by Haider Shahbaz

“To be exiled is not to disappear but to shrink, to slowly or quickly get smaller and smaller until we reach our real height, the true height of the self.” – Roberto Bolano, Exiles.

“You must remember that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home.” – Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov.

I packed my bags, and came to Paris. I am trying to write. What better place to write, I thought? After all: Hemingway, Stein, Cowley, Joyce, Fitzgerald. Also, my introduction to American fiction: James Baldwin. He came to Paris so as not to commit suicide, and to write. Preparing for my writing, I read ‘A Moveable Feast’ and reread ‘The Sun Also Rises’. I got drunk. I went to the graves of Abelard and Heloise and Sartre and Beauvoir. I accepted Baudelaire as a prophet and became a flaneur. I visited the Latin Quarter and tried to sniff out the ghost of a young Danny the Red. I read about Malte Laurids Brigge and I read the essays of Benjamin. I got high while I read Baudelaire and Benjamin. I even saw Midnight in Paris: It was cute.

But I didn’t write. I couldn’t write – no words, no stories, came to my mind. Unfortunately dear reader, the history of my travel and my failure to write neither begins nor ends at Paris. It begins, in fact, with my first love.

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by James McGirk

I never had a problem with Alaskan Senator Ted Steven’s oft-mocked remark about the Internet being a series of tubes. I saw it with my own eyes (metaphorically speaking) as a teenager growing up in New Delhi. The Internet was a feed of information that trickled in drip by drip, slowly increasing as we switched our faucets and eventually tapped into the municipal supply. My father was a foreign correspondent, which meant he had to send stories back home to be published. When we left “on assignment” to India he was issued with a bag of sophisticated telecommunications equipment. We plugged it in and became early adopters.

Our first modem looked like a cross between a swimming cap, a spider, and a rubber truncheon. There were two cups that stretched over the mouthpiece and receiver of a standard analogue telephone. One contained a microphone and the other a speaker. The modem would whistle and hiss signals into the phone, and listen for responses. It was a crude but robust system, the only thing capable of working on lines that were filled with crackling static and echoes, and may well have been tapped. Entire sentences would be garbled by line noise, or more insidiously the changes could be almost invisible. A pound sterling inserted where a dollar sign once stood.

Dad’s squealing octopus of a modem might have made things easier for everyone else, but it tossed a sabot into the gears of my imagination. Before we had left, he had taken me on a tour of his office and the printing press below. Communications made sense to me afterward. The newspaper was like a factory: an office space above filled with glowing amber terminals and stuttering typewriters and piles of important paper being fed to the machines below. The presses were magnificent, booming and huffing and spattering ink at rolling reams of paper. I could easily imagine the process as an unbroken chain extending across the world, see a pale English editor with a phone clenched between his shoulder and ear, transcribing dad’s story click by click into a typesetting machine to be turned to molten lead, slotted into a drum, dunked in ink and pressed onto fresh newsprint a hundred times a minute.

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by George Wilkinson

The Motion Aftereffect illusion, or Waterfall illusion, occurs when prolonged viewing of motion in one direction makes a subsequently viewed stationary item appear to move in the opposite direction. An example is seen in this short video. The viewer fixates on a stationary blue point near a pattern moving toward the top of the screen. When the pattern is replaced with a fixed photograph of a waterfall, the water appears to flow toward the bottom. We see motion because our visual system adapted to the upward motion of the first stimulus, and that adaptation carries over for a few seconds affecting our perception of the stationary image.

This illusion is thought to reflect adaptation of neurons in the visual cortex responsible for detecting motion. In this model, overall motion perception results from a comparison of the relative firing patterns among neurons sensitive to diverse specific directions of motion. A stationary scene results in balanced outputs for all directions. In the classical Motion Aftereffect illusion, prolonged stimulation with one direction of motion leads to decreased output by the neurons sensitive to that direction of motion. When the stimulus is removed, output from that set of neurons remains lowered. But because the output from the other motion-sensitive neurons is higher by comparison, the resultant imbalance creates the perception of motion opposite to the original moving stimulus.

Althoug classical studies of the Motion Aftereffect illusion used a conditioning stimulus lasting several seconds, it is known that neuronal adaptation can occur much more quickly– on a timescale of milliseconds. Could perceptual adaptation be observed at brief timescales, relevant to the timescales in which neurons adapt? A recent study from the lab of Duje Tadin finds that the Motion aftereffect illusion can be observed even after very brief exposure to a moving stimulus. Subjects shown a video of a pattern that is moving for only 1/40 of a second (25 milliseconds) – so short that they can’t consciously distinguish its direction of motion – will then perceive motion in the opposite direction of the briefly presented background motion when viewing a stationary object. The implication of their results is that the cortical processes involved in the Motion Aftereffect illusion could affect our perception virtually every time we view motion. The work of this lab and others suggest that there may be more than one brain region, and more than one neuronal circuit, contributing to this class of illusion.

