père didn't seem quite so phased the last time a Hollywood satire “took him out” – is it possible that Kim fils is such a thin-skinned grasshopper?

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by Jonathan Kujawa

In The Imitation Game Benedict Cumberbatch plays the amazing, fascinating, and ultimately tragic Alan Turing. I haven't seen it yet, but the reviews are good and it is bound to be up for a bunch of awards. It certainly does a thorough job of covering the Oscar checklist: Historical setting? Public and personal drama? English accents? Beating the Nazis? Check 'em all!

Turing Statue at Bletchley Park [1].

The basic storyline should be well known to all. Turing was an instrumental part of the UK's successful efforts to break the “unbreakable” German Enigma code. The work of the codebreakers at Bletchley Park is widely acknowledged to have shortened World War II by several years and, consequently, to have saved many thousands of lives. The tragedy of the story is that Turing was convicted in 1952 of “gross indecency” for having a relationship with another man (Arnold Murray). Turing was given the option of either prison or hormone treatments (i.e., chemical castration). He chose the latter. In 1954 Turing died of cyanide poisoning at the age of 41 in what was ruled a suicide [2].

Appallingly, it wasn't until 2009 that the UK government apologized for its treatment of Turing. And it wasn't until public pressure during the 2012 centennial of Turing's birth that they considered a pardon. He was finally pardoned on December 24, 2013.

If there was ever a place where one's sexual preferences, gender, race, economic status, religious beliefs, what-have-you should be irrelevant, it should be mathematics. After all, the Pythagorean Theorem doesn't give a hoot about such things. But mathematics is a human endeavor and humans can't seem to help but care about these things. I recently read a quote by Chimamanda Ngozi Adihie which put this nicely:

The problem with gender is that it prescribes how we should be, rather than recognizing how we are.

Things continue to improve [3]. It's heartening to note that Turing's treatment by the UK government is absolutely shocking now. And ten years ago I couldn't imagine that gay marriage would now be widespread in the US and on the verge of becoming universal [4].

For mathematicians Turing's place in history was guaranteed long before he helped beat the Nazis. At the age of 24 Turing answered Hilbert's famous “Entscheidungsproblem” (Decision Problem). More importantly, he did it by inventing theoretical computer science; and did it before there were computers!

Hilbert asked the following the following rather innocuous question: Is there a step-by-step procedure which can decisively determine if any given mathematical statement is true or false? More precisely, is there an algorithm which can decide if a given statement can be proven using the rules of first order logic?

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by Jalees Rehman

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats – from “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven“

Have you ever wondered how the content of your dreams differs from that of your friends? How about the dreams of people raised in different countries and cultures? It is not always easy to compare dreams of distinct individuals because the content of dreams depends on our personal experiences. This is why dream researchers have developed standardized dream questionnaires in which common thematic elements are grouped together. These questionnaires can be translated into various languages and used to survey and scientifically analyze the content of dreams. Open-ended questions about dreams might elicit free-form, subjective answers which are difficult to categorize and analyze. Therefore, standardized dream questionnaires ask study subjects “Have you ever dreamed of . . .” and provide research subjects with a list of defined dream themes such as being chased, flying or falling.

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by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

When home comes back to you as a calamity, its name appearing with death tolls and gut-wrenching photos of its youngest population, it feels as if the place itself, its memory, is lodged inside you like a bullet. The wound, inflicted by the War-terrorism binary, is a complicated wound, worsening with time. Peshawar, my hometown, has been in its throes for more than three decades. But who cares to remember?

On my way from my son's piano class to the farmer's market, I walk, carrying in my mind images of children in bloodstained green school uniforms, coffins, and the excruciating pain on the faces of the mourners of the Peshawar Attacks. I'm in a daze; grief-struck, isolated from what is around me. I walk bearing voices. In the cacophony of eyewitness accounts, sirens, prayers and news media, I hear the ghosts of my own past with heartbreaking clarity. The voice of a teacher, a sacred thing in my culture, recalled on so many occasions in my life as a migrant, comes back now with an instruction to hide under the desk. I know this voice, not this instruction; it is a different time. Eyewitness accounts are chilling. Pretend to be dead. The child who whispered this to his classmate, hiding under a desk, as bullets were fired, was killed, while his classmate, the eyewitness who followed his advice, survived. He survived, we survived but we only pretend to be alive, weighed down as we are by despair.

