by David J. Lobina

So, what is the role and place of Bustan Qaraaqa within the community they are based in? What connections have they made there? What volunteering, if any, have they promoted in other farms, or in general in the West Bank? And what is their place within the worldwide permaculture network, and of course, to begin with, within the occupation of the Palestinian territories?

In last month’s entry, part of another series of articles of mine, though this time there is only two pieces, I framed the discussion in terms of the conflicts an international volunteer has to face when undertaking an activity, or indeed, an activism, in a place such as Palestine. One important conflict immediately arises, in fact, and this has to do with the realisation of the possible and very serious repercussions that one’s action may have on the native population, perhaps slightly counter-intuitively for some volunteers – they are there to be there to help by definition, are they not?

More often than not, as a matter of fact, a volunteer will be based overseas for a limited amount of time, and they will eventually return to the safety of their own country. The sort of activism that many carry out in Palestine, however, such as marching, attempts to stop demolitions and evictions, etc., whilst constituting cases that might indeed derive into serious consequences for the volunteer (police or army beatings, even gassing, sometimes arrest followed by criminal charges, and typically deportation), often pale in comparison with the repercussions for the population one is trying to assist.

It is doubtless the case that the Palestinians are particularly aware of this, and even though they do sometimes choose to encourage the participation of foreign volunteers anyway – their presence may limit the actions of the occupying forces, at least for the time they are there – this is not a choice that is taken lightly. Volunteering in a permaculture farm, with the aim to create a more sustainable and independent scenario, may appear to be world away from the more direct action activism I have just described, but some of the choices one faces in this case are not exempt of the clash between goals and visions that concerns me here, as we shall see. Read more »

Mithu Sen. Untitled, 2007.

Water color on paper.

More here, here, and here.

by Oliver Waters 

Part I of this series argued that transferring your personal identity to an artificial brain should be possible. It’s one thing however to preserve the informational content of your identity, and quite another for that content to be conscious. It would be a real shame if your new artificial self was getting about town as a zombified version of you: spending your wages, high fiving your friends – all with no inner subjective awareness.

In her book Artificial You (2019), the philosopher Susan Schneider entertains the possibility that entire alien civilisations may have taken the reckless gamble of transitioning to artificial brains and in the process inadvertently killed off their conscious minds. We would obviously prefer to avoid this nightmarish fate, and our best defence is a proper scientific theory of how consciousness works.

Many doubt that such a theory will arrive any time soon, with some claiming that consciousness is simply beyond our capacity to ever understand. There is also an intuitively compelling and popular notion that a scientific understanding of consciousness is impossible because we only have direct access to our own conscious minds. This view is largely motivated by a mistaken epistemology. Namely, an ‘empiricist’ view that the scientific process consists of building up a theoretical understanding of the world out of the components of raw, direct, sensory inputs. If you think of scientific knowledge as emerging this way, as a systematic reorganisation of what is available to your senses, then the realm of other conscious minds must forever remain out of reach.

But as the philosopher Karl Popper pointed out, ‘sensory inputs’ actually have no meaning unless they are part of a theoretical construct: observation is inextricably ‘theory-laden’. The theory doesn’t have to be a formal scientific theory, by the way. Your intuitive conception of what is going on in front of you (perceiving a sunset, for instance) counts perfectly well as ‘theorising’ in this context. Read more »

by Nate Sheff

We trained our dog Gemini using positive reinforcement techniques, “clicker training.” She can sit, give handshakes and high fives, roll over, and we never used negative reinforcement to teach her.

That’s all true, but what do I mean by negative reinforcement? A lot of us assume that it has something to do with punishment, whereas positive reinforcement involves rewarding good behavior, but this assumption isn’t strictly true. To reinforce a behavior is to make that behavior more likely. Giving Gemini a treat when she sits after I make a certain gesture positively reinforces the association between my gesture and her sitting, because it makes that behavior more likely next time I make the gesture. I’m introducing something Gemini wants to strengthen a particular connection between my gesture and her response. On the other hand, when I strengthen a connection by removing something she doesn’t want, I’m negatively reinforcing the behavior.

Punishment involves introducing something unpleasant to make a particular behavior less likely. Sternly telling Gemini that she’s not allowed to eat the cat food is my attempt to punish her, introducing something unpleasant (disappointed dad voice) to make a behavior less likely (eating her sisters’ food). This hasn’t worked yet – maybe I’m not doing the voice right – but my point is that punishment isn’t negative reinforcement. Reinforcement is about making a behavior more likely; punishment is about making a behavior less likely.

