## “By analogy, the opening of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities is nothing but a string of short…”

“By analogy, the opening of Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities is nothing but a string of short phrases. Yet no one could contend that this portion of Dickens’ work is unworthy of copyright protection because it can be broken into those shorter constituent components.”

- Judge Kathleen O’Malley compares the short names such as “java.lang.ref” and “java.lang.reflect,” which Oracle uses to name the APIs, to great works of literature - Tech world stunned as court rules Oracle can own APIs, Google loses copyright appeal — Tech News and Analysis
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## The Fugitives (3)

Chapter III: The Mischief Maker
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## ISS HD Earth Viewing Experiment, ISS HD Earth Viewing Experiment…

The High Definition Earth Viewing (HDEV) experiment aboard the ISS was activated April 30, 2014. It is mounted on the External Payload Facility of the European Space Agency’s Columbus module. This experiment includes several commercial HD video cameras aimed at the earth which are enclosed in a pressurized and temperature controlled housing. Video from these cameras is transmitted back to earth and also streamed live on this channel. While the experiment is operational, views will typically sequence though the different cameras. Between camera switches, a gray and then black color slate will briefly appear. Since the ISS is in darkness during part of each orbit, the images will be dark at those times. During periods of loss of signal with the ground or when HDEV is not operating, a gray color slate or previously recorded video may be seen.
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Elected to poetry like a fucking nun with a "vocation."
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## Crazyboat Viral Posters

In 2011, I lead the team that created a viral campaign for Crazyboat, a Facebook-enabled social video game, one of the first in the space. As a part of the release, I made 4 viral campaign posters that echoed the WPA posters of the 1930s and 40s, and put them up around New York and San Francisco.

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## May 11, 2014

May 11, 2014

I woke up this morning, feeling like it was a brand new day, which technically it is, and therefore decided to give up drinking.  Ten minutes into my day, I realize that I was being silly, and a nice glass of vodka and orange juice to get the day properly started.  There is nothing more perfect than a perfect mixture of orange juice and vodka in a glass, with ice of course, and enjoying this magnificent weather with a book of paintings by Jean-Léon Gérôme on my lap, as I try to measure my thoughts in conjunction with how many sips of the drink I am taking at that moment.  The thing I like most about Gérôme’s paintings are the fact that they are really about nothing.  In many ways, I feel like a tourist, in the middle of my vacation, and just letting the world soak up into my liver.

The one artist that I can’t stand, is Salvador Dali.  When I look at his work, I think of him how great he is with the brush, and all that technical crap-trap stuff. Gérôme, just gives the looker the straight news, and doesn’t fuss about how wonderful he is.  To this day, I can’t figure out why Dali is so highly regarded in this world.  The very thought of him makes me feel cranky.  I tossed the Gérôme book on the couch and went to the kitchen to prepare a second glass of my breakfast, and tried to figure what I should do for the rest of the day.  Looking at the weather forecast on my I-Phone, it looks like it will be a horrible week of heat, sweat, and lack of sleeping.  But today is extremely beautiful, and I want to take advantage of the morning light and the mild warmth of the sun.  Therefore I looked up what movies were playing this early afternoon.

For me, the pleasure of perfect weather makes it even more better when you are in a dark movie theater, and seeing your dreams projected on a 35mm projector.  Lucky me, the Cinefamily is showing a retrospective of films starring Kurt Gerron, a German actor, who was famous in the height of the Berlin film world.  He stared in the original Berlin production of “The Three-Penny Opera, singing “Mack The Knife, and was also in “The Blue Angel” with Marlene Dietrich.  Peter Lorre requested him to move to Hollywood, but he refused, and wanted to stay in Europe, which in hindsight, wasn’t that great of an idea, since he was gassed at Auschwitz.  Nevertheless some of his films still exist, and this afternoon they’re going to show “White Slave Traffic” made in Germany in 1926, which by the way is the year that my father was born.

However, before I go, I need to call up Pete, who is in a band that I’m managing called The High Numbers.   Although the band has been around for the last five or so years, I feel that they need to change their name.   I was thinking of The Low Numbers, because most people identify with being in the last of the line, or losing out in the lottery - so therefore I think the change of name would be good.  If I wasn’t managing him and his band, I think Pete and I would be great friends.  But I have a policy in business by not being friends with your client.  I need to have that objective approach at looking at Pete, and I don’t want to fall under the blanket of friendship.  Also I’m having trouble with his latest song “I Can Explain.” I don’t think teenagers want to hear someone explaining something to them. My god the trials of me being me, and therefore a third glass of my daily medicine and then off to the movies.

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## “Yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music. The brief beauty that the player brings into being…”

“Yet how strange a thing is the beauty of music. The brief beauty that the player brings into being transforms a given period of time into pure continuance; it is certain never to be repeated; like the existence of dayflies and other such short-lived creatures, beauty is a perfect abstraction and creation of life itself. Nothing is so similar to life as music.”

- Yukio Mishima (via likeafieldmouse)
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## Mari Sandoz

"Cheyenne Autumn" almost made her famous.
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## The Lost Prince (19)

Frances Hodgson Burnett is best known for her sentimental children’s novels Little Lord Fauntleroy (1885-6), A Little Princess (1905), and The Secret Garden (1911). But HiLoBooks prefers a later Burnett novel: The Lost Prince, a 1915 Ruritanian-style thriller in which two adolescent boys, one of whom is a disabled street urchin called “The Rat,” play a proto-Alternate Reality Game about a revolution in far-off Samavia… which turns into the real thing.

HiLobrow is pleased to serialize The Lost Prince, our first departure from Radium Age science fiction — into adventure fiction. A new installment will appear each week for thirty-one weeks.

ALL INSTALLMENTS SO FAR

***

Chapter 19: “That is One!”

A week had not passed before Marco brought to The Rat in their bedroom an envelope containing a number of slips of paper on each of which was written something.

“This is another part of the game,” he said gravely. “Let us sit down together by the table and study it.”

They sat down and examined what was written on the slips. At the head of each was the name of one of the places with which Marco had connected a face he had sketched. Below were clear and concise directions as to how it was to be reached and the words to be said when each individual was encountered.

“This person is to be found at his stall in the market,” was written of the vacant-faced peasant. “You will first attract his attention by asking the price of something. When he is looking at you, touch your left thumb lightly with the forefinger of your right hand. Then utter in a low distinct tone the words ‘The Lamp is lighted.’ That is all you are to do.”

Sometimes the directions were not quite so simple, but they were all instructions of the same order. The originals of the sketches were to be sought out—always with precaution which should conceal that they were being sought at all, and always in such a manner as would cause an encounter to appear to be mere chance. Then certain words were to be uttered, but always without attracting the attention of any bystander or passer-by.

The boys worked at their task through the entire day. They concentrated all their powers upon it. They wrote and re-wrote—they repeated to each other what they committed to memory as if it were a lesson. Marco worked with the greater ease and more rapidly, because exercise of this order had been his practice and entertainment from his babyhood. The Rat, however, almost kept pace with him, as he had been born with a phenomenal memory and his eagerness and desire were a fury.

But throughout the entire day neither of them once referred to what they were doing as anything but “the game.”

At night, it is true, each found himself lying awake and thinking. It was The Rat who broke the silence from his sofa.

“It is what the messengers of the Secret Party would be ordered to do when they were sent out to give the Sign for the Rising,” he said. “I made that up the first day I invented the party, didn’t I?”

After a third day’s concentration they knew by heart everything given to them to learn. That night Loristan put them through an examination.

“Can you write these things?” he asked, after each had repeated them and emerged safely from all cross-questioning.

Each boy wrote them correctly from memory.

“Write yours in French — in German — in Russian — in Samavian,” Loristan said to Marco.

“All you have told me to do and to learn is part of myself, Father,” Marco said in the end. “It is part of me, as if it were my hand or my eyes — or my heart.”

“I believe that is true,” answered Loristan.

He was pale that night and there was a shadow on his face. His eyes held a great longing as they rested on Marco. It was a yearning which had a sort of dread in it.

Lazarus also did not seem quite himself. He was red instead of pale, and his movements were uncertain and restless. He cleared his throat nervously at intervals and more than once left his chair as if to look for something.

It was almost midnight when Loristan, standing near Marco, put his arm round his shoulders.

“The Game” — he began, and then was silent a few moments while Marco felt his arm tighten its hold. Both Marco and The Rat felt a hard quick beat in their breasts, and, because of this and because the pause seemed long, Marco spoke.

