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Your wish is my demand.
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Wait a sec — what's that song I'm hearing?
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy-blossom which the commonest yellow-underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay-coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid-September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.
The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare-backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window-pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth's part in life, and a day moth's at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far-off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig-zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.
After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One's sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
[1942]
Let's say you've been working on a project for months, every waking moment thinking in code.
Your relationships (if you ever had any) are shot, your mail is unopened, you've gained weight from all the garbage junk food and physical inactivity, you don't even know the month much less the day or date, you don't look so hot and you don't smell very good — but none of that matters.
Now, let's say someone interrupts you to ask what kind of message would be good if email can't be delivered.
Do you think you'd reflect and say, hmmm, how about, "We were unable to deliver your email after several attempts?"
How about "Fatal Error" — how's that sound — does that work for you?
Thought so.
Maybe add "Permanent" to punch it up a bit:
And that's how I think the term came into being (in a manner of speaking — I wasn't there but you can bet it wasn't the result of months of focus groups).
And that's all I have to say about that.
Most people don't know this simple, potentially life-saving procedure.
Watch the videos above and below.
Wrote Mark Frauenfelder:
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"Uproot Excavator" is a YouTube channel devoted entirely to one thing: tree stumps being yanked out of the ground by heavy equipment.
The arm of the excavator, fitted with a pincer-like attachment, clamps onto a stump, rips it out along with a massive clump of roots that must weigh serveral hundred pounds, shakes the dirt loose, and sets the whole thing aside next to a fresh crater in the earth.
That's it.
Hundreds of short videos, all basically variations on the same removal theme, over and over and over.
I find it weirdly hypnotic and deeply satisfying to watch.
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It occurs to me this is kind of a violent variation on an ASMR theme.
eBay shopping tip: Don't be discouraged if the item you want isn't there or is priced too high.
I've found that the listings change daily and if you keep visiting on a regular basis more likely than not you will find exactly what you want at a reasonable price.
Example: the wonderful Snow Peak titanium folding fork pictured above and below has been unavailable in the U.S. for many years; a deep internet search found none online.
I looked on eBay: about a week into my daily visits, one showed up.
I use it every day, it's such a fantastic piece of industrial beauty.
This reddit thread asks "What can a person learn in 10 minutes that will be useful for life?"
The top-voted answer: "Use your hand span — thumb to pinky — as a built-in measuring tool. Once you measure it you will never forget it."
Even better: If you happen on a person who's unconscious, lift their legs in the air as you call for help, and keep them elevated until help arrives or the person comes to.
This shunts about a third of their circulating blood volume back to the heart and may prevent imminent cardiac arrest.
Wait a sec — what's that song I'm hearing?
Notice how your printer's power cable can be detached from the printer.
Notice that you can remove the power cable from your computer — be it a laptop or a desktop or a tower.
Why shouldn't this same modular principle be applied across the board to everything electrical?
Why should I have to fuss and fool around with keeping the cord out of my way when I clean my microwave or toaster oven?
For that matter, coffee bean grinders and kitchen mixers etc.
Why should I have to reach behind all the stuff on my kitchen counter to unplug these appliances when it would be so much easier to detach their power cables?
Back in the day we called them blogrolls.
Wrote Kottke last year: "I added a new feature to the site: It's a list of websites and people that I follow — 'kindred spirits, friends, open web enthusiasts, role models, fellow travelers, and collaborators.'"
Up top, the first 26 of 186.
Fair warning: there goes the day.
Full disclosure: I regularly read 7 of the 186.
How is it that only last night, while thawing out a slice of wonderful super-dense Danish bread, did the penny drop such that I realized that I've been taking an unnecessary extra step all these years when using microwave ovens to thaw frozen things that require me to guesstimate how long I need to nuke them.
Simple hack short: Instead of hitting the STOP button, open the microwave's door — this stops the machine and opens the door with one gesture rather than two.
Doh!
