by Adele A. Wilby

Many decades ago, I was fortunate to have had the opportunity of living in India for several years. I was enthralled by that country: its cultural richness; the environment; the food, but most of all the friendliness and warm hospitality of its diverse people. There were, of course, issues that confounded me and stark contradictions stared back at me from many directions, but of particular concern was the scale of the poverty amongst vast sections of the population, an issue that visited me at home frequently. A small begging community gathered regularly at my front gate, hungry and calling out for food. As my knowledge of the Indian social structure deepened, I came to understand that these people belonged to the most oppressed castes in Indian society and not only they, but a multitude of others were living in poverty, and with hunger.

Jean-Martin Bauer’s book The New Breadline: Hunger and Hope in the 21^st Century addresses those very issues of social oppression and politics also that create the condition of hunger for millions of people across the globe. He is well placed to author such a book. With twenty years of experience with the United Nations World Food Programme and now Country Director of the programme in Haiti, Bauer brings to the book a wealth of experience in humanitarian work to alleviate hunger in West Africa, Syria, Iraq and Central Africa, and now in his home country of Haiti.

Bauer tells us that fewer people than ever starve in the world today thanks to technological progress and the creation of systems to bring food aid to people. Indeed, at the turn of the 21^st century the success in winning the battle against hunger was so encouraging the world’s governments publicly committed to eliminating hunger by 2030. That aspirational deadline however appears to have been kicked into the grass as tragically in 2023 it is estimated that 250 million people still faced acute hunger, double the number in 2020. Read more »

by Steve Szilagyi

“Body and spirit are twins. God only knows which is which” –Algernon Swinburne

When I was ten or eleven, the Great Geauga County Fair still displayed what it called human oddities (the term Freak Show had fallen from use by that time). These included the Lizard Man, the Human Pincushion, and the Fat Lady. All were pictured in large paintings outside their tents. The Fat Lady’s picture might have come from the brush of Fernando Botero, the Colombian painter and sculptor who made a career out of depicting round and puffy men, women, and animals. But the real Fat Lady did not look like that at all.

“Ask me anything,” she said, as my brother and I stood before her, staring. An electric fan rippled the hem of her simple cotton dress in the late August heat. She must have been in her 30s, pink-cheeked, with massive calves. Her eyes stared past us, and her voice was flat.

My brother and I could think of nothing to ask. Even as ten and eleven-year-olds, we felt nothing but pity for this woman. She was not one of those people who are “big-boned” but a slight person who was carrying too much weight. There were romance magazines (so many!) piled at her feet, suggesting that she had a rich imaginative life.

We also felt kind of cheated. The Fat Lady was not a legitimate “other” like the Lizard Man, her neighbor in the tent next door. The Lizard Man had black, cracked skin, and stumps for arms and legs. He wore a porkpie hat, sunglasses, and satin shorts. “Hit the Road Jack” trilled from the transistor radio by his head. We thought he was cool. The Fat Lady might have been one of our country aunts if she’d eaten too many of her own apple and pumpkin pies.

The Lizard Man couldn’t help what he was. But all the Fat Lady had to do was lose some weight, and she’d be outside the tent with us—a regular person. Of course, it’s not that easy. We all know that the extent to which the obese are responsible for their condition is a topic of hot controversy. Read more »

by Mike Bendzela

I begin writing this essay the morning after dumping into the woods the sixth porcupine I have had to kill this growing season. It used to be that I would not see any evidence of porcupine damage in my apple trees until early August, but this year I began seeing chewed-off branches in late June. As with other ecological aberrations, it’s tempting to attribute the early arrival of porcupines in the orchard to a warming planet: We experienced a preternaturally early heatwave in mid-June in Maine, breaching 90 degrees on the 19th. Then it shot up to 96 degrees on the 20th, which is just weird. It stayed so hot through July that my onions and potatoes stopped growing and my broccoli failed to head up. All apple varieties are at least a week ahead of schedule this year. In the midst of this, I had to start my weekly scouting ritual extra early, going out into the orchard after midnight with a .22 pistol to deal with spiny rodents in the trees.

