newyorker--2020-12-14--“Our Lady of the Quarry”

“Our Lady of the Quarry”

Silvia lived alone in a rented apartment of her own , with a five-foot-tall pot plant on the balcony and a giant bedroom with a mattress on the floor .
She had her own office at the Ministry of Education , and a salary ; she dyed her long hair jet black and wore Indian blouses with sleeves that were wide at the wrists and silver thread that shimmered in the sunlight .
She had the provincial last name of Olavarría and a cousin who had disappeared mysteriously while travelling around Mexico .
She was our “ grownup ” friend @ @ @ @ @ @ @ us when we went out and let us use her place to smoke weed and meet up with boys .
But we wanted her ruined , helpless , destroyed .
Because Silvia always knew more : if one of us discovered Frida Kahlo , oh , Silvia had already visited Frida ’ s house with her cousin in Mexico , before he vanished .
If we tried a new drug , she had already overdosed on the same substance .
If we discovered a band we liked , she had already got over @ @ @ @ @ @ @ We hated that her long , heavy , straight hair was colored with a dye we couldn ’ t find in any normal beauty salon .
What brand was it ?
She probably would have told us , but we would never ask .
We hated that she always had money , enough for another beer , another ten grams , another pizza .
How was it possible ?
She claimed that in addition to her salary she had access to her father ’ s account ; he was rich , she never @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t acknowledged paternity , but he did deposit money for her in the bank .
It was a lie , surely .
As much a lie as when she said that her sister was a model : we ’ d seen the girl when she came to visit Silvia and she wasn ’ t worth three shits , a runty little skank with a big ass and wild curls plastered with gel that couldn ’ t have looked any greasier .
I ’ m talking low-class—that girl couldn ’ t dream of walking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wanted Silvia brought down because Diego liked her .
We ’ d met Diego in Bariloche on our senior-class trip .
He was thin and had bushy eyebrows , and he always wore a different Rolling Stones shirt ( one with the tongue , another with the cover of “ Tattoo You , ” another with Jagger clutching a microphone whose cord morphed into a snake ) .
Diego had played us songs on the acoustic guitar after the horseback ride when it got dark near Cerro Catedral , and later in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of vodka and orange juice to make a good screwdriver .
He was nice to us , but he only wanted to kiss us , he wouldn ’ t sleep with us , maybe because he was older ( he ’ d repeated a grade , he was eighteen ) , or maybe he just didn ’ t like us that way .
Then , once we were back in Buenos Aires , we called to invite him to a party .
He paid attention to us for a while , until Silvia @ @ @ @ @ @ @ then on he kept treating us well , it ’ s true , but Silvia totally took over and kept him spellbound ( or dumbfounded—opinions were divided ) , telling stories about Mexico and peyote and sugar skulls .
She was older , too , she ’ d been out of high school for two years .
Diego hadn ’ t travelled much , but he wanted to go backpacking in the north that year .
Silvia had already made that trip ( of course ! )
, and she gave him advice @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recommendations on cheap hotels and on families who would rent out rooms , and he bought every word , in spite of the fact that Silvia didn ’ t have a single photo , not one , as proof of that trip or any other—she was quite the traveller .
Silvia was the one who came up with the idea of the quarry pools that summer , and we had to hand it to her , it was a really good idea .
Silvia hated public pools and country-club pools , even the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she said the water wasn ’ t fresh , it always felt stagnant to her .
Since the nearest river was polluted , she didn ’ t have anywhere to swim .
We were all , like , “ Who does Silvia think she is , she acts like she was born on a beach in the South of France.
” But Diego listened to her explanation of why she wanted “ fresh ” water and he was totally in agreement .
They talked a little more about oceans and waterfalls and streams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pools .
Someone at her work had told her that you could find a ton of them off the southern highway , and that people hardly ever went swimming in them because they were scared , supposedly the pools were dangerous .
And that ’ s where she suggested we all go the next weekend , and we agreed right away because we knew Diego would say yes , and we didn ’ t want the two of them going alone .
Maybe if he saw how ugly her body was—she had some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were that way because she ’ d played hockey when she was little , but half of us had played hockey , too , and none of us had those big ham hocks .
