by Claire Chambers

In her provocative, genre-defying book, Funeral Diva (2020), Pamela Sneed declares her intention to write ‘a story about being trapped in a story’. This is Sneed’s metafictional idea that main storylines can fail to capture the full reality. To counter dominant narratives, the author creates a turbulent churn of memoir, poetry, essays, criticism, and commentary about marginalized identities. She includes a prose poem entitled ‘A New Story’ which closes with the hopeful resolution: ‘I am going to write a new story’. Funeral Diva seems to belong to an entirely fresh genre, making readers wonder whether there are other ways to tell stories that haven’t yet been thought of.

To push back against received ideas regarding gay liberation and the AIDS crisis, Sneed highlights whose voices are often left out. She brings together the personal and political, recent history and the contemporary, to explore HIV/AIDS, health inequalities, racial injustice, and the broader struggles of being African American in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. At the heart of Sneed’s narrative is a critical examination of stories – who tells them, how they are told, and the power relations that shape them.

Funeral Diva wasn’t released until late 2020, emerging out of at least ‘fifteen years’ of quiet germination. The volume’s completion was tied to trips Sneed made to Ghana and South Africa, which proved pivotal to her thinking. Also ‘pushing [her] across the finish line’ was the resurfacing of trauma during the Covid-19 pandemic, which echoed the devastation of the AIDS crisis. Read more »

Conway Ginger. Donkey and Man, Standing and Walking. 2023.

Acrylic paint and ink.

More here, and here.

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by Malcolm Murray

There is a strawman factory smack in the middle of the AI risk debate. Given the complexity of AI risk, we are seeing a lot of weak arguments, focusing only on one aspect of AI risk or AI risk management. In fact, AI risk has become a bit of a “strawman factory”, since it is so complex that it is very easy to only zero in on one aspect and knock that down, while neglecting the rest.

The debate over the California AI bill SB-1047 showed how easily these strawmen take over. Andreessen Horowitz was particularly effective at churning out strawmen, such as the idea that the benefits of AI are so great (correct) so that we have a moral reason to ignore the risks (incorrect).

In order to fend off all these strawmen walking around, we can make use of three underappreciated aspects of AI risk and risk management – “the Spectrum”, “the System” and “the Stack”. Let me explain what I mean by those.

The “Spectrum”

Given the complexity of AI risk, it is easy to zero in on one aspect and point out that an AI risk assessment technique would not work there. But this neglects the wide spectrum of AI risks.

The risks to society from AI fall along a wide spectrum and people tend to underestimate how wide it is. The spectrum can be visualized in terms of levels of velocity and uncertainty, i.e. how long it will take a risk to materialize and how uncertain we are about its effects. On one hand, we have risks for which we have high certainty and that are already here, such as bias and discrimination. We know that by default, since AI has been trained on the sum total of human knowledge, and that human knowledge is inherently biased, that the AI models have biased data in their training set.

On the other hand, we have risks such as loss of control risks. Read more »

by Thomas R. Wells

Drug overdose deaths have more than doubled in America in the past 10 years, mainly due to the appearance of Fentanyl and other synthetic opioids. These drugs combine incredible ease of manufacture with potency in tiny amounts and dangerousness (the tiniest miscalculation in dosage makes them deadly).

This continues a general and no longer surprising trend. The global war on drugs has produced a strong selection effect for drugs which are easy to manufacture and smuggle but at the cost of being much more dangerous for consumers. There is no reason to expect this trend to alter. Moreover, Fentanyl leaks – it appears as an additive in all sorts of other illegally bought drugs, like Xanax, surprising and killing consumers who had no idea what they were getting.

The best thing we can do about this – and hence the right thing to do – is to legalise all hard drugs so that consumers have a real choice about the dangers they subject themselves to.

Read more »

by Barbara Fischkin

Objects. Objects. Objects. I need to drop objects into my writing. This advice keeps popping into my brain, as I write a second chapter about my cousin, Bernie Morris. For this writing tip, I credit Sands Hall, a teacher beloved by many. Sands may have worded it differently but in my mind’s eye I hear her saying:  “Objects. Use your objects.”

The placement of objects in fiction, or nonfiction, typically makes sense. A comfortable chair is usually placed in a corner and adorned with a throw pillow. A kitchen counter always has a coffee pot. Objects, however, can do so much more for a piece of writing. Objects illuminate characters. They illuminate the tale itself.

And so, in regard to objects, stay tuned for a martini and a shot of Scotch. They will appear at the symbolic “happy hour” of this piece. Morning is another story, another object is needed. In this case it will be a blue-and-white-striped men’s seersucker robe. The kind one might wear over pajamas—or on its own, on a hot day. Spoiler alert: A children’s version is included.