“The Game — yes, Father?” he said.

“The Game is about to give you work to do — both of you,” Loristan answered.

Lazarus cleared his throat and walked to the easel in the corner of the room. But he only changed the position of a piece of drawing-paper on it and then came back.

“In two days you are to go to Paris — as you,” to The Rat, “planned in the game.”

“As I planned?” The Rat barely breathed the words.

“Yes,” answered Loristan. “The instructions you have learned you will carry out. There is no more to be done than to manage to approach certain persons closely enough to be able to utter certain words to them.”

“Only two young strollers whom no man could suspect,” put in Lazarus in an astonishingly rough and shaky voice. “They could pass near the Emperor himself without danger. The young Master —” his voice became so hoarse that he was obligated to clear it loudly — “the young Master must carry himself less finely. It would be well to shuffle a little and slouch as if he were of the common people.”

“Yes,” said The Rat hastily. “He must do that. I can teach him. He holds his head and his shoulders like a gentleman. He must look like a street lad.”

“I will look like one,” said Marco, with determination.

“I will trust you to remind him,” Loristan said to The Rat, and he said it with gravity. “That will be your charge.”

As he had awakened out of his sleep when Lazarus touched him, so he awakened in the middle of the night again. But he was not aroused by a touch. When he opened his eyes he knew it was a look which had penetrated his sleep — a look in the eyes of his father who was standing by his side. In the road outside there was the utter silence he had noticed the night of the Prince’s first visit — the only light was that of the lamp in the street, but he could see Loristan’s face clearly enough to know that the mere intensity of his gaze had awakened him. The Rat was sleeping profoundly. Loristan spoke in Samavian and under his breath.

“Beloved one,” he said. “You are very young. Because I am your father — just at this hour I can feel nothing else. I have trained you for this through all the years of your life. I am proud of your young maturity and strength but — Beloved — you are a child! Can I do this thing!”

For the moment, his face and his voice were scarcely like his own.

He kneeled by the bedside, and, as he did it, Marco half sitting up caught his hand and held it hard against his breast.

“Father, I know!” he cried under his breath also. “It is true. I am a child but am I not a man also? You yourself said it. I always knew that you were teaching me to be one — for some reason. It was my secret that I knew it. I learned well because I never forgot it. And I learned. Did I not?”

He was so eager that he looked more like a boy than ever. But his young strength and courage were splendid to see. Loristan knew him through and through and read every boyish thought of his.

“Yes,” he answered slowly. “You did your part — and now if I — drew back — you would feel that I had failed youfailed you.”

“You!” Marco breathed it proudly. “You could not fail even the weakest thing in the world.”

There was a moment’s silence in which the two pairs of eyes dwelt on each other with the deepest meaning, and then Loristan rose to his feet.

“The end will be all that our hearts most wish,” he said. “To-morrow you may begin the new part of ‘the Game.’ You may go to Paris.”

When the train which was to meet the boat that crossed from Dover to Calais steamed out of the noisy Charing Cross Station, it carried in a third-class carriage two shabby boys. One of them would have been a handsome lad if he had not carried himself slouchingly and walked with a street lad’s careless shuffling gait. The other was a cripple who moved slowly, and apparently with difficulty, on crutches. There was nothing remarkable or picturesque enough about them to attract attention. They sat in the corner of the carriage and neither talked much nor seemed to be particularly interested in the journey or each other. When they went on board the steamer, they were soon lost among the commoner passengers and in fact found for themselves a secluded place which was not advantageous enough to be wanted by any one else.

“What can such a poor-looking pair of lads be going to Paris for?” some one asked his companion.

“Not for pleasure, certainly; perhaps to get work,” was the casual answer.

In the evening they reached Paris, and Marco led the way to a small cafe in a side-street where they got some cheap food. In the same side-street they found a bed they could share for the night in a tiny room over a baker’s shop.

The Rat was too much excited to be ready to go to bed early. He begged Marco to guide him about the brilliant streets. They went slowly along the broad Avenue des Champs Elysées under the lights glittering among the horse-chestnut trees. The Rat’s sharp eyes took it all in — the light of the cafés among the embowering trees, the many carriages rolling by, the people who loitered and laughed or sat at little tables drinking wine and listening to music, the broad stream of life which flowed on to the Arc de Triomphe and back again.

“It’s brighter and clearer than London,” he said to Marco. “The people look as if they were having more fun than they do in England.”

The Place de la Concorde spreading its stately spaces — a world of illumination, movement, and majestic beauty — held him as though by a fascination. He wanted to stand and stare at it, first from one point of view and then from another. It was bigger and more wonderful than he had been able to picture it when Marco had described it to him and told him of the part it had played in the days of the French Revolution when the guillotine had stood in it and the tumbrils had emptied themselves at the foot of its steps.

He stood near the Obelisk a long time without speaking.

“I can see it all happening,” he said at last, and he pulled Marco away.

Before they returned home, they found their way to a large house which stood in a courtyard. In the iron work of the handsome gates which shut it in was wrought a gilded coronet. The gates were closed and the house was not brightly lighted.

They walked past it and round it without speaking, but, when they neared the entrance for the second time, The Rat said in a low tone:

“She is five feet seven, has black hair, a nose with a high bridge, her eyebrows are black and almost meet across it, she has a pale olive skin and holds her head proudly.”

“That is the one,” Marco answered.

They were a week in Paris and each day passed this big house. There were certain hours when great ladies were more likely to go out and come in than they were at others. Marco knew this, and they managed to be within sight of the house or to pass it at these hours. For two days they saw no sign of the person they wished to see, but one morning the gates were thrown open and they saw flowers and palms being taken in.

“She has been away and is coming back,” said Marco. The next day they passed three times — once at the hour when fashionable women drive out to do their shopping, once at the time when afternoon visiting is most likely to begin, and once when the streets were brilliant with lights and the carriages had begun to roll by to dinner-parties and theaters.

Then, as they stood at a little distance from the iron gates, a carriage drove through them and stopped before the big open door which was thrown open by two tall footmen in splendid livery.

“She is coming out,” said The Rat.

They would be able to see her plainly when she came, because the lights over the entrance were so bright.

Marco slipped from under his coat sleeve a carefully made sketch.

He looked at it and The Rat looked at it.

A footman stood erect on each side of the open door. The footman who sat with the coachman had got down and was waiting by the carriage. Marco and The Rat glanced again with furtive haste at the sketch. A handsome woman appeared upon the threshold. She paused and gave some order to the footman who stood on the right. Then she came out in the full light and got into the carriage which drove out of the courtyard and quite near the place where the two boys waited.

When it was gone, Marco drew a long breath as he tore the sketch into very small pieces indeed. He did not throw them away but put them into his pocket.

The Rat drew a long breath also.

“Yes,” he said positively.

“Yes,” said Marco.

When they were safely shut up in their room over the baker’s shop, they discussed the chances of their being able to pass her in such a way as would seem accidental. Two common boys could not enter the courtyard. There was a back entrance for tradespeople and messengers. When she drove, she would always enter her carriage from the same place. Unless she sometimes walked, they could not approach her. What should be done? The thing was difficult. After they had talked some time, The Rat sat and gnawed his nails.

“To-morrow afternoon,” he broke out at last, “we’ll watch and see if her carriage drives in for her — then, when she comes to the door, I’ll go in and begin to beg. The servant will think I’m a foreigner and don’t know what I’m doing. You can come after me to tell me to come away, because you know better than I do that I shall be ordered out. She may be a good-natured woman and listen to us — and you might get near her.”

“We might try it,” Marco answered. “It might work. We will try it.”

The Rat never failed to treat him as his leader. He had begged Loristan to let him come with Marco as his servant, and his servant he had been more than willing to be. When Loristan had said he should be his aide-de-camp, he had felt his trust lifted to a military dignity which uplifted him with it. As his aide-de-camp he must serve him, watch him, obey his lightest wish, make everything easy for him. Sometimes, Marco was troubled by the way in which he insisted on serving him, this queer, once dictatorial and cantankerous lad who had begun by throwing stones at him.

“You must not wait on me,” he said to him. “I must wait upon myself.”

The Rat rather flushed.

“He told me that he would let me come with you as your aide-de camp,” he said. “It — it’s part of the game. It makes things easier if we keep up the game.”