This is a nice example of how technical terminology can be subtly misleading when we’re not careful. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

by Ed Simon

“Men intoxicated are sometimes stunned into sobriety.” —Lord Mansfield (1769)

Today marks eight years since I had my last drink. Or maybe yesterday marks that anniversary; I’m not sure. It was that kind of last drink. The kind of last drink that ends with the memory of concrete coming up to meet your head like a pillow, of red and blue lights reflected off the early morning pavement on the bridge near your house, the only sound cricket buzz in the dewy August hours before dawn. The kind of last drink that isn’t necessarily so different from the drink before it, but made only truly exemplary by the fact that there was never a drink after it (at least so far, God willing). My sobriety – as a choice, an identity, a life-raft – is something that those closest to me are aware of, and certainly any reader of my essays will note references to having quit drinking, especially if they’re similarly afflicted and are able to discern the liquor-soaked bread-crumbs that I sprinkle throughout my prose. But I’ve consciously avoided personalizing sobriety too much, out of fear of being a recovery writer, or of having to speak on behalf of a shockingly misunderstood group of people (there is cowardice in that position). Mostly, however, my relative silence is because we tribe of reformed dipsomaniacs are a superstitious lot, and if anything, that’s what keeps me from emphatically declaring my sobriety as such.

There are, for sure, certain concerns about propriety that have a tendency to gag these kinds of confessions – I’ve pissed in enough alleyways in three continents that you’d think the having done it would embarrass me more than the declaring of it, but here we are. There’s also, and this took some time to evolve, issues of humility. When I put together strings of sober time in the past, and over a decade and a half I tried to quit drinking thirteen times, with the longest tenure a mere five months, I was loudly and performatively on the wagon. In my experience that’s the sort of sobriety that serves the role of being antechamber to relapse, a pantomime of recovery posited around the sexy question of “Will he or won’t he drink again?” I remember sitting in bars during this time period – I still sat the bar drinking Diet Coke during that stretch – and having the bartender scatter half-empty scotch tumblers filled with iced tea around the bar so that when friends arrive, they’d think I’d started drinking again. Get it?! So, this time around I wanted to avoid the practical jokes, since in the back of my mind I’d already decided that the next visit to the bar wouldn’t necessarily have ice tea in those glasses. Which is only tangentially related to my code of relative silence for the last half-decade – I was scared that the declaration would negate itself, and I’d find myself passed out on my back on that sidewalk again. So, at the risk of challenging those forces that control that wheel of fate, let me introduce myself – my name is Ed and I’m an alcoholic. Read more »

Shadow self-portrait in the raging waters of the river Eisack as it flows through Franzensfeste, South Tyrol.

by Carol A Westbrook

We bought a little house in a development called Timber Trails, Oak Brook, IL in December of 2019. Our house was old and in need of repair, but the lot was very large—almost an acre in size. It was full of ancient oak trees, some almost two centuries old, providing a canopy of some thirty to fifty feet high. Our backyard was immediately adjacent to York Woods, a Du Page County Forest preserve, through which Salt Creek flowed. Soon we felt that we lived in these woods, with woodland animals our nearest neighbors.

There were dozens of chipmunks and squirrels with their funny antics; hungry rabbits to raid the garden; raccoons to raid the trash cans; there even was a fat, grumpy groundhog who lived under the deck, ready for hibernation—we expected to see him in the spring. Were we surprised to find that he was a she, who was followed around the yard by two adorable baby groundhogs! There were a surprising number of birds, even in winter. The non-migratory birds included sparrows, robins, one variety of blue jays, and the rare flash of red with the “purty,purty” call of the cardinal. Of the large mammals, we saw the occasional coyote, and numerous white-tailed deer.

During the spring and summer we’d see deer in groups of two or three does with their young fawns, and an occasional yearling tagging along. They’d browse our garden plants and shrubs, moving along to cross the street, always at the “Deer Crossing” sign. In winter, deer do not hibernate; instead they sleep a lot, minimizing activity and conserving energy. On warmer days they will walk the neighborhood and browse whatever edible plant material they find—usually from the plants in my garden! Many of the lone females who are out in the winter, looking for food, are pregnant, since rut (the mating season) happens in November. Read more »

by Mike Bendzela

The funeral director is a good guy, both sedate and friendly. I wait for him to wrap up his service in advancing rain before driving up to the site to close the grave. The mourners depart the gravesite but do not leave the cemetery. They hang out near their pickup trucks, some talking animatedly.

