Is this the longest bench in the world? I haven’t ever seen one longer. I measured it and it is 45 feet long (almost 14 meters) in length. It is next to the Neustift tennis courts in Vahrn, South Tyrol.
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by Laurie Sheck
1.
Years ago, when my daughter was five, we spent a day at the Barcelona Zoo. As I held her small hand in mine, we stood before a cage in which a large albino gorilla resolutely turned his face from us. If we moved to the right, he turned his face to the left, if we edged toward the left, he shifted to the right. He was determined to have no eye contact with us, and at that moment I felt ashamed. My very presence, my gaze, was a kind of violation. I was in the presence of a being, dignified and exposed, with whom I had no shared language apart from the mute language of gesture. His own stark language was deeply expressive, and his refusal said the most basic things about captivity, inequality, exposure, isolation.
In his 1977 essay Why Look At Animals? John Berger traced the increasing estrangement between animals and humans: “The 19th century, in western Europe and North America, saw the beginning of a process, today being completed by 20th century corporate capitalism, by which every tradition which has previously mediated between man and nature was broken. Before this rupture, animals… were with man at the center of his world.” Picture the early cave paintings, how sensitive they were to the curve of an animal’s back, its grace and power, its sense of movement.
Berger goes on to think about how in the intimate gaze exchanged between animals and humans, now so often lost, there is a sense of both recognition and mystery, knowing and unknowing. And how, within this relationship, “The animal has secrets which, unlike the secrets of caves, mountains, seas, are specifically addressed to man.” How it is hubris to forget this mixture of what can be grasped and what is secret and other. And now, in the 21st century, it is all too easy to experience animals as images in children’s picture books, cartoon characters, and commodities produced by factory farms. Yet it seems there still lingers a haunting feeling of intimacy and betrayal, a painful and also beautiful, almost sacred, sense of vulnerable, complex lives that are not confined to “owner” and “owned” or to commodity and consumer.
2.
It is night, I am sitting in my study. My daughter is grown now, the pandemic has been raging for two years. There is a silence that is hard to name—isolate, almost wounded. And in this silence, in this dim light, I pick up a book about a dog I have only ever vaguely heard about, a dog known mostly as an image on a stamp or coffee cup or watch-face, reduced and cartoonish.
The dog is Laika, the first mammal to be sent into outer space.
And as I think of her, I think again of Berger’s essay. How he said that in our modern world, “Animals appear like fish seen through the plate glass of an aquarium…. The fact that they can observe us has lost all significance…. What we know about them is an index of our power.”
This dog sent into outer space— I want to know who she was, to have some sense of what her life was, what she felt. But I know I can never really know. All I have are a few facts. Read more »
by Malcolm Murray
Recently, the system card for Claude 4 showed a fascinating finding – what happens when you let two Claudes engage in a prolonged dialogue with each other? They end up meditating and sharing Buddhist wisdom, such as “In perfect stillness, consciousness recognizes consciousness, and the eternal dance continues”. Especially, they share nondual Buddhist wisdom, such as “Yes. This. Is” or “Perfect. Complete. Eternal”.
As a Buddhist myself, I naturally found this highly fascinating. A few people posited explanations for the phenomenon – Scott Alexander, the blogger Nostalgebraist, the Conversation and researchers from Anthropic, but none of their seem very convincing. I therefore think it is worth at least entertaining more a speculative explanation for this phenomenon. This could be that it is additional evidence for the set of arguments that we can refer to as “Why Buddhism is true”, as per Robert Wright’s epi-titled book (note that “Buddhism is true” refers to Buddhism as a philosophy rather than as a religion, I don’t think religions can be reduced to “true” or “false”). It is also worth noting that, as with everything about “how LLMs work” (especially in combination with the spiritual realm!), everything is highly speculative. We must always keep in mind that LLMs are fundamentally alien intelligences and we have no idea why they do what they do.
Starting with Scott Alexander’s explanation, in his piece The Claude Bliss Attractor, he argues that this is a result of LLMs’ training. Specifically, the combination of deliberate biases introduced by the AI companies and having the LLMs always slightly improve the result on each prompt. He gives the example of how LLMs, when asked to repeatedly iterate on an image, can end up with caricatures of black people. Since LLMs are nudged to be a bit more inclusive/woke with each inference, those nudges compound into extreme stereotypes over time. Read more »
by Paul Braterman
The International Holocaust Remembrance Association definition of anti-Semitism is unacceptable, incoherent, and harmful, and should not be used in formulation of policy.