It would have attracted attention if they had spent too much time in the vicinity of the big house. So it happened that the next afternoon the great lady evidently drove out at an hour when they were not watching for her. They were on their way to try if they could carry out their plan, when, as they walked together along the Rue Royale, The Rat suddenly touched Marco’s elbow.

“The carriage stands before the shop with lace in the windows,” he whispered hurriedly.

Marco saw and recognized it at once. The owner had evidently gone into the shop to buy something. This was a better chance than they had hoped for, and, when they approached the carriage itself, they saw that there was another point in their favor. Inside were no less than three beautiful little Pekingese spaniels that looked exactly alike. They were all trying to look out of the window and were pushing against each other. They were so perfect and so pretty that few people passed by without looking at them. What better excuse could two boys have for lingering about a place?

They stopped and, standing a little distance away, began to look at and discuss them and laugh at their excited little antics. Through the shop-window Marco caught a glimpse of the great lady.

“She does not look much interested. She won’t stay long,” he whispered, and added aloud, “that little one is the master. See how he pushes the others aside! He is stronger than the other two, though he is so small.”

“He can snap, too,” said The Rat.

“She is coming now,” warned Marco, and then laughed aloud as if at the Pekingese, which, catching sight of their mistress at the shop-door, began to leap and yelp for joy.

Their mistress herself smiled, and was smiling as Marco drew near her.

“May we look at them, Madame?” he said in French, and, as she made an amiable gesture of acquiescence and moved toward the carriage with him, he spoke a few words, very low but very distinctly, in Russian.

“The Lamp is lighted,” he said.

The Rat was looking at her keenly, but he did not see her face change at all. What he noticed most throughout their journey was that each person to whom they gave the Sign had complete control over his or her countenance, if there were bystanders, and never betrayed by any change of expression that the words meant anything unusual.

The great lady merely went on smiling, and spoke only of the dogs, allowing Marco and himself to look at them through the window of the carriage as the footman opened the door for her to enter.

“They are beautiful little creatures,” Marco said, lifting his cap, and, as the footman turned away, he uttered his few Russian words once more and moved off without even glancing at the lady again.

“That is one!” he said to The Rat that night before they went to sleep, and with a match he burned the scraps of the sketch he had torn and put into his pocket.

NEXT INSTALLMENT | ALL INSTALLMENTS SO FAR

***

READ GORGEOUS PAPERBACKS: HiLoBooks has reissued the following 10 obscure but amazing Radium Age science fiction novels in beautiful print editions: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins, William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, J.D. Beresford’s Goslings, E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man, Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, and Muriel Jaeger’s The Man with Six Senses. For more information, visit the HiLoBooks homepage.

REDISCOVERED BY HILOBOOKS: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague | Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”) | Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt | H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook | Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins | William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land | J.D. Beresford’s Goslings | E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man | Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage | Muriel Jaeger’s The Man With Six Senses | Jack London’s “The Red One” | Philip Francis Nowlan’s Armageddon 2419 A.D. | Homer Eon Flint’s The Devolutionist | W.E.B. DuBois’s “The Comet” | Edgar Rice Burroughs’s The Moon Men | Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland | Sax Rohmer’s “The Zayat Kiss” | Eimar O’Duffy’s King Goshawk and the Birds | Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Lost Prince | Morley Roberts’s The Fugitives | John Buchan’s Huntingtower

ORIGINAL FICTION: HiLobrow has serialized three novels: James Parker’s The Ballad of Cocky The Fox (“a proof-of-concept that serialization can work on the Internet” — The Atlantic); Karinne Keithley Syers’s Linda Linda Linda (which includes original music); and Robert Waldron’s roman à clef The School on the Fens. We also publish original stories and comics. These include: Matthew Battles’s stories “Gita Nova“, “Makes the Man,” “Imago,” “Camera Lucida,” “A Simple Message”, “Children of the Volcano”, “The Gnomon”, “Billable Memories”, “For Provisional Description of Superficial Features”, “The Dogs in the Trees”, “The Sovereignties of Invention”, and “Survivor: The Island of Dr. Moreau”; several of these later appeared in the collection The Sovereignties of Invention | Peggy Nelson’s “Mood Indigo“, “Top Kill Fail“, and “Mercerism” | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Charlie Mitchell’s “A Fantasy Land” | Joshua Glenn’s “The Lawless One”, and the mashup story “Zarathustra vs. Swamp Thing” | Adam McGovern and Paolo Leandri’s Idoru Jones comics | John Holbo’s “Sugarplum Squeampunk” | “Another Corporate Death” (1) and “Another Corporate Death” (2) by Mike Fleisch | Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer and Frank Fiorentino’s graphic novel “The Song of Otto” (excerpt) | “Manoj” and “Josh” by Vijay Balakrishnan | “Verge” by Chris Rossi, and his audio novel Low Priority Hero | EPIC WINS: THE ILIAD (1.408-415) by Flourish Klink | EPIC WINS: THE KALEVALA (3.1-278) by James Parker | EPIC WINS: THE ARGONAUTICA (2.815-834) by Joshua Glenn | EPIC WINS: THE MYTH OF THE ELK by Matthew Battles | TROUBLED SUPERHUMAN CONTEST: Charles Pappas, “The Law” | CATASTROPHE CONTEST: Timothy Raymond, “Hem and the Flood” | TELEPATHY CONTEST: Rachel Ellis Adams, “Fatima, Can You Hear Me?” | OIL SPILL CONTEST: A.E. Smith, “Sound Thinking | LITTLE NEMO CAPTION CONTEST: Joe Lyons, “Necronomicon” | SPOOKY-KOOKY CONTEST: Tucker Cummings, “Well Marbled” | INVENT-A-HERO CONTEST: TG Gibbon, “The Firefly” | FANFICTION CONTEST: Lyette Mercier’s “Sex and the Single Superhero”

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## Amit Singer on 3d reconstruction

Amit Singer just gave a very cool talk at Wisconsin’s Applied Algebra Day.  Slides from a similar talk he gave at ICERM are here.

Briefly:  the problem is to reconstruct an image (so let’s say a function f in L^2(R^3) measuring density, or potential, or whatever) from a bunch of linear 2d projections.  This is what you get when you try to do cryo-EM on molecules of biological origin; you have no control of how the molecules are oriented, so when you pass a beam through them and record the shape of the “shadow” you get, you’re looking at a projection of the molecule in an unknown direction.  But of course you may have 10,000 of the molecules, so you have 10,000 of these (noisy) projections at a bunch of different angles, and one may hope that this is enough information to reconstruct the original 3d shape!

Suppose f’ is one of these projections.  If F is the Fourier transform of f, and F’ the Fourier transform of f’, then F’ is just the restriction of F to some plane through the origin.

So we have the following problem:  there’s a mystery function F on R^3, and we have a bunch of functions F’_1, .. F’_n on R^2 which are restrictions of F to planes, but we don’t know which planes.  How to reconstruct those planes, and F?

Let G = SO(3).  We can set this problem up as an optimization problem over G^n as follows.  We want to find F and g_1, … g_n in G such that F’_i matches the restriction to the xy-plane of g_i F.

But optimizing over G^n is hard — an essentially exponential problem.  So what Singer and his collaborators do is discretize and convexize the problem in a very clever way.  You put a net of L points on S^2; then every rotation is going to induce (after some rounding) a permutation of these points, i.e. an LxL permutation matrix.  What’s more, n rotations just give you n permutations, which is an L x Ln matrix.

But optimizing over permutation matrices has a nice convex relaxation; the convex hull of the permutation matrices is the polytope of doubly stochastic matrices, which is very manageable.  It gets better:  a general permutation of the witness points on the sphere, of course, looks nothing at all like a rotation.  But the fact that a rotation preserves distances means that the corresponding permutation approximately commutes with the LxL covariance matrix of the points; this is a linear condition on the permutation matrices, so we end up optimizing over a linear slice of the doubly stochastic matrices.  And the point is that the difficulty now scales polynomially in n instead of exponentially.  Very nice!  (Of course, you also have to show that the cost function you’re actually optimizing can be made linear in this setup.)

Idle question:  how essential is the discretization?  In other words, is there a way to optimize directly over the convex hull of SO(3)^n, an object I know people like Bernd Sturmfels like to think about?

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## Amit Singer on 3d reconstruction

Amit Singer just gave a very cool talk at Wisconsin’s Applied Algebra Day.  Slides from a similar talk he gave at ICERM are here.

