Battle of the Bay: A mild argument that ends with mint lemonade

By: | May 20, 2022

Helen and I argued about the Bay Area back in 2017. I mostly love it, she mostly does not. So, how have I not been there since late 2019?! (You know how.) I’m going back this weekend and I’ll see how the 2022 Bay compares to my happy memories and/or Helen’s less happy ones.

*

Cameron: Dear Helen, the last time I saw you was in Berkeley, and it was 2012 (really that long ago?!) and you were sad. You said you hated Northern California, and then I was sad, because I love it. And so I also knew I wouldn’t see you last month at WCSJ in San Francisco. I missed you! So let’s argue about it.

Helen: Oh man, that 2012 trip was truly, epically bad. Except for the part where I got to see you. I just reread my journal for that weekend to make sure I remembered the full terribleness. It included: being cold all the freaking time, because why is it always so dang cold indoors in California; losing my phone; and having my Kindle stolen right out of my hands. I was sitting there looking at it, and suddenly this pair of hands appeared in front of me and it was gone. And I didn’t feel like I got much out of the narrative journalism conference that we were there for. I already didn’t like Northern California, and that weekend was really the nail in the coffin. I don’t think I’ve been back since.

Cameron: I go there a lot. I grew up there, and a lot of my favorite people still live there. And I just–I don’t know–I just love it. I feel happy once you can see the Bay (at least, after the traffic–so I feel happy once we get on 580). I love it when the fog rolls in, I love cold days hiking in the hills and walking in Berkeley neighborhoods to look at wisteria and persimmons and beautiful old houses. I love all of my funny memories of high school in Oakland, and all those memories seem very close to the surface because many of the places I associate with them are still there (while most of the associated angst is gone). I love eating, and there are so many good places to eat. And I just love people there. I had such a good time being on BART and watching people and watching them watch each other.

Maybe some of this love is because then I get to leave–some things that might be annoying (like BART) if you live there can be funny when you don’t have to deal with it every day.  But you lived there, too, didn’t you? You don’t feel nostalgic when you go back?

Helen: Aw, now I feel like a mean old grumpypants! Hating your beloved Bay Area! I did live there, yeah. I was at Stanford for two years, which is down the peninsula from San Francisco an hour or so, then a year in Santa Cruz, which is on the north side of Monterey Bay. I imagine I’d feel all pleasant and nostalgic if I went back to either of those places. I liked those tall palm trees at Stanford, and the barking sea lions that I could hear from my desk at Santa Cruz. When I was in grad school, I used to love going up to San Francisco for parties. There were lots of exciting people. I dated a surgical resident for a bit, and later a litigator. A friend of a friend wrote part of a musical about skateboarding, and I recorded some of the songs. It was an exciting time.

But sometime between 2003 and now I fell out of love with all of it. Now when I think of the Bay Area I think of being cold and anxious and everything smelling like pee and pot.

Cameron: Oh no, that sounds awful! I mean, I have memories of things smelling like pee and pot, too. They’re just lots of other smells in there, too. Jasmine at night, wet conifers, eucalyptus, patchouli, Zachary’s pizza, bay leaves, Cheeseboard pizza, morning-after-the-party beer smell, high school gym smell, Fondue Fred’s fondue smell, chaparral smell, Arizmendi Bakery pizza smell. I’m noticing a hot cheese theme here.

I was going to look up something about smells and memory, to see if we could somehow realign your smell memory so you could safely travel to Northern California, but look what I found: an article you wrote on this very subject! So I don’t have to tell you that some researchers have found that the formation of smell-related memories peak around age five, even though visual and verbal cues tend to trigger memories from our teens and twenties.

Maybe instead of trying to convince you about Northern California, you and I should just go into a time machine, and we can be five, and I can take you to lots of fun places in the East Bay. Children’s Fairyland, the Adventure Playground, the big concrete slides at the Cordornices Park and the one behind Chabot School. There’d be all sorts of things we could smell there.

Helen: Oh my goodness. I remember writing that story–it was really interesting! I would absolutely time travel with you back to Northern California at age 5.

I’ve been thinking – the times I’ve gone back to the Bay Area in the last decade have mostly involved the neighborhood around the conference center in San Francisco, which is completely charmless, and my ex-boyfriend’s godfather’s house in Berkeley, which was cold and where I was always nervous about whether his family liked me. And having my stupid Kindle stolen shook me up a surprising amount.

If I think back to my 20s…I did really like Stanford and Santa Cruz. But I was always cold. People seem to think the weather is a plus in California, but I hated how I couldn’t just wear a sundress on a nice day, because the temperature would drop so much after sunset that I’d need sweatpants and a fleece. I never did figure out how to dress. And the buildings are underinsulated. And the extreme differences in income seem particularly noticeable in the Bay Area. And the horrendous commutes.