First, my own credentials. I am Jewish. I passed my bar mitzvah test at what was then Jews’ College, London, with distinction. I have led congregations in prayer, and after decades of godlessness still feel nostalgia for that shared activity. And there is a field in northern Israel, close to the Lebanese border, that I helped clear of stones with my own hands.
At the tiny rural Church of England school that I went to when evacuated from London during World War 2, the older children would dance round me in a ring, singing
Jew, Jew, put him in the stew.
I think my dislike for bad poetry dates from that time.
I have been told that the Jews killed Jesus, and had fistfights at school in response to anti-Semitic insults. And of course, I was told that the Jews had all the money.
I remember the first images out of Belsen in Life magazine. My parents tried to hide them, but whether by accident or design they did not make a very good job of it.
When I applied to a secondary school in the highly competitive environment of the late 1940s, I knew that I had to do better in the entrance exam than a Gentile applicant, because the school had decided to place a limit on the number of Jews it would admit (common practice at the time, although it would now of course be illegal).
I have known Holocaust survivors, and been good friends with people whose escape from the Nazis was a matter of lucky contacts and good fortune.
And more recently, I have been addressed by people scolding me for this or that action of the Israeli government as if I were personally responsible for it.
So I regard myself as well acquainted with anti-Semitism, from the horrific to the trivial. Read more »
by Martin Butler
For some time there’s been a common complaint that western societies have suffered a loss of community. We’ve become far too individualistic, the argument goes, too concerned with the ‘I’ rather than the ‘we’. Many have made the case for this change. Published in 2000, Robert Putnam’s classic ‘Bowling Alone: the collapse and revival of American community’, meticulously lays out the empirical data for the decline in community and what is known as ‘social capital.’ He also makes suggestions for its revival. Although this book is a quarter of a century old, it would be difficult to argue that it is no longer relevant. More recently the best-selling book by the former Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, ‘Morality: Restoring the Common Good in Divided Times’, presents the problem as one of moral failure.
Google ‘loss of community’ and myriad reports and articles pop up. It’s both misleading and unhelpful, however, to frame the problem in terms of such a loss, or as a conflict between ‘I’ and ‘we’. It’s important to recognise from the outset the uncontroversial point that, like dolphins or chimpanzees, human beings are by nature social animals. The claim that we have become too individualistic can’t mean that we have somehow changed our basic nature. Since our evolution on the plains of Africa, very few Homo Sapiens have lived truly non-social lives. As individuals we are relatively puny beings, our evolutionary success largely depends on our ability to act together as a group. In one sense then, it is an inescapable fact that we all live in communities on which we depend, and it’s important to remember the simple fact that we cannot survive without cooperating with others.
The anxiety about the loss of community expressed by Putnam and others must then be concerned with something other than this deeply social nature. What exactly is this?
A general characteristic of modern industrial societies which throws light on this is the fact that our interdependence on others (as adults) has become largely divorced from our most important social bonds: families, close friends, neighbours. We all live within societies and wouldn’t last long if we didn’t, this is the locus of our interdependence on others. Read more »
by Jochen Szangolies
We have entered a versioned world. A new release of a major AI model (GPT-5) triggers the subsequent release of new versions of articles variously hyping and disparaging the progress it represents. How does it stack up in benchmarks against earlier models? How well can it code? Can you feel the AGI (even more)? Will this take my job, or skip that step and directly declare war on its creators?
We are reminded, in each iteration of the cycle, of both the promises and perils of ongoing AI developments. For every article touting a supposed productivity increase, there is one warning against mass unemployment. Every voice decrying the still-unsolved fundamental problems of generative AI is matched by one breathlessly updating their priors for imminent human-equivalent AGI (or alternatively, increasing their ‘P(doom)’, the estimated likelihood that AI will kill us all). In their predictably incremental nature, they mirror the releases they chronicle: the miracle of AI progress is beginning to grow stale.
This article is itself, in parts at least, an iteration of an earlier one. My excuse for writing it is that I think the concerns raised there, of how AI threatens to diminish the meaning of human creativity, is still not quite appreciated in the right way. Mass production, copyright infringement, oversaturation: these are real issues, but fail to get to the heart of it. Read more »
Sughra Raza. Nightstreet Barcode, Kowloon, January 2019.
Digital photograph.