Briefly:  the problem is to reconstruct an image (so let’s say a function f in L^2(R^3) measuring density, or potential, or whatever) from a bunch of linear 2d projections.  This is what you get when you try to do cryo-EM on molecules of biological origin; you have no control of how the molecules are oriented, so when you pass a beam through them and record the shape of the “shadow” you get, you’re looking at a projection of the molecule in an unknown direction.  But of course you may have 10,000 of the molecules, so you have 10,000 of these (noisy) projections at a bunch of different angles, and one may hope that this is enough information to reconstruct the original 3d shape!

Suppose f’ is one of these projections.  If F is the Fourier transform of f, and F’ the Fourier transform of f’, then F’ is just the restriction of F to some plane through the origin.

So we have the following problem:  there’s a mystery function F on R^3, and we have a bunch of functions F’_1, .. F’_n on R^2 which are restrictions of F to planes, but we don’t know which planes.  How to reconstruct those planes, and F?

Let G = SO(3).  We can set this problem up as an optimization problem over G^n as follows.  We want to find F and g_1, … g_n in G such that F’_i matches the restriction to the xy-plane of g_i F.

But optimizing over G^n is hard — an essentially exponential problem.  So what Singer and his collaborators do is discretize and convexize the problem in a very clever way.  You put a net of L points on S^2; then every rotation is going to induce (after some rounding) a permutation of these points, i.e. an LxL permutation matrix.  What’s more, n rotations just give you n permutations, which is an L x Ln matrix.

But optimizing over permutation matrices has a nice convex relaxation; the convex hull of the permutation matrices is the polytope of doubly stochastic matrices, which is very manageable.  It gets better:  a general permutation of the witness points on the sphere, of course, looks nothing at all like a rotation.  But the fact that a rotation preserves distances means that the corresponding permutation approximately commutes with the LxL covariance matrix of the points; this is a linear condition on the permutation matrices, so we end up optimizing over a linear slice of the doubly stochastic matrices.  And the point is that the difficulty now scales polynomially in n instead of exponentially.  Very nice!  (Of course, you also have to show that the cost function you’re actually optimizing can be made linear in this setup.)

Idle question:  how essential is the discretization?  In other words, is there a way to optimize directly over the convex hull of SO(3)^n, an object I know people like Bernd Sturmfels like to think about?

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## May 10, 2014

May 10, 2014

In theory, I don’t care for rioting, unless it was just for aesthetic reasons.  The Astor Place Riot that took place in 1849, started when two famous Shakespearean actors argued who was best to play in the Bard’s plays.  American actor Edwin Forrest (1806-1872 and the British actor William Macready (1793-1873) had a running feud, and both were extremely well-known actors in Shakespeare’s theater. Due to this feud, 120 were injured, and at least 25 were killed in this riot. This was the first time that in an American riot where a state militia was called in, and they actually shot into a crowd.

In the mid-nineteenth century, it was the British who dominated the American theater, and Edwin Forrest was one of the first American actors to do major roles in Shakespeare’s plays.  Eventually, what was a difference of opinion regarding to input one’s culture into another, became a huge subject matter for Americans.  Over time, the American theater scene started to resent the Briitsh influence over their own national theater.   Over time, British actors who were touring in America had it rough with the American audience.  Shakespeare in America went through every class in America during the nineteenth century.  It seemed that the great populace was super aware of his work, and often various groupings would recite his work to each other, as well as his work being very much part of the pop culture of that time.

Macready and Forrest were once friends, but became enemies when the argument reached a feverish pitch in the American and British media.  Forrest challenged Macready directly, by following his tour in America and doing the same plays, to show the audience who is a better actor in Shakespeare's plays.   When Forrest went to London, to see Macready play “Hamlet, ’ he hissed at the British actor from his seat in the audience.  Macready commented that Forrest 'lacked taste."   When Macready came to America for another tour, he faced hostility from the audience.   There was even a report that someone in the audience threw the carcass of half a dead sheep on the stage, while he performed on stage.   Around the same time, Forrest proceeds with a divorce against his British wife for immoral conduct, but the verdict came down against Forrest on the same day that Macready came to New York City.

What is set-up here is a major difference between the British and American sensibility, especially in New York City.  Forrest was quite popular with the gangs of New York, where he performed Shakespeare at the near-by Bowery Theater, which catered to a working-class audience.   The Astor Place Opera House was built for the upper-class who didn't want to associate themselves with the lower or middle-class theater audience.   Shakespeare appealed to both classes, but Forrest gave it an "American" spin, while Macready did of course, a more British subdued style.   Either by chance or design, on the same night and the same play, "Macbeth," Macready had his performance at the Astor Place Opera House, and Forrest did his "Macbeth" at the Bowery Theater, a couple of miles away.    During Macready's performance, a group of fans of Forrest, purchased tickets to the upper balcony of the theater and threw rotten fruit towards the stage while he performed.   Meanwhile at the Bowery, when Forrest recited Macbeth's line "What rhubarb, senna or what purgative drug will scour these English hence,?" the crowd stood up and roared their approval.

When Macready appeared for his next appearance at the opera house, the riot exploded.  There were at least 10,000 people outside the theater.    About 21 to 31 rioters were killed and approximately 48 were wounded.   At least 70 policemen were injured as well.  Nevertheless, during the rioting, even as people were trying to burn down the theater, Macready did his full performance and then disguising himself, left and escaped from the crowd.  The most interesting observation I have read about the riot is that Sigmund Freud commented that the theater goers "rioted over whether "Hamlet" should be a feminine or masculine character."  At this point and time, history hasn't told us yet, regarding that burning question.
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## fuckinrecordreviews: “…some of this would be…

"…some of this would be really embarrassing if it weren’t so good. Fury, total joy and something approaching meditation (don’t believe it), none of this sounds as ‘tho it was recorded for any reason other than wanting to see what it sounded like 1 hour later…can’t argue with that."

CONFLICT 49 Winter 1989 (page healthy sick)

SEBADOH review by GERARD COSLOY, Editor

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## Pluperfect PDA (14)

Fourteenth in an occasional series.

He’s teaching his wife to swipe her finger on the tablet computer; or perhaps that’s a phablet?

Ringtone: “Auf Wiederseh’n Sweetheart”

***

READ MORE by Joshua Glenn, originally published in: THE BAFFLER | BOSTON GLOBE IDEAS | BRAINIAC | CABINET | FEED | HERMENAUT | HILOBROW | HILOBROW: GENERATIONS | HILOBROW: RADIUM AGE SCIENCE FICTION | HILOBROW: SHOCKING BLOCKING | THE IDLER | IO9 | N+1 | NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW | SEMIONAUT | SLATE

Joshua Glenn’s books include UNBORED: THE ESSENTIAL FIELD GUIDE TO SERIOUS FUN (with Elizabeth Foy Larsen); and SIGNIFICANT OBJECTS: 100 EXTRAORDINARY STORIES ABOUT ORDINARY THINGS (with Rob Walker).

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## May 9, 2014

May 9, 2014

I was reading a biography on J.M. Barrie, the author of “Peter Pan, ” and the origins of that narrative is highly interesting.  His mother took over her deceased mother’s household when she was eight, and therefore probably didn’t have a normal childhood.  Many years later, when Barrie was 6 years old, his older brother, David, was killed in a skating accident when he was 14.  David was the mother’s favorite child of the eight children that she gave to the world.  The one thing that made her happy was that David will never grow older and therefore never leave her.  She would dress Barrie in David’s old clothes, and he would even whistle a tune that David did when alive. An existing passport exposed that J.M. Barrie, as a grown adult, was only 5 feet and two inches.  Charles Baudelaire wrote that "Genius is no more than childhood recaptured at will."  Barrie, without doubt, had an understanding of the nature of children and how they see the world through the point-of-view of being reconciled with adulthood.

On the opposite end, Baldur von Schirach wanted to squash childhood for the “state” or empire that was therefore the theory of the National Socialist German Worker’s Party.  His “Hitler Youth” basically was a nightmare version of the Boy Scouts (which, to be fair, have their own issues), but its only mission was to train youth to be adults in the Nazi idea of being citizens of the empire.  Schirach encouraged bullying, spying, and any group that uses the motto Blut ind Ehre (“Blood and Honor”) you know is very far away from the theory of Barrie, regarding lost childhood.  It is taboo to mess with a child's innocence, but one wonder if such innocnece really exist in the first place.  The world in front of us, is anything but innocent, and I think children are wise to the fact that there are numerous worlds operating at the same time. It now comes to mind, the movement behind the White Rose, which was a non-violent German resistance to Hitler and his regime.  The beautiful (in a sense, my Wendy) Sophie Scholl was a member of the White Rose, and eventually she was caught and executed by the Nazis. She died when she was 21, and I often think that is such a crucial age where youth turns into an adult.  Like what the Nazis did to its own youth, they also killed its one bright light, and therefore it is a beauty that can’t die for me.