Plus she had a flat ass and broad hips , which was why jeans never fit her well .
If Diego saw those defects ( plus the black body hairs she never really got rid of—maybe she couldn ’ t pull them out by the root , she was really dark ) , he might stop liking Silvia and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ asked around a little and decided we had to go to the Virgin ’ s Pool , which was the best , the cleanest .
It was also the biggest , deepest , and most dangerous of all .
It was really far , nearly at the end of the 307 route , after the bus merged onto the highway .
The Virgin ’ s Pool was special , people said , because almost no one ever went there .
The danger that kept swimmers away wasn ’ t how deep it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ someone had bought the place , and we accepted that ; none of us knew what a quarry pool was good for or if it could be bought , but , still , it didn ’ t strike us as odd that the pool would have an owner , and we understood why this owner wouldn ’ t want strangers swimming on his property .
It was said that when there were trespassers the owner would drive out from behind a hill and start shooting .
Sometimes he also set his dogs on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ quarry pool with a giant altar , a grotto for the Virgin on one side of the main pool .
You could reach it by going around the pool along a dirt path that started at an improvised entrance from the road , which was marked by a narrow iron arch .
On the other side was the hill over which the owner ’ s truck could appear at any moment .
The water in front of the Virgin was still and black .
On the near side there was a little beach @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Saturday that January .
The days were torrid and the water was so cold : it was like sinking into a miracle .
We even forgot Diego and Silvia a little .
They had also forgotten each other , enchanted by the coolness and the secrecy .
We tried to keep quiet , to not make any racket that could wake the hidden owner .
We never saw anyone else , although sometimes other people were at the bus stop on the way back , and they must have assumed we were coming @ @ @ @ @ @ @ hair and the smell that stuck to our skin , a scent of rock and salt .
Once , the bus driver said something strange to us : that we should watch out for wild dogs on the loose .
We shivered , but the next weekend we were as alone as ever—we didn ’ t even hear a distant bark .
And we could see that Diego was starting to take an interest in our golden thighs , our slender ankles , our flat stomachs .
He still kept closer to Silvia @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , even if by then he ’ d realized that we were much , much prettier .
The problem was that the two of them were very good swimmers , and although they played with us in the water and taught us a few things , sometimes they got bored and swam off with fast , precise strokes .
It was impossible to catch up with them .
The pool was really huge ; from the shallows we could see their two dark heads bobbing on the surface , and we could see @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no idea what they were saying .
They laughed a lot , that ’ s for sure , and Silvia ’ s laugh was raucous and we had to tell her to keep it down .
The two of them looked so happy .
We knew that very soon they would remember how much they liked each other , and that the summer coolness near the highway was temporary .
We had to put a stop to it .
We had found Diego , and she couldn ’ t keep everything for herself @ @ @ @ @ @ @ The first time he took off his shirt , we discovered that his shoulders were strong and hunched , and his back was narrow and had a sandy color , just above his pants , that was simply beautiful .
He taught us to make a roach clip out of a matchbook , and he watched out for us , making sure we didn ’ t get in the water when we were too crazy—he didn ’ t want us getting high and drowning .
He ripped CDs of the bands that according @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , and later he ’ d quiz us ; it was adorable how he got all happy when he could tell we ’ d really liked one of his favorites .
We listened devotedly and looked for messages—was he trying to tell us something ?
Just in case , we even used a dictionary to translate the songs that were in English ; we ’ d read them to one another over the phone and discuss them .
It was very confusing—there were all kinds of conflicting signs .
All speculation was brought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ knife had sliced through our spines—when we found out that Silvia and Diego were dating .
When !
How !
They were older , they didn ’ t have curfews , Silvia had her own apartment , how stupid we ’ d been to apply our little-kid limitations to them .
We sneaked out a lot , sure , but we were controlled by schedules , cell phones , and parents who all knew one another and drove us places—out dancing or to the rec center , friends ’ houses , home .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ they were nothing spectacular .
In fact , Silvia and Diego had been seeing each other without us at night for a while .
Sometimes he went to pick her up at the ministry and they went out for a drink , and other times they slept together at her apartment .
No doubt they smoked pot from Silvia ’ s plant in bed after sex .