I feel like this is really a Bay Area problem I have, by the way. I have spent less time in other parts of Northern California but generally found them quite lovely.

Is there any place you totally hate?

Cameron: I’ve been trying to think—I’m not sure about whole towns, there are several hostels that I have very negative feelings about. I do not like it when places are oppressively hot. But you know, the only time I’ve been to DC, I️ didn’t love it, and it wasn’t even that hot. It was a traveling companion mismatch plus exhaustion. The only things I️ remember are going to the new (at the time) Holocaust museum and successfully using my fake ID at a bar in Georgetown. What do you think–should we arrange a good-memory exchange of our home bases?

Helen: Yes please! Hating my town is basically a national pastime, and I just love it here. And we’ll serve you alcohol! No fake IDs required!

Cameron: And then maybe we can visit Ann, or she can come to DC, and we can make mint lemonade, too. (Or maybe mix them together?) We’ll be that much happier, no matter where we are.

—

Image of the Bay Bridge by Flickr user Howard Ignatius under Creative Commons license

Carcass Cam

By: | May 18, 2022

This winter, having resolved to become better acquainted with our wild neighbors, I bought a trail camera. We’d been renting a cabin along a creek in the Arkansas Valley, and mink and foxes occasionally scuttled past our sliding backdoor. Who knew what other faunal wonders were traversing the property under cover of darkness? When I strapped the camera — a CamPark T20, for the curious — to the picnic table in our yard, however, I captured nothing more exotic than rabbits:

Fortunately, I didn’t have to search far to find a more target-rich environment. Our neighborhood abuts the San Isabel National Forest, and, soon after we moved to the valley, Elise had stumbled upon a bizarre mule-deer graveyard on a forest road a mile from our house. Scattered morsels of ungulate — tufts of hair, bleached scapulae, disembodied hooves — carpeted the floor of a piney draw near the road. Who, exactly, used this gruesome glade as a dumpsite wasn’t clear: Hunters dropped carcasses there in the fall, presumably, and highway maintenance personnel likely disposed roadkill year-round. (A fresh carcass seemed to turn up once a week.) Whatever its provenance, the muley graveyard was obviously a prime place for a wildlife camera. I resolved to document our local necrobiome, the cast of creaturely characters that congregated around the dead.

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Science Metaphors: Caustics

By: | May 16, 2022

That photo there was a lucky shot. I was sitting on the couch minding my own business and looked up, and the sunlight had hit the glass vase and the water in it and had gone nuts with optics. It went right through the tulip petals so that for me, sitting there, they were translucent — which is Latin for, light went right through them. It made reflections on the dish of the trees outside the window. And then the light got fancy and made those brilliant streaks. They’re called caustics.

Caustics aren’t really what the title says, a science metaphor, a word whose meaning in science is a metaphor that inadvertently helps us poor beings live our lives — like tidal locking, or resonance, or scale mismatch. But the word, “caustics,” is pretty and a little poetic; so the title not so much a lie as an extrapolation of metaphor into general poetry.

Caustic is kaustikos, Greek for burning. I’ll bet where that bright streak hit the table, the wood was warm. Acid is caustic, humor can be caustic; both burn.

You’ve seen caustics. They’re the brilliant streaks flashing around on the bottoms of swimming pools and shallow rivers. Light at sundown during dinner goes through a wine glass and makes a caustic on the table. And astonishingly, caustics are out in space. I’ll get to that in a minute.

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The Scarlet Letters

By: | May 13, 2022

This essay originally ran in 2011. Back then, the Hubble Space Telescope was the exemplar of non-Earth astronomical observation. Its successor, the James Webb Space Telescope, launched in December 2021. This anecdote, however, might be timeless.

In 1984, David Soderblom was a new hire at the Space Telescope Science Institute in Baltimore, and one day he got to thinking. STScI was—and still is—the science and operations center for the Hubble Space Telescope, which was then scheduled to launch in 1986. Soderblom suggested that a memento of some sort be aboard the space shuttle delivering HST into orbit—something, he recently told me, “to tie Hubble the man to Hubble the telescope.”

His first thought was a pipe. In photographs, Hubble always seemed to have a pipe pinched between his teeth, even when observing at the eyepiece of the 200-inch Hale telescope on Palomar Mountain—or at least when posing at the eyepiece. Soderblom contacted Allan Sandage, the onetime assistant of Hubble who, upon Hubble’s debilitating heart attack in 1949 and death in 1953, became his de facto heir at the Mount Wilson and Palomar Observatories (now the Carnegie Observatories) in Pasadena. Sandage told Soderblom he had a better idea. What about the photographic plate with which Hubble had made the discovery that essentially began modern cosmology: that our vast menagerie of stars is not alone but is, as we now know, merely one among billions of galaxies clouding the universe as far as even HST would be able to see?