Why even shoot porcupines out of trees? It is undoubtedly a despicable practice, and I hate guns, but I can find no way around it. Porcupines love apple trees, and if left to themselves they will chew bark, branches and fruit until the trees are denuded of apples and permanently damaged. Then the well-fed porcupines will produce porcupettes, who will return to the orchard next season to continue the damage.

“Damage” is a matter of perspective. The porcupines are just doing what porcupines do — eat trees. They are rodents, with long, curving claws and incisors that continue to grow throughout their lives. The teeth are orange because they are literally iron-fortified. The animals can gnaw branches right off the trees and then descend to the ground to take bites out of apples. Sometimes they stay in the tree and go from apple-to-apple, gnawing and chewing. The damage they do is often shocking, but they are only doing to the trees what we humans do to lobsters — tear them to shreds and eat them. Read more »

Interior wall in the very high-ceilinged lobby of the Munich airport Hilton, showing some of the rooms.

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by Brooks Riley

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by Mindy Clegg

This month’s post might be shorter than usual, as the semester kicks off next week. I do want to address a couple of things going into the final stretch of the election season. Some historians and scholars have long debated what matters most, the zeitgeist (or vibes as the kids would have it) or materialist view of historical change. But is it really either-or? Let’s take the upcoming election in November. Many have noticed that there has been a change in feeling these last few weeks. At least some of that is embedded in the material conditions happening in the world, such as improvements in the economy, strong job numbers, and rising wages. Stories that explicate the zeitgeist matter, but so do outcomes, as we can see with the Star Trek: Deep Space Nine story “Past Tense.” If there is a vibe change, it’s not just down to attitudes, but the material conditions in which we find ourselves. So, let’s look at the changing vibes of the election.

It’s important to keep in mind that humans love a good story. I would even argue (following the thinking of the late Sir Terry Pratchett) that our love of stories is what makes us human.

Stories can help us to better understand the deeply complicated world in which we find ourselves. A good set of stories can give us shared meaning and direction. It can cement ties between people and move us to make change for the better. The Harris-Walz campaign has seemingly harnessed the power of story in that manner. Both have a compelling background that most of us can connect with, grounded in both struggles and opportunities. They seem entirely relatable, human, approachable. Much like in the year 2000, many people embraced George W. Bush because some voters thought they’d like to have a beer at the local bar with him (despite Bush being someone in recovery from alcoholism-something also rather relatable). While Harris reflects an ambitious career-driven woman from a middle class background, Walz embodies strong mid-west dad vibes. We got some of that from their DNC speeches. Read more »

Chakaia Booker. Romantic Repulsive, 2019.

” The artist first emerged in the early 1990s, creating striking outdoor public sculptures made from discarded industrial materials, namely rubber tires, which she transformed through a laborious process of machine and physical labor, into sensual, tendril-filled, texture-rich sculptures. In 2000, she garnered international attention for It’s So Hard to Be Green (2000), a massive wall-hung tire sculpture featured in that year’s Whitney Biennial. After those early critical murmurs and rumblings, things got quieter, and for the majority of the past two decades Booker has plied her trade largely outside of the limelight.”

Until more recently.

More here, here, and here.

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by Richard Farr

I will use this column to defend myself against the accusation, first made by my surgical assistant Mr. Alan Turing, that I was negligent in the death of an individual under my medical care. Or, as one armchair prosecutor has said, that I am “a stereotypically British sentimentalist who thinks dogs are more human than people.” The story is an ugly one but the facts are straightforward.

It was about 3 AM on a winter’s night in the small town of ________ . The only other neurosurgeon in the area had become “too ill to travel home” while vacationing on Maui. (From her voice message I was immediately able to diagnose Margarita Syndrome, with possibly an enlarged Piña Colada.) Anyway I was the only sawbones available when the call came in: CODE BLUE, DOC. ROAD ACCIDENT. FOUR VICTIMS WITH HEAD INJURIES. WAKEY WAKEY. 

In my line of work you don’t shock easily, but I was about to have the most disturbing night of my life.