  Two Seersucker Robes

I am close with several of my first cousins. Cousin Bernie, though, was the only one to visit our family when we lived in Hong Kong, 1989-91. My husband, Jim Mulvaney, was the Asia bureau chief for Newsday, Long Island’s daily newspaper, which then had the foreign bureaus it now lacks. As a former Newsday reporter, I freelanced for a magazine or two, tried to write fiction, and went to a lot (a whole lot) of parties. Parties at over-priced restaurants, parties in luxurious flats, parties on expansive junks sailing the South China Sea, all often financed by rich corporations attempting to distract homesick expat employees. Journalists were often invited, as well. They were more fun. Read more »

99% Identical

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by Angela Starita

During the pandemic, my 11-year-old neighbor, a lonely headstrong child from Bangladesh, came to my place daily. She’d walk right into the house and upstairs to my office once she realized that we rarely locked up in those months of seclusion. At first, I’d encouraged her visits hoping I could help her learn to read in English. Her mother had hoped the same but, no teacher of young children, I soon gave up. Her will to make videos, teach me the right way to make milk tea, and rummage through my makeup was far greater than my will to get this kid educated. She wasn’t my long-term problem, and for that I was relieved.

She began to come by more often, rarely keeping her mask in place, but I never sent her home. She was the youngest of four children, with a 21-year-old brother and two sisters, 19 and 18, who did everything together. They lived in a small, hot apartment on the top floor of a house down the street, so I knew I provided her with a break from her tight living quarters and maybe a lab for testing out new ideas or versions of herself. As for me, she fulfilled some excessive need in to insert myself as “helper” whether needed or not. Once she told me she dreaded getting her period and then having to wear a hijab, a claim I wondered about: was it true or was she looking for my reaction? Another time, she sat at my kitchen table and bemoaned her fate as a girl with a hopelessly backwards family. The issue at stake was her desire to become a “sad song singer” and her family’s dismissal of her dream. “Other girls can be sad song singers, but not in MY family!”

Why a sad song singer, I asked her? Why not a singer…you know, in general? She ignored my irrelevant question to launch a pained soliloquy worthy of a Douglas Sirk heroine while she adjusted my pepper grinder to its finest setting. I returned it the coursest grind and suggested she ask her brother, Abir, if he’d let her take a Bengali dance class I’d found in the neighborhood. No singing involved, but still in the realm of show business, I thought. Again, I was missing the point: she wanted to be like Gogon Sakib, her idol and a first-rate sad song singer. Read more »

by Rafaël Newman

I have always been tall. Or rather, I have been aware of my above-average height since puberty, when freakish physical change kicks in, mischievously, in concert with enhanced self-consciousness. At age 14 I moved with my mother and siblings from the Vancouver suburbs to midtown Toronto, where the students at my new high school, not having witnessed my incremental growth over the past years, promptly dubbed me “Gi-Raf”. Later, at the farther end of teenagerhood, I entered a sports supply store in Paris and immediately banged my head against a bicycle frame suspended from the low ceiling—whereupon the shopkeeper looked up and said reproachfully: Monsieur, vous n’avez pas la taille réglementaire! (“Yours are not the standard dimensions, sir!”) And when, during that same period, my viability as a potential romantic match—at least, as measured by traditional chronology— had become a matter for unabashed public comment, I was so often lauded for my stature by diminutive Ukrainian and Polish relatives that I came to understand height as chief among the Jewish erogenous zones. I had evidently become a paragon of my people!

In this last regard I had had a leg up, as it were. My father, the scion of his émigré Eastern European clan, had chosen his mate not from the large community of similarly transplanted Ostyidden inhabiting his native Montreal, but had instead married the daughter of a non-Jewish German immigrant. Wilhelm Alfred “Franz” Kornpointner—my grandfather-to-be—had been tall and shapely enough as a young man to attract the Weimar-era health authorities, which (according to family legend) commissioned a photo shoot to produce a normative example of Bavarian manhood.

Thus I owed my dimensions to my parents’ exogamous union; and these dimensions, in turn, earned me the attention of my paternal Jewish relatives. Such attention, of course, was not always only pleasant, despite my natural extroversion, since it sometimes seemed to bespeak as much envy as admiration. And, since envy is notoriously the harbinger of occasionally lethal resentment, I would habitually ward off the potential Evil Eye with a peculiar ritual: by re-imagining myself in a series of unflatteringly over-sized or out-of-place roles. Read more »

by R. Passov

Sometimes, when you least expect to, you learn something about your country and the toll it has imposed on certain of its citizens. In ancient times these learnings weren’t so serendipitous. During WWII, for example, you would have known folks on your block who served and came back. And some who didn’t come back.

Even in that near-ancient time of the Vietnam War, likely you would have known folks in both classes. That war, or at least the US involvement, officially lasted about eight years. Over three hundred thousand US service personnel were injured and approximately 50,000 US lives were lost (and countless others.)

The Iraq war also lasted, by some measure, eight years – 2003 to 2011. Over that stretch, about 4,500 US service members made the ultimate sacrifice. Another 45,000 were wounded. (These figures are purposely misleading as they omit approximately the same number of deaths and injuries suffered by ‘contractors.’ I’ll leave this bit of Orwellian misdirection to another day.)