We were sixteen , and some of us hadn ’ t had sex yet—it was terrible .
We ’ d sucked cock , yes , we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fucking , only some of us had done that .
Oh , we just hated it .
We wanted Diego for ourselves .
Not as our boyfriend—we just wanted him to screw us , to teach us sex the same way he taught us about rock and roll , making drinks , and the butterfly stroke .
Of all of us , Natalia was the most obsessed .
She was still a virgin .
She said she was saving herself for someone who was worth it , and Diego was worth it .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ head she hardly ever backed down .
Once , when her parents had forbidden her to go dancing for a week—her grades were a disaster—she ’ d taken twenty of her mom ’ s pills .
In the end they let her go dancing , but they also sent her to a psychologist .
Natalia skipped the sessions and spent the money on stuff for herself .
With Diego , she wanted something special .
She didn ’ t want to throw herself at him .
She wanted him to want her , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ drive him crazy .
But at parties , when she tried to talk to him , Diego just flashed her a sideways smile and went on with his conversation with one of us other girls .
He didn ’ t answer her calls , and , if he did , the conversations were always languid and he always cut them off .
At the quarry pool he didn ’ t stare at her body , her long , strong legs and firm ass , or else he looked at her the way he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , for example .
Now , that Natalia couldn ’ t believe .
She didn ’ t know how to swim , but she got wet near the shore and then came out of the water with her yellow swimsuit stuck to her tan body so tight you could see her nipples , hard from the cold water .
And Natalia knew that any other boy who saw her would kill himself jacking off , but not Diego , no—he preferred that flat-assed skank !
We all agreed it was incomprehensible .
One @ @ @ @ @ @ @ way to P.E .
class , Natalia told us she ’ d put menstrual blood in Diego ’ s coffee .
She ’ d done it at Silvia ’ s house—where else !
It was just the three of them , and at one point Diego and Silvia went to the kitchen for a few minutes to get the coffee and cookies , although the coffee was already served on the table .
Real quick , Natalia poured in the blood she ’ d managed to collect—very little—in a tiny bottle from a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ out the blood from cotton gauze , which was disgusting ; she normally used pads or tampons , the cotton was just so she could get the blood .
She diluted it a little in water , but she said it should work all the same .
She ’ d got the technique from a parapsychology book , which claimed that while the method was not very hygienic , it was an infallible way to snag your beloved .
It didn ’ t work .
A week after Diego drank Natalia ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ were dating , it was official .
The next time we saw them , they couldn ’ t keep their hands off each other .
That weekend when we went to the quarry pool they were holding hands , and we just couldn ’ t understand it .
We couldn ’ t understand it .
The red bikini with hearts on one of us ; the super-flat stomach with a belly-button piercing on another ; the exquisite haircut that fell just so over the face ; legs without a single hair , underarms @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
Why ?
Because he screwed her ?
But we wanted to screw , too , that was all we wanted !
How could he not realize , when we sat on his lap and pressed our asses into him , or tried to brush our hands against his dick like by accident ?
Or when we laughed close to his mouth , showing our tongues .
Why didn ’ t we just throw ourselves at him , once and for all ?
Because it was true for all of us , it @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Natalia ’ s—we wanted Diego to choose us .
We wanted to be with him still wet from the cold quarry water , to fuck him one after the other as he lay on the little beach , to wait for the owner ’ s gunshots and run to the highway half-naked under a rain of bullets .
But no .
There we were in all our glory , and he was over there kissing on old , flat-ass Silvia .
The sun was burning and flat-ass Silvia ’ s nose was peeling @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she was a disaster .
We , though , were impeccable .
At one point , Diego seemed to realize .
He looked at us differently , as if comprehending that he was with an ugly skank .
And he said , “ Why don ’ t we swim over to the Virgin ?
” Natalia went pale , because she didn ’ t know how to swim .
The rest of us did , but we didn ’ t dare cross the quarry , it was so wide and deep , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be no one to save us , we were in the middle of nowhere .
Diego read our thoughts : “ How about Sil and I swim over , you guys walk along the edge and we ’ ll meet there .
I want to see the altar up close .
Are you up for it ?