This anecdote was part of an STScI press release distributed at this past May’s meeting of the American Astronomical Society, in Boston, to accompany a presentation of a series of observations by Hubble-the-telescope commemorating this discovery by Hubble-the-astronomer. But, as Soderblom and I found during a conversation a couple of weeks ago, there’s more to the story.

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loss

By: | May 11, 2022

The pandemic is over. Not really, but according to Delta Airlines and Anthony Fauci and just about everyone else, it seems, it’s time to move on. So one evening, when some friends suggested we meet up for a drink at a dive bar, I went. It was against my better judgment, but like a good little lemming, I wanted to do what everyone else was doing. I did not have a good time. People were too close and too loud and there was no ventilation and I was irrationally annoyed with the people who were having fun.

For the next few days, I was just really fucking angry, and I didn’t know why. It took me about a week to figure it out: I was disappointed with all of us. I didn’t know how we were, yet again, pretending like things were fine when they were not fine. I don’t know what I expected, but in the darkest days of isolation, or when we were marching in the streets, I really believed we’d come out of this a society changed for the better. This is naive, I know; I would’ve called it naive then, too, but I needed the hope to get by. And most of all, I wanted closure. A “COVID is over” parade? A national holiday, where the president would provide words of comfort and encouragement? (I’m thinking the president’s speech in Independence Day, but about microbes, not aliens.) A pizza party? Surely someone smarter than me could figure this out.

But COVID ends with not a bang, but a whimper. There’s no triumphant end, but rather, a brash and unceremonious giving up, all of us throwing up our middle fingers at COVID, as if our exhaustion would make it go away. So many people have lost so much, and yet, there’s no time, space, or money to process it. There’s been no public acknowledgment, no memorial.

One night, I couldn’t stay asleep. Around 2am, I started thinking about loss — the losses my friends and all the people I’ve interviewed over the last two years have sustained, all the turns of phrase in our language around losing things. I wrote down everything that came to mind in a note on my phone, and this is the (unedited) result.

loss

lose your parent
lose your grandparent
lose your child
lose your pet
lose your job
lose control
lose your mind
loser
lose the story
lose face
lose the weight
lose it
lose faith
lose your nerve
lose patience
lose your keys
lose an hour
lose yourself
lose your shirt
lose your lunch
lose your touch
lose touch
lose it
lose your temper
lose out
lose your bearings
lose your cool
lose your footing
lose your marbles
lose your train of thought
lose track of time
lose sleep over it
lose the plot
lose the thread
lose touch with reality
lose your way
lose count
lose your appetite
lose your home
lose your place

Photo credit: Pixabay

FAQ

By: | May 9, 2022

1. Why should I choose an Exo™?

Think about the costs imposed by your fragile organic body. Just one single aspect of its care and upkeep – sleep – steals 8 in every 24 hours of your precious life. And that’s just time – what about the money you have to spend on a bed, pillows, sheets? You even need special clothes! Life is just an endless drain of time and money: we spend an average of one hour a day chewing food and defecating it out again. That’s extra 7 hours a week you could be doing literally anything else. Let’s not even talk about basic upkeep: shaving, showering, skincare, makeup, hair care. The bathroom where that takes place. The water. The towels!

Now imagine the end of all that. You are free to live your best life in a body that is maintenance-free, disease-free, never hungry, never tired, strong, unbreakable and beautiful.

2. Why is it so expensive?

We’ve all seen the headlines – “You could buy a used 747 for the money you spend on an Exo™“. But what about the money you spend maintaining that organic body? Now multiply that by several decades. Also add routine doctor’s appointments, surprise medical bills, the gym membership, water, heat and a big expensive house. And no one likes to admit it, but like that 747, the organic body loses value as you age.

Now consider that the cost of keeping your Exo™ in perfect condition and updated with the latest bells and whistles is completely included in the price.**

We haven’t even talked about what happens to a mind freed of an organic body. Imagine a brain that doesn’t age, doesn’t wander, doesn’t get distracted by bodily concerns. Our EX/On GPUs and custom EXOMAXX processors, interfaced with our Organic EXOIntelligence® integration lace, will optimise and supercharge your meat brain for maximum performance 24 hours a day. You will have access to limitless stored memories on demand, and precision algorithms will identify the situations for their optimal deployment.