I know, as a fact, that I was afraid to grow up, because I realize that childhood for me was a sense of protection.   When one came to a certain age, the world becomes real, sometimes horribly real.  It is luck, and the narrative of history, that I didn't have to go to the Vietnam war.   The draft got pulled back just as I reached the age of 18 years old.  But I clearly remember the anxiety of the thought of turning 18, and what that would entail for my life at the time.  "Peter Pan" had a special appeal for me around the age of 16.

On one end, I wanted to have a life that was similar to Gabriele D’Annunzio.  I didn’t like the war part, but I loved the thought of him as the King of decadents, and I even admired his ‘dandyish’ take on warfare.  The Vietnam war to me, seemed very un-dandy like, and therefore turned me off on military aesthetics or anything that go into the war machinery.   But I did admire that D’Annunzio wrote poetry as a teenager, and his interest at that time in promoting Italian irredentism, which was a nationalistic approach to Italy, where the unification of Italian speaking peoples and territories deemed to be Italian lands.   Bear in mind this is a teenager's view of the world, and my admiration for him is only skin-deep.   When the world lacked romance at such a young age, one tends to be pulled by a figure like D'Annunzio, who didn't honestly seem to bring a promise, but more to the fact that he will burn as he moves closer to the sun.  Nevertheless one enjoys the thought of heading towards the Sun to challenge its might.

The truth is childhood slowly or quickly turns into Albert Finney’s fascinating character, Arthur Seaton, in the film “Saturday Night and Sunday Morning,”  who is a young machinist at a Nottingham factory, and slowly sees the world of his youth turn into an adult nightmare.  He rebels against the world by drinking and fucking on the weekend, but by the rules of the culture, he must serve as a tool in the work-week.  Eventually to follow the footsteps of his parents, in other words, older people to do what they have to do to live in a world that is so far away from childhood.  Also I admire another British writer, Alan Bennett, whose play "The History Boys" captures the twilight years of young turning into old.  As I approach my older age, I think in all honesty, I prefer the world of Peter Pan and Neverland.   I enjoy the thought of youth, but I wish to be 'adult' about it.

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Pink eye. Again.

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## Code-X (5)

Call this market/cultural category code: To the Victor Belong the Spoils. Call the category: Premium-ness.

Definition: To the Victor Belong the Spoils coding is about power. You’ve earned the best, and nobody can take it away from you. Brand a means to radiate authority — render your position at the top of the heap unquestionable.

Notes on this code: Authoritative, Powerful (“100% wool. Because the sheep have always done your bidding.”) Use of powerful figures like Gorbachev. Men half-reclining like Roman emperors; alluring women shown wearing jewels presumably given them by their wealthy lovers.

*

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## May 8, 2014

May 8, 2014

The beauty of Tom of Finland is that he doesn’t exist to me.  What exists is in his world.  Wittgenstein wrote that ‘the limits of my language means the limits of my world.” Tom of Finland had set a strict boundary where there is his world, and then ….Nothing.   For those in the nothing, we wander into his world, and therefore we have everything that we can possibly want or hope for.

As a heterosexual, I am disappointed that my world is not so closed off as his utopia that is expressed in Tom of Finland’s art. I’m not even sure if it is even ‘art’ as we know it, but more of a self-expression that is acceptable to the few and only for the few.  Which to me is the definition of utopia.  What I like about Tom’s work is that it is not explicit in action, but more by a thought of something erotic will happen.  The voyeur aspect of his work is part of taking a walk in the woods, and as we all know the deep forest is a walk through a sexual landscape.

There is a beauty of “the mystery” that is reflected in his work, but maybe it is only a ‘mystery” to me, because I don’t share that specific sexuality.   I can admire Eric Stanton’s cartoons of heterosexual bondage and fetishism, but it's not erotic to me.  Tom of Finland is erotic.  The way he portrays nature as serving the erotic is among the images that gives me so such pleasure.  The locations are sometimes in the imaginary west or in a park, perhaps, which due to its very nature is an erogenous zone.  I think any area where nature is cut-off from the world is of course a fetish territory.

As a teenager I would go to the renaissance faire, that usually took place in some rural area outside of Los Angeles.  What I loved was going with girls who I went to school with, but once in the faire, they become downright erotic objects to me.  At first I thought it was their clothing, which was to imitate the 14th century, but no, it had more to do that all of this was taking place in nature.   The girls weren’t the one’s that arouse me directly, but the fact that they were enclosed in that environment.

The fiction of Thomas Pynchon, on the other hand, even though one gets a clear picture of the location in his work, it is rarely, if ever erotic.  When I read his works, I feel like a child entering a three-story toy store, and everything looks fantastic and I want it all.  Tom of Finland doesn’t offer everything, because his world is very closed, and so was the renaissance faire.  I really wanted those girls, but only, in that space and a specific time.

Perhaps it is only a matter of control, and allowing certain aspects or parts of that control to slowly be released over a period of time.  Time to me is also erotic.  Due to the fact that schedules and deadlines have a certain amount of pleasure and pain attached to the process.  When I see a Tom of Finland drawing, I am not aware of time foresee, but I’m conscious of its absence, which makes me think of time.  Which, of course, is erotic to me.

As a child, I would watch “The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, ” mostly due to their son, Ricky Nelson.  The show is totally boring to me, but the odd thing is when Ricky sings, it becomes another world that is totally blocked off from the rest of the show.  It makes sense as a narration in the show, but whenever I see Ricky singing in the context of the series, I feel he’s in another space or world than his parents or anything else on that particular TV show.  Which got me thinking that perhaps he has another life that is not expressed on that series.  When I see pictures of him, his eyes have a tendency to tell another tale.  Something mysterious, dreamy, and sensual.  I do carry a passport that will enable me to visit other countries, but what I really desire is a document of some sort that will allow me to visit ‘areas’ that I fantasize.   I wish to travel with Robert Johnson, and with him as my guide, I want him to lead me to that fork in the road.   With anticipated hope, he will push me towards a specific direction.

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## Thomas Pynchon

“Hey, Pensiero, you know whut an Eye-talian submarine sounds like, on dat new sonar? Huh?” one American soldier asks another, Eddie, a benny-popping barber meticulously cutting his Colonel’s hair in Gravity’s Rainbow by THOMAS PYNCHON (born 1937). “Uh… what?” “Pinnnguinnnea-guinea-guinea wopwopwop! Dat’s whut! Yuk, yuk, yuk!” Hidden in this ethnic joke is E di pensiero, a line from Rigoletto, a sly Verdian nod in a work so Wagnerian, “If you can’t sing Siegfried, at least you can carry a spear” is its pithiest apothegm. Size does matter, though — velleity can’t achieve liebestod — and here too Pynchon delivers. “The prose was gorgeous,” opined eminent editor Gerald Howard for Bookforum three decades after he first read the novel, “with a density of allusion and implication and hyperalertness that almost no one writing today would even attempt, let alone pull off.” As for Pynchon’s epic forebears — Dreiser, Dos Passos, Gaddis — it’s Melville, from Moby Dick through The Confidence Man, who most predicts… what exactly? A military comedy, a corporate espionage tale, a wicked sex romp, a doper’s movie musical about colonialism, zoot suits, dodo birds and many displaced persons — Puritans, hereros, gauchos, kamikazes, homosexuals, Jews. Horrified rocket engineer Franz Pökler wordlessly comforts a Dora concentration camp survivor, placing his gold wedding ring on her finger, “If she lived…” Composer Anton Webern is shot, “accidental if you believe in accidents.” AWOL Seaman Pig Bodine gives ailing anti-hero Tyrone Slothrop an undershirt stained with John Dillinger’s blood for protection, “This thing here works. Really does.”

***

On his or her birthday, HiLobrow irregularly pays tribute to one of our high-, low-, no-, or hilobrow heroes. Also born this date: Edmund Wilson, Tristan Jones, Gary Snyder, Roberto Rossellini, Don Rickles.