Auto-auction

if I should give account of all the days that shame me
I’d be shamed indeed —especially by those days
that shame me by my own account

the noose that one gets in was once a collar
its no mystery how the world goes round
a penny for my soul, why not a dollar
?

by Jim Culleny
1/21/2010

by Meghan Rosen

Earlier this year, a London ice cream parlor debuted an attention-grabbing new flavor that made headlines around the world and sold out within days. The flavor, Baby Gaga, was infused with Madagascan vanilla and lemon zest and served in a martini glass chilled with liquid nitrogen. But at over $22 a serving, customers weren’t coming for its gourmet spices or upscale presentation; they were coming for its star ingredient, its claim to fame: human breast milk.

Just a week after giving birth, women who exclusively breastfeed produce, on average, more than 500 milliliters of milk per day. In parlor measurements, that’s about a pint of liquid. At 6 weeks, this amount has typically increased by about 50%; in some highly productive women, it can even double. For women with an abundant supply, excess milk can be drawn out with an electric pump and stored for future consumption (by baby, or in London, by high-paying ice cream connoisseurs.)

In an interview with the Daily Mail, the London parlor’s proprietor played up the novelty of his new flavor, but his description of its taste (‘creamy and rich’) was comfortably familiar. Flavor-wise, how does milk from humans compare to milk from cows? Can you even taste a difference? I don’t live in London, but I do have an ice cream maker. It’s in my freezer, right next to 2 liters of frozen breast milk.

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Matryoshka Boxes

Ah, to think outside the box.
But this box is too big —more than
light years across (limitless in fact)
so thinking out there has been a problem
and (with the way it’s been)
seems to be pretty much impossible

A thought that big
(a thought outside this box)
would be divine

To think outside this box
requires a perspective well beyond
the confines of a FedEx container
or even the boxes that were
the World Trade Center:

two boxes
fools were thinking outside of
while simultaneously cogitating
within another:
the box
that’s been our cage
since Cain killed Abel

two boxes
they incinerated with the
psychopathic bliss of someone opening
the box once belonging to Pandora;
a box out of which grim thoughts flew
to be reconceived and reworked
outside of
a box
within our box
within a box
upon god’s table

.
by Jim Culleny, 7/1/11

by Hasan Altaf

It seems like everyone I speak to has loved Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, and the reviews have also been generally glowing. My search for someone who shared my less rapturous feeling has so far been largely fruitless, and at this point I am beginning to think that there might be something wrong not with the movie, but with me. Midnight in Paris seemed to me kind of like a meringue: Light, harmless, and not entirely satisfying.

There is of course nothing at all wrong with meringues; they are what they are, and the kind of film that one enjoys while watching and then forgets about also serves a purpose. This is the land of summer comedies (Bad Teacher), the new crop of identical, CGI-enhanced superhero movies (take your pick), and even the vast majority of Bollywood. None of these genres, though, is greeted with the kind of rave reviews that Midnight in Paris has garnered.

Beyond the fact of Paris, the film has three things, as far as I can see, working in its favor. The music and the cinematography are undeniably great, but most of us don’t, in the end, watch movies for the cinematography or the music – at the Oscars, these are the categories we tend to glaze over, not recognizing any of the names, although we can appreciate their accomplishments when we see or hear them. On their own, these two feats don’t seem to merit the kind of reaction that the film has received.

The real selling point of Midnight in Paris is the conceit: The idea of the unexpected opportunity for a modern-day man to visit, each night, an era that he has always in some sense longed for, to rub shoulders with his idols, to sit across the table and be bored to tears by geniuses in the flesh. It’s a charming idea, a what-if game brought to life, and it’s hard to resist; it allows the audience to imagine themselves in that scenario, to wonder what it would happen if we could visit the periods of history that have enchanted each of us and meet whoever it was we always wanted to hang out with.

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by Jen Paton

This week, President Obama did a new thing with technology, conducting the nation’s first “Twitter Town Hall.” Jack Dorsey, the founder of Twitter, noted in his introduction to the event that “millions of people around the world” use Twitter to “instantly connect to what is meaningful to them.” “Much of this conversation is made up of everyday people engaged in spirited debate about the future of their countries,” he added.