” We said yes , sure , though we were concerned because if he was calling her “ Sil ” then maybe our impression that he was looking at us differently was wrong , but we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ true and we were going kind of crazy .
We started to walk .
Getting around the quarry wasn ’ t easy ; it seemed much smaller when you were sitting on the little beach .
It was huge .
It must have been three blocks long .
Diego and Silvia went faster than us , and we saw their dark heads appear at intervals , shining golden under the sun , so luminous , and their arms plowing slippery through the water .
At one point they had to stop , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sun beating down on us , dust plastered to our bodies with sweat , some of us with headaches from the heat and the harsh light in our eyes , walking as if uphill—we saw them stop and talk , and Silvia laughed , throwing back her head and treading water , paddling with her arms to stay afloat .
It was too far to swim in one go , they weren ’ t professionals .
But Natalia got the feeling that they hadn ’ t stopped just because they were tired , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ That bitch has something up her sleeve , ” she said , and she kept walking toward the Virgin we could barely see inside the grotto .
Diego and Silvia reached the Virgin ’ s grotto just as we were turning right to walk the final fifty yards .
They must have seen the way we were panting , our armpits stinking like onion and our hair stuck to our temples .
They looked at us closely , laughed the same way they had when they ’ d stopped swimming , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and started swimming as fast as they could back to the little beach .
Just like that .
We heard their mocking laughter along with the splash .
“ Bye , girls !
” Silvia shouted triumphantly as she set off swimming , and we were frozen there in spite of the heat—weird , we were frozen and hotter than ever , our ears burning in embarrassment as we cast about desperately for a comeback and watched them glide away , laughing at the dummies who didn ’ t know how to swim @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the Virgin that now no one felt like looking at , that none of us had ever really wanted to see .
We looked at Natalia .
She was so filled with rage that the tears wouldn ’ t fall from her eyes .
We told her we should go back .
She said no , she wanted to see the Virgin .
We were tired and ashamed , and we sat down to smoke , saying that we would wait for her .

Silvia lived alone in a rented apartment of her own, with a five-foot-tall pot plant on the balcony and a giant bedroom with a mattress on the floor. She had her own office at the Ministry of Education, and a salary; she dyed her long hair jet black and wore Indian blouses with sleeves that were wide at the wrists and silver thread that shimmered in the sunlight. She had the provincial last name of Olavarría and a cousin who had disappeared mysteriously while travelling around Mexico. She was our “grownup” friend, the one who took care of us when we went out and let us use her place to smoke weed and meet up with boys. But we wanted her ruined, helpless, destroyed. Because Silvia always knew more: if one of us discovered Frida Kahlo, oh, Silvia had already visited Frida’s house with her cousin in Mexico, before he vanished. If we tried a new drug, she had already overdosed on the same substance. If we discovered a band we liked, she had already got over her fandom of the same group. We hated that her long, heavy, straight hair was colored with a dye we couldn’t find in any normal beauty salon. What brand was it? She probably would have told us, but we would never ask. We hated that she always had money, enough for another beer, another ten grams, another pizza. How was it possible? She claimed that in addition to her salary she had access to her father’s account; he was rich, she never saw him, and he hadn’t acknowledged paternity, but he did deposit money for her in the bank. It was a lie, surely. As much a lie as when she said that her sister was a model: we’d seen the girl when she came to visit Silvia and she wasn’t worth three shits, a runty little skank with a big ass and wild curls plastered with gel that couldn’t have looked any greasier. I’m talking low-class—that girl couldn’t dream of walking a runway.