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## Welcome to dress like a pirate week at LA Crone, in honor of my…

Welcome to dress like a pirate week at LA Crone, in honor of my mum’s post cataract surgery eye dressing.

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## File X (27)

Here’s another vintage paperback whose title includes a free-standing “X.”

The “X” People (1953), by Vektis Brack.

*

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## designedconflictterritories: “If there is a single word to…

"If there is a single word to describe Google, it is „absolute.” The Britannica defines absolutism as a system in which „the ruling power is not subject to regularized challenge or check by any other agency.”  In ordinary affairs, absolutism is a moral attitude in which values and principles are regarded as unchallengeable and universal. There is no relativism, context-dependence, or openness to change.

Six years ago I asked Eric Schmidt what corporate innovations Google was putting in place to ensure that its interests were aligned with its end users. Would it betray their trust?  Back then his answer stunned me. He and Google’s founders control the super-voting class B stock. This allows them, he explained, to make decisions without regard to short-term pressure from Wall Street. Of course, it also insulates them from every other kind of influence. There was no wrestling with the creation of an inclusive, trustworthy, and transparent governance system.  There was no struggle to institutionalize scrutiny and feedback.  Instead Schmidt’s answer was the quintessence of absolutism: „trust me; I know best.” At that moment I knew I was in the presence of something new and dangerous whose effects reached beyond narrow economic contests and into the heart of everyday life.”

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## Don Rickles

Five-foot-six and drawn entirely with lopsided circles, DON RICKLES (born 1926) has the head of a turtle and the heart of the Grim Reaper. That’s the story anyway, and he’s spent nearly seven decades cementing that reputation onstage. They say he’s a sweetheart offstage — a mensch and a mama’s boy, married nearly 50 years to the same long-suffering woman — but I don’t love him because he’s so great at loving his family. I love him because he’s so great at hating everyone else.

Rickles’ is a high-wire kind of funny. Most of it doesn’t translate very well on paper, where it just reads as mean. And it is mean. But it’s not an angry mean, nor is it funny because it’s mean. It’s funny because it’s delivered with needle-sharp timing, with shrugs and sighs and side-glances and eye rolls that make it all float. Yes, his jokes are bigoted and sexist and homophobic, but that misses the point. As Chris Rock put it, “Oh, it’s very offensive, but not if you’re into comedy.” Context matters.

That’s a hard one to learn. Barely a week passes without some public idiot eating his own shoe leather because he doesn’t understand that simple fact. Context matters, as do intent and timing and delivery. Sometimes all it takes is a headshake to turn a manifestly racist one-liner into comedy gold. It’s just gotta be a damn good headshake.

***

On his or her birthday, HiLobrow irregularly pays tribute to one of our high-, low-, no-, or hilobrow heroes. Also born this date: Gary Snyder, Roberto Rossellini, Edmund Wilson, Tristan Jones, Thomas Pynchon.

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## Boyer: curves with real multiplication over subcyclotomic fields

A long time ago, inspired by a paper of Mestre constructing genus 2 curves whose Jacobians had real multiplication by Q(sqrt(5)), I wrote a paper showing the existence of continuous families of curves X whose Jacobians had real multiplication by various abelian extensions of Q.  I constructed these curves as branched covers with prescribed ramification, which is to say I had no real way of presenting them explicitly at all.  I just saw a nice preprint by Ivan Boyer, a recent Ph.D. student of Mestre, which takes all the curves I construct and computes explicit equations for them!  I wouldn’t have thought this was doable (in particular, I never thought about whether the families in my construction were rational.) For instance, for any value of the parameter s, the genus 3 curve

$2v + u^3 + (u+1)^2 + s((u^2 + v)^2 - v(u+v)(2u^2 - uv + 2v))$

has real multiplication by the real subfield of $\mathbf{Q}(\zeta_7)$.  Cool!

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## Boyer: curves with real multiplication over subcyclotomic fields

A long time ago, inspired by a paper of Mestre constructing genus 2 curves whose Jacobians had real multiplication by Q(sqrt(5)), I wrote a paper showing the existence of continuous families of curves X whose Jacobians had real multiplication by various abelian extensions of Q.  I constructed these curves as branched covers with prescribed ramification, which is to say I had no real way of presenting them explicitly at all.  I just saw a nice preprint by Ivan Boyer, a recent Ph.D. student of Mestre, which takes all the curves I construct and computes explicit equations for them!  I wouldn’t have thought this was doable (in particular, I never thought about whether the families in my construction were rational.) For instance, for any value of the parameter s, the genus 3 curve

$2v + u^3 + (u+1)^2 + s((u^2 + v)^2 - v(u+v)(2u^2 - uv + 2v))$

has real multiplication by the real subfield of $\mathbf{Q}(\zeta_7)$.  Cool!

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## FAN ART. Day: MADE. reprimandrill: RIP Santos, too pretty for…

RIP Santos, too pretty for this world.

Boy am I gonna miss Mega City Two: City Of Courts when it’s gone.

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## Yessss! Somebody caught the Baudrillard thing! The…

Yessss! Somebody caught the Baudrillard thing! The review’s in Portugese, but I think the reviewer likes it…

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## Hemanalia

At the Atlantic, Alexis Madrigal on Andrew Stauffer's BookTraces project:
A woman named Ellen received a book by the sentimental poet Felicia Hemans. Years later, her seven-year-old daughter died, and she adapted lines from Hemans to create a memorial inside the book. Mary, Mary, Mary.

Moved by this, Stauffer looked at another edition of Hemans in the UVA library and found a similar tribute to a lost child. "This really tells us something about how people were using Hemans and this book to refract their own grief," he said.
A short piece, but full of interesting bits.

In other news, I am what can only be described as thoroughly discombobulated! I have two meetings tomorrow (plus an allergy doc appointment), then a day off before flying to Israel on Saturday night to give two lectures at Tel Aviv University; but I woke up this morning to the news that B.'s father died early this morning in Ottawa. I will fly up there tomorrow evening so that I can keep the bereaved company and help out with practical stuff for a day and a half; then I'll fly back to NYC and go straight from one airport to another for my Saturday evening flight. Head about to explode from complexity of packing requirements, compression of preparation and packing time, etc.!

(Chuck was a very dear man, kind and thoughtful; he had been suffering from Alzheimer's for almost a decade, and it had begun to really get the better of him, even as his hearing and vision had almost completely deserted him: not a good combination. That said, he and Brent and I had one particularly lovely day out together two years ago - I don't seem to have the photos on my computer, but I will retrieve one from B.'s fridge door and post later on.)
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## Hemanalia

At the Atlantic, Alexis Madrigal on Andrew Stauffer's BookTraces project:
A woman named Ellen received a book by the sentimental poet Felicia Hemans. Years later, her seven-year-old daughter died, and she adapted lines from Hemans to create a memorial inside the book. Mary, Mary, Mary.

Moved by this, Stauffer looked at another edition of Hemans in the UVA library and found a similar tribute to a lost child. "This really tells us something about how people were using Hemans and this book to refract their own grief," he said.
A short piece, but full of interesting bits.

In other news, I am what can only be described as thoroughly discombobulated! I have two meetings tomorrow (plus an allergy doc appointment), then a day off before flying to Israel on Saturday night to give two lectures at Tel Aviv University; but I woke up this morning to the news that B.'s father died early this morning in Ottawa. I will fly up there tomorrow evening so that I can keep the bereaved company and help out with practical stuff for a day and a half; then I'll fly back to NYC and go straight from one airport to another for my Saturday evening flight. Head about to explode from complexity of packing requirements, compression of preparation and packing time, etc.!

(Chuck was a very dear man, kind and thoughtful; he had been suffering from Alzheimer's for almost a decade, and it had begun to really get the better of him, even as his hearing and vision had almost completely deserted him: not a good combination. That said, he and Brent and I had one particularly lovely day out together two years ago - I don't seem to have the photos on my computer, but I will retrieve one from B.'s fridge door and post later on.)
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## kiameku: Kirsten Pieroth Kreuzberger…

Kirsten Pieroth
Kreuzberger Pfütze
2008

“Kreuzberger Pfütze” is the title of a piece by Pieroth exhibited in the
basement of Sparwasser HQ. Pfütze” means puddle; Sparwasser means
“spared water.” The title describes the project: Pieroth has moved a
puddle from Kreuzberg to Sparwasser HQ, thereby removing the puddle
from its original spatial context. The transferred puddle is, in its fluidity,
a signifier of endless reshaping.