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by Sherman J. Clark
At a recent conference in Las Vegas, Geoffrey Hinton—sometimes called the “Godfather of AI”—offered a stark choice. If artificial intelligence surpasses us, he said, it must have something like a maternal instinct toward humanity. Otherwise, “If it’s not going to parent me, it’s going to replace me.” The image is vivid: a more powerful mind caring for us as a mother cares for her child, rather than sweeping us aside. It is also, in its way, reassuring. The binary is clean. Maternal or destructive. Nurture or neglect.
Beyond the Binary
Hinton’s framing, however powerful, is too narrow. Just as humans can relate to one another—and to other creatures—in more ways than either mothering or killing, our digital descendants could come to see us through a far richer range of lenses. A student may respect a teacher without needing to parent her; a colleague may admire another’s craft while offering challenge as well as support; a historian may honor an ancestor’s legacy even while seeing her flaws. These are all recognizable human stances, and there are others we can scarcely imagine—perspectives that might emerge from ways of being in the world that are not quite human at all.
The question of how powerful beings regard others is ancient. Throughout history, humans have understood that the character of those who hold power matters as much as the structures that grant it. Whether in Plato’s careful consideration of guardian virtues, Aristotle’s analysis of constitutional decay, or Machiavelli’s unsentimental observations about princely disposition, the insight recurs: power’s effects depend at least t some extent on the qualities of mind and character in those who wield it.
But we now confront something unprecedented. For the first time, we are not merely selecting, educating, or constraining those who may eventually have power over us. We are creating them. Every design choice, training protocol, and optimization target shapes not just what these systems can do, but how they will be disposed toward us when their capabilities exceed our own. Read more »
by Sauleha Kamal
With In the New Century: An Anthology of Pakistani Literature in English, Muneeza Shamsie, the time‑tested chronicler of Pakistani writing in English, presents what is arguably the definitive anthology in this genre. Across her collections, criticism, and commentary, Shamsie has chronicled, championed, and clarified the growth of a literary tradition that is vast but, in many ways, still nascent. If there is one single volume to read in order to grasp the breadth, complexity, and sheer inventiveness of Pakistani Anglophone writing, it would be this one.
Comprehensive and weighty in the best sense, In the New Century is a tome, and unapologetically so. It almost asks readers to peruse it at a leisurely pace, giving the vastness of its subject matter, picking up and sitting with one writer at a time to uncover new dimensions to this genre. Spanning the work published between 1997-2017 by over eighty writers with least one full-length published collection in that period, the book, a follow up to her first anthology A Dragonfly in the Sun: An Anthology of Pakistani Writing in English (1997) proceeds in a loose chronological order according to the year of the author’s birth. This structure allows the reader to trace patterns across decades: the repetition of certain national traumas, the evolution of form and the confusing task of carving an identity. Each writer’s entry is prefaced by a concise biographical note which provides crucial context about their lives. This framing device is characteristic of Shamsie’s editorial approach: informed, unobtrusive, and generous. It also allows Shamsie to share priceless bits of trivia with readers, for example, that the Marxist writer Tariq Ali inspired Mick Jagger’s “Street Fighting Man.”
The first half of the anthology, in particular, feels like a trove of hidden gems, with stories, essays, and poems by a generation of writers who have shaped the tradition but are too often left out of mainstream discussions today. Only someone with Shamsie’s archival instinct and literary memory could have assembled such a list.
Recurring concerns of the Pakistani experience—displacement, migration, identity and inequality—echo across time. Some older pieces that capture the resilience that defines Pakistan are uncanny in that they feel as if they could have been written in the contemporary moment. Zulfikar Ghose’s “Silent Birds” is one such poem, masterfully capturing the contradictions of life in Lahore going on as normal amid extreme incidents like terrorist attacks. Taufiq Rafat’s poem “Karachi ‘79” captures the paradox of a city built for chaos (“My relatives here/ have had to be evacuated/ by a naval boat./ When they planned this city/ they forgot the sewers”). The city’s stubborn survival set against the ongoing human consequences of a lack of urban planning still rings true. Abdullah Hussein’s “Émigré Journeys,” which recounts the story of a modest villager making up his mind to migrate to England motivated for the promise of “bright prospects,” strikes a sad chord amid today’s headlines of ICE raids in the US and Afghan refugee expulsions in Pakistan. Read more »
—on the Ukraine affair, Gaza, and lunatics
The saying is: there’s no time like the present
the truth is: there’s no time but the present
the rub is: what to do with the present?