“Wait around awhile and you might be able to collect some returnables,” the director says. I look over: the mourners have already cracked open beers and canned “cocktails.”

Then I look at the urn, a small squat box made of “cultured marble,” perched on a pedestal over the pit I have dug and covered with plywood and hemlock boughs. “Forty is way too young,” I say. Before coming over, I searched the obituary online. Theoretically, I could have a son that age.

“Fentanyl, I’m pretty sure,” the director says, his tone lowered. “It’s worse than covid now.”

In 2021 and 2022, there were at least three covid victims interred in our cemetery; I know because I had to make out receipts for the families to receive government reimbursements for funeral expenses. I don’t know how many opioid deaths there have been.

“We have at least one of these going at any time now,” he says, meaning funerals for overdose deaths. “It’s that bad.”

As the rain picks up, the mourners scoot into their trucks with their beverages and drive off. No returnable deposits for me on this Day of Our Lord.

I put the urn into its hole in the same plot as the deceased man’s infant daughter. Yes, this place is a veritable garden of sorrow. Read more »

by Martin Butler

What do people want? Not such a simple question as it seems. Tom Turcich, the guy who recently walked around the world passing through 38 countries over seven years, claimed that from what he had experienced people just want to make a little money and hang out with their families, which sounds like a fairly hopeful conclusion, though we mustn’t forget that this was clearly not enough for Tom himself. If true, this simple answer leads on to other important questions. If most people have such modest wants, why would they care about the big political and ethical questions that philosophers agonise about? Might it be the case that equality, human rights, democratic representation and so on are pretty much beside the point for the majority? Why would those with a good enough life need to bother with such wider issues? We need to remember here that, historically, political ideals took off as real issues only when they entered people’s everyday lives rather than as abstract ideals debated by the intellectual few. The important struggles of the past – and present – have been prompted when people, or at least significant groups of them, were unable to enjoy an adequately resourced and secure life with their families which was not dependent on the whim of those in positions of power. So there certainly is a very clear connection between the modest wants that Tom Turcich identifies and the big political questions. He draws the conclusion that while people are on the whole good, he can’t say the same for the systems they often live under.

With the advent of mass media and the internet in particular our whole landscape has changed dramatically. For most of history the vast majority of people lived essentially local lives with little or no knowledge of a wider world picture. Now we  can know of the sufferings of people on the other side of the world as easily as we can the goings on in the next street or village, in fact often more easily. We can gain a sophisticated grasp of the latest scientific information on climate breakdown and the many other negative effects of humanity on the environment. The distinction between our own personal concerns and those issues which might be regarded as more remote and abstract becomes increasingly blurred. Read more »

by Ada Bronowski

It is a truth Disneylandly acknowledged that ‘when the world turns its back on you, you turn your back on the world’. A famous piece of advice given by the little meerkat from The Lion King encapsulates a philosophy that grounds not only the destinies of all the great Disney heroes, from the little mermaid to Pocahontas, but also a certain idea of the Good as a secret garden to be cultivated contra mundum, against and despite the world (and which eventually shall flourish and change it). An idea that perhaps above all others is losing its meaning for the vast majority of us today not only out of wild-capitalist callousness as from a basic instinct for survival which prefers to that Disney catchphrase, another old cartoon chestnut: ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’.

In a recent act of defiance, a French comedian, Blanche Gardin, whose award-winning one-woman shows have enshrined as one of the most fearless and successful straight-talking satirists of our times (and whom American audiences might have heard of by way of her indelible support and relationship with comedian Louis C.K.), stoked the embers of this dying idea. She publicly and provocatively turned down a job-offer from the TV platform Amazon Prime because the cachet was too high. This rebellious feat of virtue goes far beyond the rebuffing of a job. Gardin rebukes thereby a whole system, our world as it has become, in which big bucks flow senselessly for a select circle with no relation whatsoever with the real life of most people. She received a great deal of backlash from the ‘other side’, those who joined ‘em. If there is nobility in Gardin’s gesture, and if indeed it comes from a certain idea(l) of the Good, it is also suffused with the puritanical fire that Disney fantasies help keep alive but which only in fantasy worlds seem to yield happy endings. Read more »