But above all we wanted Silvia brought down because Diego liked her. We’d met Diego in Bariloche on our senior-class trip. He was thin and had bushy eyebrows, and he always wore a different Rolling Stones shirt (one with the tongue, another with the cover of “Tattoo You,” another with Jagger clutching a microphone whose cord morphed into a snake). Diego had played us songs on the acoustic guitar after the horseback ride when it got dark near Cerro Catedral, and later in the hotel he showed us the precise measurements of vodka and orange juice to make a good screwdriver. He was nice to us, but he only wanted to kiss us, he wouldn’t sleep with us, maybe because he was older (he’d repeated a grade, he was eighteen), or maybe he just didn’t like us that way. Then, once we were back in Buenos Aires, we called to invite him to a party. He paid attention to us for a while, until Silvia started chatting him up. And from then on he kept treating us well, it’s true, but Silvia totally took over and kept him spellbound (or dumbfounded—opinions were divided), telling stories about Mexico and peyote and sugar skulls. She was older, too, she’d been out of high school for two years. Diego hadn’t travelled much, but he wanted to go backpacking in the north that year. Silvia had already made that trip (of course!), and she gave him advice, telling him to call her for recommendations on cheap hotels and on families who would rent out rooms, and he bought every word, in spite of the fact that Silvia didn’t have a single photo, not one, as proof of that trip or any other—she was quite the traveller.
Silvia was the one who came up with the idea of the quarry pools that summer, and we had to hand it to her, it was a really good idea. Silvia hated public pools and country-club pools, even the pools at estates or weekend houses; she said the water wasn’t fresh, it always felt stagnant to her. Since the nearest river was polluted, she didn’t have anywhere to swim. We were all, like, “Who does Silvia think she is, she acts like she was born on a beach in the South of France.” But Diego listened to her explanation of why she wanted “fresh” water and he was totally in agreement. They talked a little more about oceans and waterfalls and streams, and then Silvia mentioned the quarry pools. Someone at her work had told her that you could find a ton of them off the southern highway, and that people hardly ever went swimming in them because they were scared, supposedly the pools were dangerous. And that’s where she suggested we all go the next weekend, and we agreed right away because we knew Diego would say yes, and we didn’t want the two of them going alone. Maybe if he saw how ugly her body was—she had some really tubby legs, which she claimed were that way because she’d played hockey when she was little, but half of us had played hockey, too, and none of us had those big ham hocks. Plus she had a flat ass and broad hips, which was why jeans never fit her well. If Diego saw those defects (plus the black body hairs she never really got rid of—maybe she couldn’t pull them out by the root, she was really dark), he might stop liking Silvia and finally pay attention to us.
She asked around a little and decided we had to go to the Virgin’s Pool, which was the best, the cleanest. It was also the biggest, deepest, and most dangerous of all. It was really far, nearly at the end of the 307 route, after the bus merged onto the highway. The Virgin’s Pool was special, people said, because almost no one ever went there. The danger that kept swimmers away wasn’t how deep it was: it was the owner. Apparently someone had bought the place, and we accepted that; none of us knew what a quarry pool was good for or if it could be bought, but, still, it didn’t strike us as odd that the pool would have an owner, and we understood why this owner wouldn’t want strangers swimming on his property.
It was said that when there were trespassers the owner would drive out from behind a hill and start shooting. Sometimes he also set his dogs on them. He had decorated his private quarry pool with a giant altar, a grotto for the Virgin on one side of the main pool. You could reach it by going around the pool along a dirt path that started at an improvised entrance from the road, which was marked by a narrow iron arch. On the other side was the hill over which the owner’s truck could appear at any moment. The water in front of the Virgin was still and black. On the near side there was a little beach of clayey dirt.
We went every Saturday that January. The days were torrid and the water was so cold: it was like sinking into a miracle. We even forgot Diego and Silvia a little. They had also forgotten each other, enchanted by the coolness and the secrecy. We tried to keep quiet, to not make any racket that could wake the hidden owner. We never saw anyone else, although sometimes other people were at the bus stop on the way back, and they must have assumed we were coming from the quarry because of our wet hair and the smell that stuck to our skin, a scent of rock and salt. Once, the bus driver said something strange to us: that we should watch out for wild dogs on the loose. We shivered, but the next weekend we were as alone as ever—we didn’t even hear a distant bark.
And we could see that Diego was starting to take an interest in our golden thighs, our slender ankles, our flat stomachs. He still kept closer to Silvia and he still seemed fascinated by her, even if by then he’d realized that we were much, much prettier. The problem was that the two of them were very good swimmers, and although they played with us in the water and taught us a few things, sometimes they got bored and swam off with fast, precise strokes. It was impossible to catch up with them. The pool was really huge; from the shallows we could see their two dark heads bobbing on the surface, and we could see their lips moving, but we had no idea what they were saying. They laughed a lot, that’s for sure, and Silvia’s laugh was raucous and we had to tell her to keep it down. The two of them looked so happy. We knew that very soon they would remember how much they liked each other, and that the summer coolness near the highway was temporary. We had to put a stop to it. We had found Diego, and she couldn’t keep everything for herself.