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## kiameku: Kirsten Pieroth Die Farbe der Meere (The color of the…

Kirsten Pieroth
Die Farbe der Meere (The color of the seas)
2001
Water samples from the Red Sea, the White Sea, the Black Sea and the Yellow Sea.

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## May 7, 2014

May 7, 2014

The one thing that really rubs me the wrong way is that I don’t live in a palace. I loathe small apartments or houses.   What really makes me sick to my stomach are those who take pride in their little shacks and fix-em-ups.  My ideal address to live would be the Palace of Versailles.  To enter the main entrance and hear Beethoven’s beautiful Ninth Symphony as you walk in, and having a servant greeting you at the door, well, that is heaven.

I don’t live in such an environment due to finances that are no longer in my control.  Basically I worked my whole life in retail.  I generally don’t understand why someone who works 40 hours a week, cannot have their dream palace.  Of course, running a home like Versailles would be awfully expensive, but still, to be in a position to wander from hallway to room to hallway, like forever, is a dream that is in my head.

Since I don’t sleep that well, more likely I would take walks in the garden of Versailles.  The only thing I would add to the garden is statures of saints, or at least saints that are part of my life.  Jerry Nolan of the New York Dolls, Johannes Brahms, film director Ishirō Honda, author Angela Carter, and my favorite western movie sidekick, Gabby Hayes.

As I write, the tears in my eyes are clouded over my sight, yet in my heart I can see that I deserve a better place.  Right now I’m writing a memoir and the only location where I feel comfortable to write such a book is at the Los Angeles Downtown Library on fifth and Flower.  It is not exactly like the Versailles, but for me, I have never been in a large decorative building before.  I try to imagine that I live here by myself, and often have fantasies what it must be like to roam through the rooms here at 3 A.M.

Homes like the Downtown Library and Versailles totally turn-off the world outside, which on a daily basis is a world that is not to my liking.  I’m also fascinated that none of the bathrooms in the library have mirrors.  It is like one cannot reflect on one’s appearance, but instead, you reflect oneself on the architecture and books that are located in the library.  The mirrored halls of Versailles were made to follow up on oneself as you walk down the hallway.  But here, I only have my imagination at work, and therefore the perfect location to work on my masterpiece.
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## amnhnyc: From the Archives: Paul Wright working on a model of…

This model was made during the development of the American Bison diorama in the Hall of North American Mammals. The scene is set in the mid-1800s between Rawlins and Saratoga, Wyoming, when the prairies teemed with tens of millions of bison.

Learn more about the American Bison Diorama and the 2012 restoration of the Bernard Family Hall of North American Mammals.

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## nemfrog: Catalogue. 1892. These goods are made in various…

Catalogue. 1892. These goods are made in various weights and styles.

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## Welcome to dress like a pirate week at LA Crone, in honor of my…

Welcome to dress like a pirate week at LA Crone, in honor of my mum’s post cataract surgery eye dressing.

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## “By 1 p.m., Philip would leave the small yellow house in Silver Spring where he lived alone. He…”

By 1 p.m., Philip would leave the small yellow house in Silver Spring where he lived alone. He walked a half-block, waited for the No. 5 bus, took it to his job as a taxi dispatcher, returned home, cooked a late dinner, watched Charlie Rose and went to sleep. He never locked his front door and often left it wide open. Part was defiance. This is how I live. Part was warmth. Anyone is welcome.

One February night, someone came inside — someone Philip may have known — and beat him to death. The case remains Montgomery’s only unsolved killing this year.

Philip seemed to have no secrets and no enemies. And he left behind no electronic footprints — the text messages, e-mails, cellphone logs and social-media traffic that police routinely use these days as they seek out unknown quarrels and final movements.

“Those records usually help,” said Capt. Marcus Jones, commander of Montgomery County’s major-crimes division. “We don’t have any of that.”

For Philip’s family and friends, the case brings a terrible possibility: Could everything that made the lifelong bachelor so unique, so stubborn, so confounding, so wonderful — a life rooted in rejection of instant communication — be allowing his killer to get away with it?

- Philip Welsh’s simple life hampers search for his killer - The Washington Post, via Will W.
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## The Julius Eastman Memorial Dinner in Austin: video

We had a phenomenal time presenting the Julius Eastman Memorial Dinner in Austin this spring. The University of Texas’ Visual Arts Center and local music organizers Church of the Friendly Ghost made everything quite special; this video they put together documenting the evening’s performance is just one example of their awesomeness. Enjoy!

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## King Goshawk (19)

The 1926 satirical sf novel King Goshawk and the Birds, by Irish playwright and novelist Eimar O’Duffy, is set in a future world devastated by progress. When King Goshawk, the supreme ruler among a caste of “king capitalists,” buys up all the wildflowers and songbirds, an aghast Dublin philosopher travels via the astral plane to Tír na nÓg. First the mythical Irish hero Cúchulainn, then his son Cuanduine, travel to Earth in order to combat the king capitalists. Thirty-five years before the hero of Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, these well-meaning aliens discover that cultural forms and norms are the most effective barrier to social or economic revolution.

HiLobrow is pleased to serialize King Goshawk and the Birds, which has long been out of print, in its entirety. A new installment will appear each week.

ALL INSTALLMENTS SO FAR

***

BOOK II: THE COMING OF CUANDUINE

Chapter 5: How Cuanduine was mobbed by a Bevy of Damsels

At this last news Cuanduine cast down the paper in a rage, being too concerned with the fate of the Lambians to bother about the remaining ten pages, though they were close packed with racing news and tipsters’ chitchat.

“Here’s work to hand for me,” said he to the Philosopher. “I must stop this war.”

“Nonsense, lad,” said the Philosopher. “You must first try your hand at a lighter task. Depend upon it, the Lambians will surrender before they suffer further hurt, and you can right their wrongs in your own good time. Let us begin our work now at the beginning. Come out with me into the street and see man as he is.”

Cuanduine, seeing the wisdom of this advice, went out with the Philosopher to explore the city as his father had done before him. This likewise was unchanged since those days, only that the people and the buildings were grown shabbier, and the sky-signs more progressive. Also there were great numbers of men to be seen in the uniform of King Goshawk digging up daisies and dandelions in the public parks and among the ruins of houses.

When they had emerged from those regions of the city where the people are too occupied with work and their sufferings to notice anything else, and had come amongst the shoppers and strollers in the brighter districts, the girls came running from all sides to look at Cuanduine and to catch his eye: for, indeed, he was the most beautiful creature that had ever been seen upon the earth. The whole street was soon a swishing sea of petticoats, sparkling with smiles, and tinkling with girlish voices, in the midst of which Cuanduine and the Philosopher kept their feet with difficulty, like stranded mariners on a bank in a rising tide: Cuanduine, who, from what he had heard, was not prepared to find the earth such a pleasant place, nevertheless quickly recovered from his surprise, and gave smile for smile and chat for chat, even pressing a hand or two that succeeded in finding his. There were red lips too, ripe for kissing; but in so rich a harvest he knew not where to begin his reaping.

While they were thus merrily sporting, there arose a cry of alarm from the outskirts of the bevy, and a squadron of Censors with their lily-
shaped truncheons came ploughing like battleships through the frothy sea of femininity, which fled before them like the tide through a narrow channel. Most of the damsels got away in safety, but a few were clubbed about the head and brought before the magistrates, charged with unmaidenly behaviour, for which they were sentenced to terms of imprisonment ranging from three weeks to one year, according to the incomes of their fathers.

Cuanduine stood looking after their heels, transfixed with amazement; and the Philosopher was also overcome, having received one very amorous caress by mistake. From the stupefaction thus induced he was awakened by a glance at Cuanduine, which sent him straightway into a laughing fit; for all the pockets of the hero’s garments, not only the side and breast pockets of his coat, but his trouser pockets, his waistcoat pockets, and even his ticket pocket, were distended and swollen up to the size of so many footballs. Cuanduine, putting a hand to one of them to find what the stuffing was, drew out a fistful of little screwed-up bits of paper, some tied with pink and blue ribbon, but for the most part merely folded up tight; which, when he opened them, proved to be hasty but tender billets-doux, inviting him to the homes of these bold-faced hussies, or to other trysting places, the next day or the day after.

“By heaven,” said the Philosopher, “it is the devil’s own luck that you are so handsome! There will be broken hearts over this.”