Lagniappe: it's much easier to locate the large OPEN button — which is also outlined by its placement at the bottom of the front control panel — in the dark than have to guess at the whereabouts of the often flush and embedded small STOP button.
Two loaves of sliced Rugbrod Danish Grain Bread (top) cost $25.49.
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Everyone who's read Philip K. Dick's great 1981 novel "VALIS" knows that the title is an acronym for Vast Active Living Intelligence System.
Just kidding.
Nobody remembers that.
Likewise, the few who've read Sam Abughali's "VANTA," published last month (on April 13, for those who insist on more precision), will recall that it stands for Virtual Adaptive Neural Transfer Array.
Doesn't matter.
What does matter is the bizarro concordance between Abughali's novel and the name of my beloved calico cat, VANTA.
I mean, come on: I named my cat in September 2022 after adopting her as a three-month old kitten from an animal shelter.
I chose the name because of my fascination with Vantablack.
But I digress.
Who knows how long the author of "VANTA" was working on his novel, and when he named his time machine VANTA?
What matters is that he did.
Our lives intersected then and there, or at least they were on track to do so.
I've long contended that coincidence is a glimpse of the scaffolding of reality.
This latest incident has done nothing to alter that belief.
I uploaded this hack to YouTube three years ago and every now and then someone thanks me for it.
Makes my day!
An excellent addition to my video toolkit.
Many of the 35 titles currently listed are on various watchlists I maintain across the zillion streaming services.
This IMDB page updates and merges them: "Modified 2 days ago."
Since forever I've been reading seemingly authoritative papers and articles from the Cochrane Reviews et al lauding "Evidence-Based Medicine" as the gold standard for evaluating treatments/drugs/testing etc.
There's only one problem with these: they're often authored by people who've never gotten their hands dirty, as it were, doing basic science — whether it be laboratory-based or clinical — that's reported in the scientific literature.
These grand panjandrums haven't a clue how shot through with arbitrary choices and decisions are the final data reported by the scientists writing the articles.
I know this for a fact because I was one of those scientists for many years, publishing dozens of papers in the premier journals of anesthesiology over decades.
You could look it up.
But I digress.
The "sausage," as it were — the raw data which form the basis of all such papers — gets cleaned up by necessity, because it's a hot mess in its initial state as individual data points.
But in the end the data reported are not objective but, rather, subjective, choices: there's far too much noise to generate a signal without processing.
Wait a sec — what's that song I'm hearing?
Watching "The Code" last night, I was struck by the barren magnificence of the Australian terrain in which most of the 2014 six-part espionage thriller (Season 1; six-part Season 2 aired in 2016) is set.
As I thought about it, the superb six-part 2016 political thriller "Secret City" came to mind: it too was set in Australia.
Though not a spy thriller, "The Dry" — an excellent 2020 mystery thriller also set in Australia — takes us out back as does its equally gripping 2024 sequel, "Force of Nature: The Dry 2."
Then there's Taron Egerton's unforgettable crazed character in pursuit of the great Charlize Theron's solo hiker in the Outback in "Apex," just released on Netflix.
Note: "The Code" Season 1 is available on Prime Video; Season 2 is on YouTube
YouTube description:
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Master of fright, John Carpenter directs this entertaining and darkly humorous 1988 horror film.
Roddy Piper plays Nada, a down-on-his-luck construction worker who stumbles upon a special pair of sunglasses that reveal an awesome global secret — the ruling elite of the world are actually aliens in disguise, their aim being to keep humans in a state of mindless consumerism.
Wearing the glasses, Nada is able to see the secret messages behind all advertising, and he is capable of discerning which normal-looking people are in fact ugly aliens in charge of the campaign to keep humans subdued.
Now, the battle is on to free the human race from this secret, subliminal tyranny!
Good fun filled with genuine chills and scares and a bitingly satirical assault on our consumer culture, "They Live" is one of Carpenter's finest achievements.
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Free, the way we like it.
Wait a sec — what's that song I'm hearing?