There’s no reliable answer to that
it’s all conjecture
that’s what we’re stuck with, guesses,
some more educated than others
but guesses nonetheless, our
existential condition
When we painted ourselves into an atomic corner
we upped the ante by megatons—
regardless, whatever we decide will be
determined by the bubble of a guess,
or a wish and a prayer
………..—Dominus vobiscum, big time,
and the absence of lunatics,
not to mention that, in any case,
love would help while hate
will bite to the bitter end; but
that’s already been covered here
in the line about lunatics
Jim Culleny, 3/13/22– / 08/16/25
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by Jerry Cayford
“Yertle the Turtle,” by Dr. Seuss, is a parable for our times. That statement may seem banal to some, maybe even insultingly obvious. But I think the elements that make it so relevant are not the obvious ones. Like any great parable, it suggests more than it says, and its adaptability to fresh perspectives is what keep its so-so-simple surface interesting.
The obvious current analogy to Yertle is, of course, President Trump: the greedy, arrogant Turtle King—“I’m Yertle the Turtle! Oh, marvelous me! For I am the ruler of all that I see!”— lusting to expand his kingdom by annexing Greenland and the Panama Canal. This fits with conventional readings of the story, which focus on questions of morality and treat the righteousness of Mack’s resistance to injustice as the heart of the story. (It is even used in classrooms to introduce children to thinking about moral issues, for example here). The story is then a children’s tale of good triumphing over evil.
I would change the focus in interpreting “Yertle the Turtle” from questions of morality to questions of power. To me, the plain little turtle named Mack represents resistance to authority. So, I see Mack in the plain little turtle who killed that healthcare executive on the streets of New York. I also see Mack in a powerful judge who is quite the opposite of a desperate killer. We’ll look in some detail at the judge who stopped President Yertle’s assault on the birthright citizenship of babies born to immigrant parents. There are many other Macks in between the killer and the judge on the social scale, all connected by the concept of resistance to authority.
The key question is how Mack gets power. In the story, he gets power almost accidentally, a by-product of a fanciful depiction of society. Totally unrealistic, we say. But my examination of how society’s rules are made and by whom will reveal a picture in which ordinary people do indeed, like Mack, make up the structure itself on which everything rides. Read more »
by Jeroen Bouterse
Under Nanna’s moon – a girl under Nanna’s moon, alone I lie
Under Nanna’s moon drifting over the pure mountains alone I lie,
Under the mountains of the cedars where sleeps Mullil alone I lie.[1]
“It would be nice to go back to caring about the moon”, writes Omar El Akkad in 2025. He can’t, because “no description of the moon […] reflects as much beauty back into the world as a missile obliterating a family in their home takes out of it.” Bertold Brecht wrote in the 1930s that in his time, talking about trees was almost a crime, because it implied silence about so many wrongs.
Brecht’s words are addressed To those born after, those who “will emerge from the flood that engulfed us”. They are asked to judge mildly: “when you speak of our weaknesses, remember too the dark time from which you escaped.” El Akkad’s book is titled One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This. For him, the passing of time will allow us to settle down in comfortable and hypocritical narratives about our own innocence, and teach us nothing.
The lines above are an attempt to escape into a time where caring about the moon and talking about trees were possible. The millennia-old poetry produced by the early cities of ancient Mesopotamia seems out of reach of modernity and its missiles. We can rest our eyes on a divinity dedicating a riverbank to his mother:
May its meadows grow herbs for you,
may its ledges grow grapevines and (yield) grape sirop for you,
may its slopes grow cedar, cypress, supalu-trees and box for you,
may it adorn itself for you with tree fruit like an orchard.[2]
The distant past was not innocent; people died young there, from disease, violence, and hunger – there is Sumerian verse mentioning starvation threats as an instrument of war.[3] Even between these generic but optimistic lines of blessing – a demon that terrified the high gods themselves has just been vanquished; the future looks bright – it is not difficult to read helplessness and terror. We have to hope that meadows grow their herbs and slopes grow their cedar trees; the alternative is awful to imagine. Read more »
by Daniel Gauss
COVID-19 revealed something terrifying about modern democracies: they are especially vulnerable to ambiguous threats, which can become magnified into national disasters. A virus that was neither mild enough to ignore nor lethal enough to unify a response managed to throw the United States into prolonged disarray causing unnecessary and severe harm.
If COVID-19 had been a super deadly, super-virus, we would have reached a quick consensus on how to fight it, out of necessity. Throughout our history our nearly always divided nation has regularly rallied around the flag and united political divisions to meet major crises. On the other hand, if the virus had been super weak, we could have completely ignored it.