And sure: if you were paying up front, while the price is reasonable, it would still be unaffordable. But there’s a reason our motto is Exo™ is for Everyone. Financing an Exo™ is as easy as financing a new phone: your contract lets you pay a monthly fee you’ll find surprisingly affordable – especially with your new supercharged earning power. Your side hustle just became your second main hustle!  

3. Why can’t I get a second hand Exo™?

There’s no such thing as a second-hand Exo™ for the same reason there are no second hand bodies! Your Exo™is tailored to your nervous system, and yours alone. 

4. I’ve heard the extraction process is painful.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. Just ask our (EXOtremely satisfied) customers. 

There’s a reason our Extraction Centers have a perfect 5-star rating on every review platform. The 5-star customer experience starts before you’re even using your Exo™. Many people like to spend their last night as an organic in one of our opulent suites with friends to celebrate their extraction in style [not included with basic package]. Afterwards, you’ll simply go to sleep as normal, while technicians mist the room with our proprietary anaesthetic. 

In the operating theatre, our highly skilled human surgical team, guided by the EXOBOT you’ve read so much about, will use a proprietary diamond laser knife to remove the skull. EXOBOT then replaces all contacts to the parasympathetic and sympathetic nervous system with Organic EXOIntelligence®  integration lace to wire you into your brand new Exo™. The final step is the brain’s emplacement in your new Exocortex®.

And then you simply… wake up. 

A week of training is usually all it takes for the vast majority of people to become acclimated to their Exo™. It feels exactly like living in an organic body. Wait, sorry – except for the aches and pains! And the fatigue! And the hormonal ups and downs! And the hunger! And the thirst. We could go on, but we think you get the idea.

[*In extremely rare cases the brain cannot adequately adapt its sensory routine to Exo. Contingency plans are enumerated in our Special Claims package.]

5. Are my senses really going to be exactly the same?

Only if you want them to be! The EX/On / EXOMAXX chipset processes all incoming sensory information gathered by your ExosSensors. These can be created as perfect replicas of your own eyes, ears, tongue, and nose. Their interpretation of auditory, olfactory, visual, haptic and taste experience is indistinguishable from your own once your Exo™ is fully booted up. But Exo™ is not limited to humanoid form. Custom sensing options are available, including lateral line sensing, infrared, electroreception and magnetoreception. Custom-built body morphologies are also available for select customers, by special request. 

6. Do I have to stop sleeping? Isn’t that going to be weird?

Our custom chipsets have been designed to take in sensory information and preprocess it in a way that is commensurate with what we now understand to be the role of sleep for the brain. All day long these cleaner processing units will be combing your brain for unnecessary memories and consolidating necessary ones for you. Why would you WANT to sleep?

7. What about people who say the experience of not perceiving warmth and cold is isolating?

A temperature perception modification is available for a fee, but most people find that they get used to the new sensation rather quickly, and grow to like it.

8. What about the reports that some people find it uncomfortable to lose the perception of breathing?

Breathing modifications are also available for a fee, but again, we find that most customers quickly get used to their new normal, and find it superfluous. It’s just a habit.

9. What if I fall behind on my payments?

We offer a wide range of humane options enumerated in our Special Claims package.  

Your Exo™ can be powered down while preserving basic life support functions. This will preserve the suit so that it does not become damaged. We keep the Exo™ in one of our Long Term Storage warehouses for re-awakening when payment is rendered. Your brain will not be connected to any sensory information, but you will be hooked up to a low resolution text interface. You can be in touch with relatives for example to get some funds for payment.

If this is not an option you would refer to pursue we have a work programme where you can pay down your debt. We have very high ratings. Exos who choose this option have really enjoyed it. There are five categories ranging from comfort to military support (<<this is probably too much).

10. What if I want to die?

As your Exo™ is not organic, ‘dying’ and ‘death’ are not preferred terms. We use ‘deprecation’. An Exo™ is an enormous capital outlay, which means we discourage deprecation where we can. In the rare cases when it is necessary, the process is carefully managed. 

Consulates are available in 50 countries to initiate the process of ending your contract and beginning the process. Finance options are available, including joining one of the Contract Fulfilment Centers where many of our customers amass the funds necessary for the deprecation. We’ll be sorry to see you go!

Murmuration: The poetry of the morning walk

By: | May 6, 2022

This post first ran on January 15, 2013, but since then, the New York Times ran a gorgeous photo spread of murmurations that you should definitely check out.

This morning I awoke to the kind of day that offers an easy excuse to skip the walk. The temperature gauge read -3F (-19C) when I crawled out of bed, and by the time I’d finished the tea and hot porridge my husband had prepared, it was still only -1F. But the dogs were eager, the sun was shining, and my day never feels quite right without our morning ritual.