Viewers were given a Web address to submit questions to the president and urged by the baby faced Dorsey to “get the conversation started,” though the questions were ultimately selected by various regional curators. It was, according to Macon Phillips, the White House director of digital strategy, a way to “try to find new opportunities to connect with Americans around the country”.

In May of 1970, Richard Nixon, a less telegenic president, tried to connect with Americans, awaking before dawn to visit, unscheduled, the Lincoln Memorial and a group of war protesters there. According to Time, “his discussion rambled over the sights of the world that he had seen — Mexico City, the Moscow ballet, the cities of India. When the conversation turned to the war, Nixon told the students: “I know you think we are a bunch of so and so's.”

Nixon’s ramble came at a particularly fraught moment in American history: the expansion of the Vietnam war into Cambodia had reignited the student movement into a nationwide strike, with 441 universities shut down. The Kent State shootings had happened just the week before. The nation seemed fragmented, and Nixon’s promise to “lead the nation ‘forward together” less tenable than ever. With the visit, Nixon, said Time, “was trying his best to reconstruct consensus.”

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by Jeff Strabone

When Cy Twombly died last week on July 5, my first thought was that the greatest living painter had left us. That's because I am a simple fellow amused by such games as anointing The Greatest Living Painter and The Most Delicious Dinner Entrée in New York. (It's the duck at The Grocery on Smith Street.) Less foolishly, I hope, my second thought was that Twombly may have been the last great classicist in a world where classicism may no longer be an available position.

The obituary in the New York Times declared that Twombly was 'stubbornly out of step with the movements of postwar American art even as he became one of the era's most important painters'. Despite painting in a style that would not have been conceivable before the late twentieth century, Twombly stood outside his time chiefly because his deepest commitments were to an ideal of timeless classicism. Although he may have sidestepped the many competing art movements of his day, Twombly's classicism revealed a definite partisan affiliation: he was a Dionysian of the highest order.

All the recent notices remind us that Twombly was the painter who left New York. A more fitting epitaph would be that he was the classicist who went back to the source. Though he admired the beauty of his native Virginia, a place he said had more columns than all of Rome and Greece, he moved to Italy in his late twenties. His explanation tells us a lot: 'I've always lived in the south of Italy, because it's more excitable. It's volcanic.'

In literature and visual art, classicism is work that draws on ancient Greece and Rome, usually with reverent imitation. The poetry of Alexander Pope, for instance, is neoclassical because of its devotion to propriety, balance, and decorum in a way that was thought to mimic the values of the Augustan era in Rome. But classicism is not simply imitative. Any classicist worth our attention converts, in some distinct way, his traditional sources of inspiration into new methods, techniques, and styles.

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“(Physicist) Stephen Hawking … showed that black holes
were not completely black but could leak radiation …”

Crumb of Light

Black holes are not completely black.
One physicist says they leak light
so even in deepest space
where nothing breathes
where you couldn’t be more alone
where stillness is not peace but ice
where distance between entities
makes the idea of neighborhood absurd
where utter is deepest and space is most profound
where moons can’t kiss and the closest thing to embrace
is to orbit which is not an encircling of arms
but a constant falling away,
where the inertia of origin commands
that all things separate, expand,
proceed apart day after day
.
—even from the black eye of a black hole
a crumb of light is tossed
and the chance of seeing you again
is not forever lost

by Jim Culleny
5/10/11

By Evert Cilliers aka Adam Ash

When two snails want to get it on, they caress each other with those stalks sticking out of their heads.

Then, they act.

Each snail drives, deep into the other, an inch-long dart. If a dart pierces a lung, brain, heart – death. Fatal foreplay.

But let’s assume they survive. What do they do?

First they draw apart, terribly wounded.

But also, terribly excited.

So they draw together again. And out of each snail’s head grows a penis.

Yeah, each snail has a penis.

The penises grow as long as the snails themselves.

Yup, proportionately the lowly snail has the biggest dick of them all.

Now they slip their giant organs into each other’s vaginas.

Yup, each snail has a vagina.

The giant vaginas suck on the giant penises until they ejaculate.

Then the two snails drop away from each other.

Deeply wounded, they lie quietly for a long time, stunned by what’s happened. Eventually they crawl off in opposite directions.

The sex life of the snail tells us: the intensity of love can only be measured by the depth of its damage. Existence is most keenly felt when it’s most endangered.

What excites the snail to screw? A stimulation so great, it threatens the snail’s life.

This makes the snail the most romantic figure alive.

Pain, death, sex: the snail is an exemplary creature.