The US involvement in Afghanistan lasted about twenty years. Approximately 2,500 service members gave their lives while ten times that number were injured.

Judging by the ratio of wounded to dead, one was more likely to survive in Afghanistan than in Vietnam, and even more likely than in WWII. This is understandable; we’ve had over fifty years to improve our medical capabilities. But one consequence of advances in medical technology is the violence in war, when measured in such a narrow way, seems less so.

*

“They divorced when I was six,” our Uber drive offered. 

“We were so poor,” he said, “we had chickens because they could feed themselves; what you’d call free range now.” This tinge of snark caused me to look afresh at a big man in a little car, taking us to the airport near Charleston.

“Well we had them for the eggs. And every once in a while we had to eat one. When you’re that poor you figure things out, like how to cook.”

He knew he was a sight and knew, in one way or another, we were going to delve. Like a good Uber driver, he was ready to share his origin story. Read more »

by Eric Feigenbaum

Two of the most frightening words in America: Medical Debt. And this nightmare is not just something you hear as an anecdote or cautionary tale. One in three of the people reading these words are likely to have medical debt.

In 2022 roughly 100 million Americans – almost one-third of the population – were saddled with healthcare debt. Yet, more than 90 percent of Americans have some form of health insurance – because it’s less frequently a problem of being uninsured, but underinsured that puts people behind the eight ball. Unsurprisingly, when a problem is so impactful and pervasive, at least some members of the media turn their attention to it.

ProPublica journalist Marshall Allen has been researching and writing about medical bills for more than 20 years – following up on readers’ emails and exploring their medical debt stories. From hospitals that gouge to insurance that is unknowingly cancelled because a credit card wasn’t processed correctly, the ways Americans find themselves paying for their most difficult, painful and vulnerable moments are innumerable. And for whatever kindness they may have received when getting treatment, the billers and collections agents who follow can be heartless.

As a result, many developed countries hold America up as the model of what they don’t want in a healthcare system. The thinking is that healthcare is a human right, not a luxury.

The problem in the American system isn’t typically the quality of care – we have some of the best medical facilities in the world along with cutting edge treatments and technology. It’s that the patient can’t typically control the costs. In the midst of needing life-saving medical care, neither patient, patient’s family nor medical providers can or should consider cost.

Only when a car accident or heart attack drives the patient $100,000 into debt, something has gone terribly wrong. Read more »

A surprisingly strong cube I made out of staples after seeing this video.

Yes, I am a nerd!

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by Brooks Riley

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by Monte Davis

12+16+16 = 44. We can all agree on that.

44/12 = 3 2/3. Good so far?

That’s all the math needed to ask some  pointed questions about CCS. That stands for carbon capture and storage (or “sequestration”), a technology discussed and explored at pilot-project scale for decades. Its goal is to separate and collect the carbon dioxide from combustion, before it is released into the atmosphere, then put it in very long term storage so it doesn’t contribute to further climate change. So CCS is really CO₂ capture and storage – and the difference between carbon and carbon dioxide is where the arithmetic above comes in.

Carbon’s atomic mass is 12; oxygen’s is 16. (Never mind isotopes.) So combining a carbon atom and two oxygen atoms – combustion — yields a molecular mass for CO₂ of 44… or 3 2/3 times that of the “unburnt” carbon atom. These numbers are ratios, so the math is the same  for any units: completely burn 12 grams of pure carbon, and get 44 grams of CO₂; burn 12 million tons, get 44 million tons of CO₂. Fossil fuels aren’t pure carbon, of course, and combustion rarely burns every bit of what there is, so the emission ratio varies. Coal typically yields 2.1 times its mass in CO₂; firewood, 1.6 to 1.8 times; gasoline, 2.3 times; natural gas, about 2.8 times.

Pause here, because this is deeply counterintuitive – so deeply that we don’t realize it. We’ve had chemistry for a few centuries, arithmetic for millennia. But we’ve been using fire deliberately for a million or two years, seeing the aftermath of wildfire for much longer. All that experience taught us in our bones that the ashes always weigh less than the fuel did. As for the smoke – why, just look at it! Any hominid can see that it weighs nothing at all!

Because CO₂ swirls invisibly away with that smoke, and soon mixes with the air and dissipates, we’ve learned only in the latest eyeblink of time to account for all the combustion products. It takes an effort to grasp that CO₂ is as much “ash” as the gray powder in the fireplace – ash that weighs more than the logs we burned. The 15 gallons of gasoline in your car’s tank weigh about 100 pounds. When it’s gone, you’ve made a present to the world of about 230 pounds of carbon dioxide, along with much smaller quantities of carbon monoxide, benzene, 1,3-butadiene, etc. Read more »

Sughra Raza. Untitled. June, 2014.

Digital photograph.

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