When Bach was a Busker in Brandenburg

When Bach was a busker playing for humble coin
he’d set up his organ in the middle of a square
regardless of pigeons, ignoring the squirrels who sat
poised at its edges waiting for their daily bread
and work to build its impossible structure of intricacies,
assembling its pipes from the scaffold of arpeggios
of his baroque means, setting its stops and starts,
its necessary rests and quick resumptions,
seeing in his mind’s-eye each note to come
as he’d placed them just so on paper at his desk,
simultaneously hearing them as he knew they’d resonate
against eardrums in potential cathedrals of brains
even before a key was touched,
even before a bow was raised,
even before a slender column of breath
was blown into a flute, or tympani troubled the air,
he’d hear them as he saw them, strung
along a horizontal lattice of five lines
following the lead limits of a cleft,
soaring between and around each other
darting out, in and through, climbing, diving,
making unexpected lateral runs between boundaries,
touching sometimes the edge of chaos but
never veering there, understanding the limits of all,
so that now, having prepped for his street-corner concerto,
this then unknown would descend from his scaffold and share
with the ordinary world how a tuned mind works
in harvesting song from a universe of stars,
collecting their sweet sap, distilling it into a sonic portrait
of a universe that forever lies within the looped
horizon of things.

Jim Culleny, 2/22/22

by Mike O’Brien

I’ve spent the last month-and-some at my favourite pastoral retreat, a family cottage in eastern Ontario. Sitting among the trees and moss and overlooking a lake, it has many of the elements that might make for the ideal antidote to urban nuisances. Except that, with the increasing suburbanisation and peri-urbanisation of previously quaint quarters, the nuisances come to you. Usually on an overpowered boat or, God help me, rented jet-skis. Still, a province half-full of ill-raised barbarians isn’t enough to completely sap the salving powers of starry nights, intriguing critters and lush forests. While this physical environment does wonders for my mind and mood, better yet are the effects of the psychic environment that I create for myself when I am there. The change of location is an occasion to commit to a change of routine, chiefly a disconnection from the constant flow of digital information that usually attends my day. I read books at the cottage not because I don’t have books at home, but because I don’t read them there; instead I read the latest articles, listen to the latest podcasts, and watch the latest videos from dozens of sources.

I could just as easily continue to follow these patterns of consumption in cottage country. Despite what I like to tell people, I do in fact have internet access there (“I won’t use the internet” is close enough to “I can’t use the internet” to serve as not-too-dishonest explanation for why people should not expect me to know about or do about things during this period). Some years ago, line-of-sight wireless transmitter/receivers were installed around the lake, providing internet access to any household that wished to invest the money and bother required to install their own mast. Our household has not bothered to do so, but we are not embargoed from the world of instant information. Instead, the internet arrives through cellphones and janky assemblages of mobile hot-spots and USB cables. Read more »

Jesus Rafael de Soto. Penetrable, at Olana State Historical Site, New York.

Kinetic sculpture.

More here, here, and here.

by Rebecca Baumgartner

In the Black Mirror episode “Be Right Back” (2013), two romantic partners, Martha and Ash, move into Ash’s childhood home together. As they’re settling in for their first night in their new home, Ash finds a photo of himself as a little boy, one of the few left out after his mom had removed all the photos of Ash’s dad and brother after their deaths. “She just left this one here,” he says, “her only boy, giving her a fake smile.”

Martha says, “She didn’t know it was fake.”

“Maybe that makes it worse,” Ash says.

This theme – knowing how to tell what’s authentic and what’s not, the ability to understand the difference between performance and reality – is what the episode proceeds to dig into.

As it turns out, Ash dies in a car accident the day following that conversation. Martha is devastated and heartbroken. At his funeral, a friend says to her, “I can sign you up to something that helps…It will let you speak to him.” This turns out to be an AI service that culls data from a deceased person’s online posts to create a chatbot that can interact with users in the voice and style of the deceased person. The more active the deceased had been on social media, the better the data set, and the more true to life the chatbot will be. “The more it has, the more it’s him,” the friend explains. Initially, of course, Martha is horrified and insulted by the idea.

“It won’t be him,” she protests.

“No, it’s not,” her friend admits. “But it helps.” Read more »