I should pause here to explain an important background detail. Turing, who had sent the message, was only moonlighting at the hospital. He was a quick learner for sure, if a bit of an oddball, and his daytime preoccupation (I hesitate to call it an occupation) was a Ph.D. in computational philosophy, whatever that is. He was competent enough; I only wished he wouldn’t keep urging me to read his draft material, which I found either impenetrably technical or else a jocose, badly written muddle. One particular essai of the latter kind turns out to be somewhat relevant to the ludicrous stand he has taken in the present matter. It begins with the arresting first sentence: I propose to consider the question, “Can machines think?” and progresses only pages later to the blithely contradictory The original question, “Can machines think?” I believe to be too meaningless to deserve discussion. (“Fascinating,” I said, hoping that was diplomatic enough.) Read more »

by Katalin Balog

It may be that we have become so feckless as a people that we no longer care how things do work, but only what kind of quick, easy outer impression they give. If so, there is little hope for our cities or probably for much else in our society. But I do not think this is so. —Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, 1961

(Apology)

There is a beautiful garden in a quiet tree-lined street in Manhattan’s Little Italy. There are rows of flower, lush, abundant and slightly wild, a stone balcony you can imagine Romeo climbing up to, stone balustrades, several lions, one with climbing vines adorning his face, a sphynx, various other statues, a copy of a Hermes medallion from the late antiquity, a fig tree and a hydrangea tree,  giant shady pear trees, and many small hidden paths that lead to gazebos and intimate garden spaces. People in the garden sit and while the time or read by a little table. In a very small space, Elizabeth Street Garden has been able to replicate the richness of life, spaciousness of spirit, the magnanimity and dedication to beauty of the best Italian gardens. It is one of the truly great places in NYC. But after 12 years of struggle between the city and garden advocates, on June 18, 2024, the New York State Court of Appeals ruled six to one that the City of New York could destroy it to build a mix of affordable housing, luxury retail and office space in its place. In a Hail Mary pass, Martine Scorsese, Robert de Niro and Patti Smith wrote their own letters to the Mayor, imploring him to, in Smith’s words, “grant a stay of execution of the Elizabeth Street Garden”.

The quirky, beautiful, art-filled space is the creation of long-time neighborhood denizen and outsider artist Allen Reiver who leased a blighted city-owned site in 1991 and filled it with greenery, architectural elements and neoclassical statuary from his own collection as an antique’s dealer. His son Joseph, who worked with his father on creating the Garden, and who is now its executive director, has kept it – with the help of an army of volunteers – open for all and busy with concerts, poetry readings, movie nights, art exhibits, performances, yoga and gardening. With 200,000 annual visitors and hordes of devoted neighborhood regulars, the Elizabeth Street Garden should be designated a New York Landmark. But instead, it is in a life and death struggle to survive.

One might wonder if the imperative to build more affordable housing just might outweigh the neighborhood’s sentimental attachment to this magical space. The call for bold action on housing in the city and in the country is amply justified. And yet… it is not true that we should build absolutely everywhere we possibly can. In a neighborhood and city that is steadily losing its edge and character, there is a case to be made that such decisions need to be tempered by sensitivity to the organic quality of life in a neighborhood, to what it is like to live or work here. Read more »

Before I Entered Time

I’m not blowing smoke, nor am I a sage.
It’s a simple condition:

The universe may as well not have been before;
in fact, “before” did not exist until I entered time.

There’s not one memory I can hang a word upon
before I entered time.

Before was just void, as blank as the sheet of this page
before something keyed this poem’s first “I”
at the beginning.

At this moment I’m somewhere around
“there’s not one memory”, (noted above)
and, by the time I get to “stop”, (likewise noted below),
will there be any words still worth saying,
any word still worth doing?

As I drift from time will there be anything
more than smoke of a doused fire curling up
cycling against gravity —something lighter than air?

But then, will the music stop?

Jim Culleny
8/14/19

by Eric Schenck

Now

It’s a strange thing when your parents get ready to sell your childhood home.

There’s a feeling of excitement at what’s to come. Something good and normal is happening, and after all, home is where you make it. There’s also a feeling of detachment. It doesn’t feel real, in a way, and you know life is about to be “before and after.”

But that’s what’s happening now. We are all going to the house, one final time, for “The Schenck Long Goodbye.”