The despair of Pakistanis against the tyranny of Taliban on one hand and the tyranny of the US sponsored wars on the other, is countered by faint glimmers of hope, of the people finally protesting institutions, organizing themselves to rally against those who use religion to bully, blackmail and butcher innocents: a movement against the silencing of the ordinary Muslim, the ordinary Pakistani, Muslim or not. The focus of this movement is to restore social justice, to dismantle abusive religious rhetoric and to strengthen the country against international pressure.

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by Kathleen Goodwin

Exaggerated concern about what one eats is predominantly an obsession of the privileged—usually the white, wealthy, and educated. Having the luxury of time to contemplate the calories in your food or the distance it traveled from field to supermarket aisle; and the money to purchase costlier foods that were produced without the aid of pesticides is one of many intractable barriers separating the rich, or at least middle class, from the poor in the United States. In this country many low-income families live in neighborhoods characterized by the USDA as “food deserts” meaning there is a shortage of proximate grocery stores—making it necessary for residents in urban areas to purchase significantly marked-up food at bodegas and generally preventing access to affordable fresh fruits and vegetables. The obesity epidemic's correlation to income level is a tangible effect of this phenomenon, but even more than the connection between being poor and eating foods high in sugar, fat, and calories is the way attitudes towards food provide a rift along lines of class and race.

This meditation comes from a quick yet pointed scene in Ben Lerner's new “autobiographical novel”, entitled “10:04“. The book considers a few months in the life of a Brooklyn dwelling writer who has written one novel to critical acclaim and now is under pressure to produce another— precisely the situation Lerner found himself in until 10:04's unveiling at the end of this past summer. The narrator is a member of the Park Slope Food Coop, the nation's oldest cooperative grocery store which serves approximately 16,000 people. Presumably Lerner, like myself, is a member of the Coop, because he describes the claustrophobic aisles and the love-hate relationship all members seems to have with it with uncanny accuracy. The narrator of 10:04 is fulfilling one of the work shifts that all members are required to complete every 4 weeks in order to gain access to foods and goods that are predominantly locally grown or produced, organic, non-animal tested, non-genetically engineered, and minimally packaged; and not marked up at the same rates as for-profit commercial grocery stores. The protagonist describes a conversation he overhears while sorting dried mango: Another Coop member is explaining why she pulled her son, Lucas, out of a public school first-grade to attend a private one because the “junk food and soda” his fellow classmates consumed caused unruly behavior that detracted from Lucas's education. The narrator reflects:

“It was the kind of exchange…with which I'd grown familiar, a new biopolitical vocabulary for expressing racial and class anxiety: instead of claiming brown and black people were biologically inferior, you claimed they were—for reasons you sympathized with, reasons that weren't really their fault—compromised by the food and drink they ingested; all those artificial dyes had darkened them on the inside …This way of thinking allowed one to deploy the vocabularies of sixties radicalism—ecological awareness, anticorporate agitation, etc.—in order to justify the reproduction of social inequality”

This small scene, most likely based on actuality, brings up many of the complicated factors that permeate America's unequal society.

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Winter Solstice With J. Kepler
.
we're deeply in—

in as deeply as we get
before we spin again
round an ellipse's rim
to a more congenial spot
for blood and breath

what the astronomical
survival odds (our
outer limits) are
who knows?

for time is short
by last report

listening now to ersatz jazz
I change Pandora's voice,
I move on, linking
new music to my thinking
by simply clicking
(because of what our
technos know

which is obviously permanent
and, like serious snow,
is sticking)

in this marvelous,
magnetic, angular hour
when sun and earth
seek a new relation,
and we anticipate
the max benefits
that will be here
in half a year

(as they will not be
for globe-mates in the
southern hemisphere)

I think there will be foxglove
and hydrangea when
Kepler''s laws begin to whirl us
back again
.

by Jim Culleny
12/21/14

CARPE DIEM

For Agha Ashraf Ali

You light a candle
Carp the darkness

With your usual flourish
Debone a carp

Add a pinch of salt
In your carpeted kitchen

Discourse on the next course
To scrape or not the fish head,

Gaadkalley: Honorific.
You offer a scrap of history

Bestowed once by the people
On the Big Crap who betrayed them

We seize the head
Before the diem carpe us

And raise our glass
To the disappeared carpenters

Of Kashmir
A parched paradise

By Rafiq Kathwari, whose first book of poems is forthcoming in April 2015 from Doire Press, Ireland. More work here.