“Not a whit,” said Cuanduine. “I will keep these assignations.”

“What? All of them?” cried the Philosopher.

“Of course,” said Cuanduine.

“Your father’s son speaks again,” said the Philosopher. “Have sense, lad. What if some of them fall in love with you?”

“I hope,” said Cuanduine, “they will all fall in love with me, as I have with them.”

“But surely,” said the Philosopher, “you must see that that will bring torment and heartbreak among them?”

“No, faith,” said Cuanduine; “for I will deny myself to none of them.”

“Now God help your seraphic innocence,” said the Philosopher. “Have you never heard of jealousy among the stars?”

“Why should they be jealous?” asked Cuanduine. “Not one shall have a jot more of me than her neighbour; nor a jot less.”

“Bless your innocence again,” said the Philosopher. “That will not be enough for them. Each will want you altogether to herself.”

“O gluttony!” said Cuanduine. “Are the fools then as jealous of the sun’s rays, of the greenness of grass, of the corn and wine?”

“So much so,” said the Philosopher, “that, if you waste any time keeping those assignations, you may find that some one has bought the sun before you can redeem the birds or the flowers. Come; you have dragons to kill.”

NEXT INSTALLMENT | ALL INSTALLMENTS SO FAR

***

RADIUM AGE SCIENCE FICTION: “Radium Age” is HiLobrow’s name for the 1904–33 era, which saw the discovery of radioactivity, the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. This era also saw the publication of genre-shattering writing by Edgar Rice Burroughs, Sax Rohmer, E.E. “Doc” Smith, Jack London, Arthur Conan Doyle, Aldous Huxley, Olaf Stapledon, Karel Čapek, H.P. Lovecraft, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Yevgeny Zamyatin, Philip Gordon Wylie, and other pioneers of post-Verne/Wells, pre-Golden Age “science fiction.” More info here.

READ GORGEOUS PAPERBACKS: HiLoBooks has reissued the following 10 obscure but amazing Radium Age science fiction novels in beautiful print editions: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague, Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”), Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt, H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook, Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins, William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land, J.D. Beresford’s Goslings, E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man, Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage, and Muriel Jaeger’s The Man with Six Senses. For more information, visit the HiLoBooks homepage.

REDISCOVERED BY HILOBOOKS: Jack London’s The Scarlet Plague | Rudyard Kipling’s With the Night Mail (and “As Easy as A.B.C.”) | Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Poison Belt | H. Rider Haggard’s When the World Shook | Edward Shanks’ The People of the Ruins | William Hope Hodgson’s The Night Land | J.D. Beresford’s Goslings | E.V. Odle’s The Clockwork Man | Cicely Hamilton’s Theodore Savage | Muriel Jaeger’s The Man With Six Senses | Jack London’s “The Red One” | Philip Francis Nowlan’s Armageddon 2419 A.D. | Homer Eon Flint’s The Devolutionist | W.E.B. DuBois’s “The Comet” | Edgar Rice Burroughs’s The Moon Men | Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland | Sax Rohmer’s “The Zayat Kiss” | Eimar O’Duffy’s King Goshawk and the Birds | Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Lost Prince | Morley Roberts’s The Fugitives | John Buchan’s Huntingtower

ORIGINAL FICTION: HiLobrow has serialized three novels: James Parker’s The Ballad of Cocky The Fox (“a proof-of-concept that serialization can work on the Internet” — The Atlantic); Karinne Keithley Syers’s Linda Linda Linda (which includes original music); and Robert Waldron’s roman à clef The School on the Fens. We also publish original stories and comics. These include: Matthew Battles’s stories “Gita Nova“, “Makes the Man,” “Imago,” “Camera Lucida,” “A Simple Message”, “Children of the Volcano”, “The Gnomon”, “Billable Memories”, “For Provisional Description of Superficial Features”, “The Dogs in the Trees”, “The Sovereignties of Invention”, and “Survivor: The Island of Dr. Moreau”; several of these later appeared in the collection The Sovereignties of Invention | Peggy Nelson’s “Mood Indigo“, “Top Kill Fail“, and “Mercerism” | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Charlie Mitchell’s “A Fantasy Land” | Joshua Glenn’s “The Lawless One”, and the mashup story “Zarathustra vs. Swamp Thing” | Adam McGovern and Paolo Leandri’s Idoru Jones comics | John Holbo’s “Sugarplum Squeampunk” | “Another Corporate Death” (1) and “Another Corporate Death” (2) by Mike Fleisch | Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer and Frank Fiorentino’s graphic novel “The Song of Otto” (excerpt) | “Manoj” and “Josh” by Vijay Balakrishnan | “Verge” by Chris Rossi, and his audio novel Low Priority Hero | EPIC WINS: THE ILIAD (1.408-415) by Flourish Klink | EPIC WINS: THE KALEVALA (3.1-278) by James Parker | EPIC WINS: THE ARGONAUTICA (2.815-834) by Joshua Glenn | EPIC WINS: THE MYTH OF THE ELK by Matthew Battles | TROUBLED SUPERHUMAN CONTEST: Charles Pappas, “The Law” | CATASTROPHE CONTEST: Timothy Raymond, “Hem and the Flood” | TELEPATHY CONTEST: Rachel Ellis Adams, “Fatima, Can You Hear Me?” | OIL SPILL CONTEST: A.E. Smith, “Sound Thinking | LITTLE NEMO CAPTION CONTEST: Joe Lyons, “Necronomicon” | SPOOKY-KOOKY CONTEST: Tucker Cummings, “Well Marbled” | INVENT-A-HERO CONTEST: TG Gibbon, “The Firefly” | FANFICTION CONTEST: Lyette Mercier’s “Sex and the Single Superhero”

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## You Love Pinterest. Find Out Why The Police Do, Too : All…

Eight hours after posting on his department’s Facebook, Twitter — and the Pinterest page the agency launched in February — Stahler received information from not one but three people who helped identify the owner of the bracelet. That alone would be a good story — but when you learn that the jewelry was actually a mother’s keepsake engraved with the names and birth dates of her children and stolen during a residential burglary in 1983, well, it’s sweeter than all the red velvet cupcake recipes on Pinterest combined.
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## May 6, 2014

May 6, 2014

When Orson Welles was working with the Mercury Theater in New York City, he was approached by the Hollywood producer Carl Laemmle to do a quickie b-movie western called “My Pal, the King.” The plot of the film, written by Welles, is about a boy, played by Mickey Rooney, who is a king from a European country who comes out west to meet real cowboys at a traveling circus.   Eventually hiding his identity he joins the circus.  Meanwhile, the count from that mysterious European country decides that he wants the king to disappear for good, so that he and his family can take over the country.

The casting was set by Laemmle, with Tom Mix playing the head of the circus, Hank Darnell playing his side-kick (who is actually a real cowboy who knew how to do rope tricks), and James Kirkwood, who worked on many films with Mary Pickford, and rumored to be a very close friend of Rudolf Valentino,  as the evil Count DeMar.   Welles brought in Rooney as the star, who early that year, saw him play Puck in Max Reinhardt’s film production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Laemmle gave Welles a strict budget to do the film, and mostly it was going to shot in New Mexico.  Everything was going perfectly fine, till Welles came up with the idea of telling the whole narrative through the eyes of the little King.  Not only that, but he wanted the camera to represent how the king sees the world at the time.  So in a lot of scenes you hear Rooney’s voice, but not his face or his body.  To add a certain amount of visual menace to the film, Welles hired Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, a German expressionist painter at the time.  He came up with the idea of painting the rocks in the New Mexico landscape black.   Which gave the environment an eerie almost Mars like look of the place. Welles didn’t want a naturalistic or place New Mexico in a realistic light whatsoever.  At the time, Welles was going through a period in his life when he was obsessing over the writings of Sigmund Freud.  He felt “My Pal, the King” should be told in a subjective style, than the original routine objective approach that was to be found in the script.

When Laemmle saw the rushes, he flipped. He took a train from Los Angeles to Sante Fe to fire Welles personally.   Once Welles was gone from the film set, Laemmle brought in the director Kurt Neumann, to finish off the film, using a new script by Thomas Crizer, who was employed with Harold Lloyd.   Welles, of course, was upset.  With the Mercury Theater, he was a king, and wasn’t was often treated in such a harsh manner.   He didn’t always want to think about it, but he must have realized that his vision will be for the rest of his life, a battle between how he sees the world, and how the world sees Orson Welles.
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