It starts with a road trip. Noah picks me up at the Boise airport, and the next morning we drive all the way home. When we finally pull into the driveway, I expect the flashbacks, am ready for them.

And now that we’re here for one last hurrah, that’s exactly what starts to happen.

1996

Perhaps my earliest memory is one with my father. 

I’m sitting in the backyard and there are leaves all around me. It feels cold. I can see my dad’s big glasses. He’s laughing. 

Everything is comfort and security. 

Like so much of my childhood viewed as an adult, the memory is more a feeling than a thing. I don’t know exactly what we’re doing, but I know I’m safe. That’s enough.

The house sees this, just as it will see many things. Read more »

Ripening elderberries outside my house.

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by Rebecca Baumgartner

Several years ago, I trudged through a baking hot evening in July to go to my first-ever tennis lesson, offered by my city’s Parks and Rec department. Against a background of lightning bugs, cicadas, and a lingering heat despite the lateness of the hour, I started to learn the basics of tennis. In my mid-30s.

“Do you play racquetball?” the coach asked me after watching a few of my swings.

“Um, I used to, a long time ago.”

“I can tell. You’re swinging like you’re playing racquetball.”

As it turned out, I kept on playing tennis like it was racquetball, had a great time, but eventually decided tennis was not the sport for me (not that I’d been that great at racquetball, either). I finished up the last session and haven’t played tennis since. However, the experience was enjoyable and incontrovertibly worthwhile.

I’m a serial learner and hobbyist. Maybe you’d call it being a dilettante. Over the past 20-odd years, I’ve tried my hand at painting, pickleball, chess, printmaking, rock climbing, fencing, water aerobics, crochet, table tennis, cross-stitch, lacrosse, and the violin. I’ve auditioned for plays despite my complete lack of a theater background, sang in community choirs, joined an improv troupe, and competed in a darts tournament. I’ve dabbled in photography and tried to build fluency in German based on a shaky foundation laid in college. I’ve tried to get competent at the piano based on sporadic lessons I took 25 years ago, an effort that was hampered by not having access to a piano for approximately 23 of those years. When my kid played basketball, I learned the rules by hunching over my computer and squinting at YouTube videos of old NBA games, trying to figure out what foul a player had committed. 

I’ve tried to understand how the brain works, how to read Old English, how to use HTML, and have made precisely one scrapbook. A random book on string theory and biographies of Mozart and Alan Turing expanded my understanding of topics I have no need to know. Most recently, I’ve read everything about Antarctica I can get my hands on, and am currently trying to learn as much as someone without a science degree can learn about radiation and nuclear power. 

Despite the randomness of these activities, and my lack of competence in more than a small number of them, all of these various projects have been enjoyable for their own sake, and all of them have introduced me to a discipline or community of practice that was previously completely unfamiliar to me.  Read more »

by Derek Neal

The Mezzanine by Nicholson Baker is a novel about paying attention. After you read a chapter, you, too, begin paying attention to things you’ve never noticed before.

On my way to work this morning, gliding down quiet, leafy streets in my 2012 Mazda 3 GS-SKY, I noticed a new sign. It was planted in the soil around a tree that had been planted into the sidewalk. In certain cities, this would not have been possible. I’ve noticed that when a tree is planted into the sidewalk, there are three options when it comes to the block of cement that has been replaced by the tree. The most common choice, and the choice that my city has made, is to fill in the square with dirt or mulch.

This was why the sign could be planted there, because there was soft ground in which to insert the two metal rods that held the sign. Another choice is to cover the empty square with a grate. To my mind, this is the sensible choice. If you don’t cover the square, trash and cigarette butts will quickly fill in the square, which will be difficult to remove because you can’t simply sweep them up—the level of the dirt is not flush with the sidewalk, so a sort of divot is created in which trash can collect—instead, a city worker will be forced to pick up the trash with some sort of picking device, or they’ll have to maneuver a dust bin and broom into the square space around the tree, which must be difficult, considering that the dust bin and broom may not fit easily into the square. This is why the grate is the correct choice: it creates a flush seam with the surrounding sidewalk, prevents trash from collecting in the area around the tree, and makes cleaning easier. Read more »

by Brooks Riley

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