Eat it in awe.

by Kevin Baldwin

Islands have always been fascinating places. The old story-tellers, wishing to recount a prodigy, almost invariably fixed the scene on an island — Faery and Avalon, Atlantis and Cipango, all golden islands just over the horizon where anything at all might happen. And in the old days at least it was rather difficult to check up on them. Perhaps this quality of potential prodigy still lives on in our attitude towards islands.

— John Steinbeck, from The Log from the Sea of Cortez, 1941

Introduction

In addition to providing great settings for stories, islands have also been a source of fascination and inspiration to biologists. They have had an influence on biology, ecology, and conservation that is far greater than their small areas would suggest. Because they frequently occur in groups called archipelagos, they provide separate but similar environments that have in effect, acted as replicated natural experiments for both nature and the scientists who study it. In the 19th century, Darwin and Wallace's explorations of the Galapagos Islands and Malay Archipelago clearly demonstrated patterns in nature that begged for explanation. It is doubtful that the they would have made their intellectual leaps to the elucidation of natural selection without having experienced those sites first-hand. Islands are like conceptual models: They offer simplified versions of reality. Smaller and less diverse than continents, patterns on islands were easier to see and comprehend.

I. Island Biogeography

In the 20th century, islands were important in advancing our understanding the origin and maintenance of diversity of species. In 1967, Robert MacArthur and Edward Wilson published a book entitled “The Theory of Island Biogeography” that revolutionized the study of ecology and biogeography. MacArthur and Wilson's approach was radical in that it deliberately avoided historical explanations for species diversity and sought to identify and explain more general patterns based upon current organisms' attributes and their relationships to current environments. It also refocused ecological inquiry from simply describing patterns to generating and testing theories that could account for those patterns.

The three island patterns that were linked together by a common theory were:

1. Species-area relationships: Larger islands have more species than smaller ones (there are more places to live, and species are less likely to go extinct if there are more individuals spread over a large area).

2. Isolation: Islands that are farther away from the mainland have fewer species than ones close to land.

3. Species turnover: The number of species on an island tends to remain constant although the identity of the species may change through a process called species turnover.

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by Aditya Dev Sood

I’ve been reading Gandhi’s writings off and on for several months now, but just last week I turned to Joseph Lelyveld’s recent book on him. I’d been thinking about the kind of attitude towards the present that Gandhi must have had, in order to undertake social change at such a spectacular scale. How did Gandhi balance his quest for change with the full possibilities of the present, the taste of the world as he found it? Does Gandhi’s life and thought have a particular aesthetic, and if so, how can we better describe it? Great Soul has many virtues, foremost among them, perhaps, being nuance, and both curiosity and sensitivity to the progressive way in which Gandhi came to acquire his moral compass, his powers of communication and persuasion, and the bouquet of social technologies through which he was able to effect change. Being neither acolyte nor nationalist historiographer, Lelyveld is able to read Gandhi beyond his canonization, first in India, and more recently in post-apartheid South Africa.

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by Scott F. Aikin and Robert B. Talisse

Properly run argument requires that we give reasons that provide support for the truth of our conclusions, that we do our best to be clear, and that we stay focused on the issue at hand. But it is possible to succeed in these ways and yet fail to argue properly. We must also respond to each other’s reasons, and this requires that we accurately represent our opponents’ views. When we fail in this latter respect, we commit the Straw Man fallacy.

Although it is common to speak of the Straw Man fallacy, there are actually several Straw Men. What they have in common is that they manifest a certain failure of dialogue. This makes Straw Men different from many other fallacy forms. Inductive fallacies—such as Hasty Generalization—and relevance fallacies—like Scare Tactics—are internal to the individual’s reasoning: Just because some X’s are Y’s, it doesn’t mean that all X’s are Y’s; just because doing A is risky, it doesn’t follow that it’s wrong to do. One can commit these errors on one’s own. But straw-manning involves the misrepresentation of an interlocutor’s view; consequently, Straw Man fallacies involve more than one person. When we commit a straw man fallacy, we fail to live up to the responsibilities of the exchange of reasons. Consider:

Military Spending

Adam: We really need to beef up our military budget—the world’s a dangerous place.

Betty: No way! We don’t need to devote our whole economy to being the world’s bully.

Betty’s right about not needing to pour a country’s entire budget into being a bully, but that’s not what Adam proposed. Betty misrepresents Adam’s view; therefore, she’s not in proper dialogue with Adam. This simple case exemplifies the standard form of the Straw Man. We’ve called it elsewhere the representational form of the Straw Man fallacy; the distortion happens when a specific interlocutor’s views are not accurately represented.

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