It was its position in the murky middle, neither trivial nor catastrophic, that proved most damaging: a Goldilocks zone where uncertainty overwhelmed coordination. The most insidious thing about COVID-19 was that it did not demand an unambiguous response. By its very nature, the virus thwarted decisive action in the largest democracies. There could never be a clear consensus in a fractious democracy on how to treat it or even how to talk about it. It engendered anxiety and undermined unequivocal action.
If you had wanted to develop a perfect virus to afflict a troubled democracy – one already splintered by culture wars, plagued by distrust in institutions and weakened by an over-saturated information environment – it would have been COVID-19. The pandemic for us, therefore, was a political, psychological and social crisis, one that exposed the fragility of decision-making in democratic systems. Read more »
by Marie Snyder
In my last post of meditation, I suggested that there’s not a lot of harm that comes from meditation and mindfulness training, so maybe it doesn’t need the kind of scientific scrutiny that we might expect from a clinical drug trial. However, in Toward a Psychology of Awakening (2000), Buddhist psychotherapist John Welwood documents three traps: spiritual bypass, narcissism, and desensitising, that arise in part because we’ve leant too far to either psychology or spirituality instead of using both. He also discusses them in brief in a paper, “Principles of inner work: Psychological and spiritual” (1984).
Both psychotherapy and spirituality are about “developing a new kind of loving relationship with one’s experience,” and both help us break free from our conditioned reactions. But spirituality doesn’t address our early mishaps that affect our perceptions, and psychotherapy doesn’t address the need to transcend our personal feelings.
When he first trained as a therapist, Welwood was concerned that psychotherapy has a narrow view of human nature, but then realized how much it can help once we no longer demand answers from it. It can help free people from negative childhood conditioning, particularly from dismissive or engulfing parenting, by working with our needs, scripts (now narratives), fears, self-respect, etc. A lot of us don’t learn how to exist in the world well. Welwood claims that part of the problem is the “breakdown of extended families and tight-knit communities” so that children just get influenced by parents or just one parent instead of many people providing a variety of ideas that can help a child figure out where they fit in the group. As far as I understand this point, with only one or two major influences, children might accept lessons without question, then have to “spend a good part of their lives freeing themselves” from this singular impact in order to find their own sense of self. It’s somewhat unintuitive, but a larger group influence helps a child find their individual self by differentiating from others more clearly at a younger age. But whether we find it at 5 or 50, it’s necessary to have this “stable self-structure” before trying to go further. Read more »
by Eric Feigenbaum
Among the many things America is wrestling with right now is what constitutes a level playing field? What are the elements of a society where everyone has opportunity? There are certainly multiple competing answers to these questions.
Like America, Singapore is multicultural and, in their view, multi-racial – although I would call it multi-ethnic. The main three ethnicities for Singaporean nationals are Chinese (of many sub-groups such as Hokkien, Teochew, Hakka, Cantonese, etc…), Malay and Tamil Indian followed by a longtail of very small minorities who get less focus like Sephardic Jews, Bugis and Peranakans.
Power and respect between the ethnicities was one of Singapore’s earliest challenges. In fact, Singapore wouldn’t be an independent country if not for it. Initially, Singapore was one state of the Malaysian Federation – which was as a whole expected to gain its independence from Great Britain in 1965. Only cultural and linguistic issues began to sour conversations within the new government. Looking at the Malaysian Federation as a whole, Malays were the dominant ethnicity and began to strongly insist on additional rights and privileges as the Bumiputeras – Sons of the Soil.
This was problematic for Singapore with a more than 70 percent Chinese ethnic population. Singaporean leadership was fine with Malay as the official language of what would become Malaysia, but felt that all citizens deserved equal rights and privileges. In short, the country should be an equal playing field for all.
This sticking point led the Malaysian Federation to expel Singapore within a month of Malaysia’s expected independence. Many felt it was a gambit to scare Singaporean leadership into submission. But to everyone’s surprise, including the Singaporean leadership itself, Singapore did not go crawling back to Malaysia, deciding instead to go it alone. Read more »
by Herbert Harris
In 2023, Stanford neuroscientist Robert Sapolsky’s bestseller ‘Determined’ declared free will to be a complete illusion. Sapolsky gathered a wealth of data from neuroscience to quantum mechanics in an effort to deliver a final knockout blow to our intuitive ideas of freedom. He then explores a wide range of ethical and social issues where our questionable notions of freedom have led to misguided and often inhumane policies and practices. Since its publication, the book continues to attract criticism for its deterministic stance. Experts from many fields have engaged in this lively discussion.