And so we pulled on our snow boots, bundled up and headed out the door. The snow was squeaky cold, and the air had a briskness that put a hustle in our strides. Halfway up the hill to the lookout, a loud ruckus. Dave turned to me. “Stop. Shhhh…” We looked at each other. “Hear that?” A lush symphony of bird song. Starlings, from the sound of it. But where?

We looked skyward. Nothing. Upslope, only a crow in a nearby piñon pine. Then I spotted them in our neighbor’s willow trees down below. Starlings, yes. Hundreds of them. The moment I pointed to them, as if on cue, they rushed skyward in unison. The birds formed a rising crescendo, then swooped down, and then up and across the sky, like a ribbon, wrapping around itself.

If nature has ever produced a more perfect thing than the mesmerizing beauty of this starling swarm, I have yet to encounter it. No other phenomenon has ever stopped me in my tracks quite like this, made me forget everything else in the world except the brief moment of grace unfolding before me.

A flight of starlings in concert is called a murmuration. Murmuration–even the name is poetic.

Scientists aren’t entirely sure why murmurations happen. But they have some theories. Hawks and falcons prey on starlings (and also my chickens this time of year), and one theory holds that murmurations provide a way for starlings to monitor predators. The chaotic, but graceful motion of a murmuration might also help to confuse and deter predators. As a paper published last year explains,

Work in the 1970s showed that starlings in larger groups responded to the presence of a model hawk faster, and recent work has shown that the formation of ‘waves’ in murmurations is linked to reduced predation success by peregrine falcons. Waves propagate away from an attack, and so fluctuations in the local structure are likely also to be efficient in confusing potential predators.

But even more fascinating to me than why they murmurate is how they pull it off. Here, the European Commission-funded project STARFLAG has some answers. Researchers at STARFLAG have studied starlings around Rome and found that birds in the flock don’t worry about all of the hundred or more birds in the flock. Instead, they focus on six or seven of their neighbors and synchronize with them.

Such synchronicity is a sight to behold. If poetry has a physical presence, this is it. Birds, moving this way and then—suddenly—that. Up, and then down and just as you think you have their flight path figured out, they veer here and then there, always with grace and with fluidity.

This morning’s murmuration was unexpected, and then, just like that, it was over. The starlings landed on some juniper trees on the hillside below us and we continued our trek to the lookout. All the while we kept watch on those trees, but the starlings remained motionless, at least for the moment. The second swarm didn’t materialize during our walk, but the joy of the murmuration stayed with me throughout the day. As tethered as I was to the virtual world later in the day, I could not escape the connection to the physical environment that I’d formed in those brief minutes of bliss.

*Image courtesy of Andrea Cavagna at the STARFLAG Project.

Where Stories Lie Down

By: | May 4, 2022

In North America, the oldest images put onto rock date back to almost 13,000 BC, deep in the Ice Age. Those types are rare. Most of what you see — phantom-body figures, snakes, lightning bolts, shields, hunting scenes — come from the last handful of millennia, animistic hunter-gatherers and corn-bearing agrarians, the rise of Native America.

Last month I had a new book come out, “Tracing Time: Seasons of Rock Art on the Colorado Plateau” (Torrey House Press 2022). It was my ‘pandemic book’, the thing I wrote during lockdowns when I spent more time with ghosts and serpent gods than I did with living people. After decades of establishing connections in Indigenous and scientific circles, I decided it was time to write about images that, once you start looking, you find all around you, every inhabitable continent scribed and painted with this kind of ancestry.

I live on the Colorado Plateau, a swollen, high-desert landmass pushing up on the Four Corners. Cliffs and boulders are well decorated with rock imagery, what is sometimes called rock writing. If you spend time here, you can’t help seeing it, taken to a panel on a rancher’s land, or pulling off the side of the highway with binoculars, looking up a cliff at a dizzying array of dancers. Who are these people, what were they saying, and what are they saying now? These were the subjects I wrote about in the book.

Rock art can be rubbing, scratching, pecking, painting. A pictograph is painted. In green, red, yellow, and white, you’ll see strokes of big yucca brushes being used a thousand years ago, or sometime a two-hair brush depicting the feathers of a tiny bird. A petroglyph is chipped into the rock, often with a hammerstone and a bone chisel. Sharpened deer leg bones work best. This reveals brighter material underneath, a painstaking process, shoulder against the wall, blowing out dust, pinky fingernail scratching out lodged sand grains. In their day, when they were fresh, these petroglyphs would have popped like neon, as bright and dynamic as any paint.

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