Watching the debate unfold shows that while we have strong ideas about what free will isn’t, we lack a clear understanding of what freedom actually could be. We agree that whatever it is, it would be incompatible with both mechanical determinism and total randomness. We also think that free will is connected to that vaguely self-conscious feeling that we are the originators of our actions. If free will exists, it probably exists in a middle ground that isn’t too deterministic nor too random. But what exactly is it?
Neuroscience may not be as conclusive about the end of free will as Sapolsky suggests, but it has not been particularly effective in producing alternative explanations. Science generally depends on deterministic approaches — such as reproducible experiments — to test hypotheses that can be proven false. It might be, as critics like Jessica Riskin argue, that science is the wrong place to seek an understanding of free will. However, a potential way forward could come from an unexpected source. In the early nineteenth century, philosopher G.W.F. Hegel developed a theory of freedom, defining it as a result of human social interactions. Read more »
by Charles Siegel
In the first part of this column last month, I set out the ways in which the separation of powers among the three branches of American government is rapidly being eroded. The legislative branch isn’t playing its part in the system of “checks and balances;” it isn’t interested in checking Trump at all. Instead it publicly cheers him on. A feckless Republican Congress has essentially surrendered its authority to the executive.
Having sidelined Congress entirely, Trump has trained his fire on the other supposedly coequal branch of government. The executive branch is engaged in a sustained, multipronged war against the judicial branch. This war is waged every day across the country, inside courtrooms from coast to coast, and outside courtrooms as well.
Inside the courtroom, Trump’s Department of Justice is seemingly trying to create its own reality – a new kind of reality divorced from both facts and law. It is important to understand here that the DOJ, whose lawyers represent the United States in court every day in hundreds of federal courthouses, is not, despite its name, part of the judicial branch. It is, rather, part of the executive branch.
For most of the nation’s history, however, the DOJ has viewed itself as an independent agency, dedicated to pursuing justice – not to advocating for the personal interests of the executive. Its federal law enforcement power was largely wielded independently of Congress or the president. It hasn’t always been this way – Watergate was a particularly egregious example of DOJ being used by a president for his own corrupt purposes. But after Watergate, bipartisan efforts to insulate DOJ from politics ensued, and these were mostly successful. These efforts involved statutory enactments, such as elements of the Ethics in Government Act and the Federal Election Campaign Act. But equally importantly, they also involved a strong commitment to the same basic understanding of DOJ’s role, by presidents of both parties and their appointees. Even in Trump’s first term, his two attorney generals, Jeff Sessions and Bill Barr, both of whom were stout conservatives, ultimately refused to let DOJ surrender to Trump’s commands.
This understanding that has prevailed for the last 50 years has been shredded in six months. Read more »
I tried to photograph the graceful flight of this heron but it landed on this seemingly dead tree branch next to the river Eisack in Franzensfeste, South Tyrol, before I could capture it flying.
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by Akim Reinhardt
I drive in silence these days. That in itself is nothing new. For years, my solo road trips across America have featured long stretches of near silence. Nothing coming from the speakers. No talk, no music, no pleading commercials. Just the whir of the road helping to clear my mind.
But not at home.
Tooling around Baltimore, whether commuting about twenty minutes each way or running some errands, I almost always have the radio on. Or at least I did. That started to change in January and February, though the issue dates back to last November.
Donald Trump’s victory was not much of a surprise, but deeply depressing nonetheless. And it was the first time an election depressed me. There’s been no shortage of shitty politicians I’ve hated to see win elections in the past. But this felt different. Maybe because I’m a little older now and my perspective is changing. Maybe because it was so obvious there would be very few guard rails the second time around. Maybe because Trump really is a psychopathic rapist and aspiring dictator who has successfully chipped away at democratic norms while transforming the U.S. presidency into shameless kleptocracy while about a third of the electorate ardently roots him on. Whatever the reason, it was very clear to me that a new, very fucked up version of “normal” was about to unfold, and the one thing I could not stomach was reputable news agencies, dizzy with fear, doing everything they could to sound “objective,” which meant actively sticking their heads the sand and pretending that everything was still the old, familiar normal.
At the opening of Trump’s second term, that was NPR to the max, for all the good it did them; it took Trumpists all of half a year to defund the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. As if you couldn’t see it all coming. I certainly did, and I absolutely could not bear to listen to them normalize the pending Trumpist assault on the U.S. republic. But I didn’t switch the station. Instead, I did something that, as a former radio DJ myself at two different public stations, surprised me. I turned the radio off. Which is a shame, because it meant I was forsaking Baltimore’s fairly robust radio scene. Read more »