Diego looked better every day. The first time he took off his shirt, we discovered that his shoulders were strong and hunched, and his back was narrow and had a sandy color, just above his pants, that was simply beautiful. He taught us to make a roach clip out of a matchbook, and he watched out for us, making sure we didn’t get in the water when we were too crazy—he didn’t want us getting high and drowning. He ripped CDs of the bands that according to him we just had to hear, and later he’d quiz us; it was adorable how he got all happy when he could tell we’d really liked one of his favorites. We listened devotedly and looked for messages—was he trying to tell us something? Just in case, we even used a dictionary to translate the songs that were in English; we’d read them to one another over the phone and discuss them. It was very confusing—there were all kinds of conflicting signs.
All speculation was brought to an abrupt halt—as if a cold knife had sliced through our spines—when we found out that Silvia and Diego were dating. When! How! They were older, they didn’t have curfews, Silvia had her own apartment, how stupid we’d been to apply our little-kid limitations to them. We sneaked out a lot, sure, but we were controlled by schedules, cell phones, and parents who all knew one another and drove us places—out dancing or to the rec center, friends’ houses, home.
The details came soon enough, and they were nothing spectacular. In fact, Silvia and Diego had been seeing each other without us at night for a while. Sometimes he went to pick her up at the ministry and they went out for a drink, and other times they slept together at her apartment. No doubt they smoked pot from Silvia’s plant in bed after sex. We were sixteen, and some of us hadn’t had sex yet—it was terrible. We’d sucked cock, yes, we were quite good at that, but fucking, only some of us had done that. Oh, we just hated it. We wanted Diego for ourselves. Not as our boyfriend—we just wanted him to screw us, to teach us sex the same way he taught us about rock and roll, making drinks, and the butterfly stroke.
Of all of us, Natalia was the most obsessed. She was still a virgin. She said she was saving herself for someone who was worth it, and Diego was worth it. And once she got something into her head she hardly ever backed down. Once, when her parents had forbidden her to go dancing for a week—her grades were a disaster—she’d taken twenty of her mom’s pills. In the end they let her go dancing, but they also sent her to a psychologist. Natalia skipped the sessions and spent the money on stuff for herself. With Diego, she wanted something special. She didn’t want to throw herself at him. She wanted him to want her, to like her, she wanted to drive him crazy. But at parties, when she tried to talk to him, Diego just flashed her a sideways smile and went on with his conversation with one of us other girls. He didn’t answer her calls, and, if he did, the conversations were always languid and he always cut them off. At the quarry pool he didn’t stare at her body, her long, strong legs and firm ass, or else he looked at her the way he would at a pretty boring plant—a ficus, for example. Now, that Natalia couldn’t believe. She didn’t know how to swim, but she got wet near the shore and then came out of the water with her yellow swimsuit stuck to her tan body so tight you could see her nipples, hard from the cold water. And Natalia knew that any other boy who saw her would kill himself jacking off, but not Diego, no—he preferred that flat-assed skank! We all agreed it was incomprehensible.
One afternoon, when we were on our way to P.E. class, Natalia told us she’d put menstrual blood in Diego’s coffee. She’d done it at Silvia’s house—where else! It was just the three of them, and at one point Diego and Silvia went to the kitchen for a few minutes to get the coffee and cookies, although the coffee was already served on the table. Real quick, Natalia poured in the blood she’d managed to collect—very little—in a tiny bottle from a perfume sample. She’d wrung out the blood from cotton gauze, which was disgusting; she normally used pads or tampons, the cotton was just so she could get the blood. She diluted it a little in water, but she said it should work all the same. She’d got the technique from a parapsychology book, which claimed that while the method was not very hygienic, it was an infallible way to snag your beloved.
It didn’t work. A week after Diego drank Natalia’s blood, Silvia herself told us they were dating, it was official. The next time we saw them, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. That weekend when we went to the quarry pool they were holding hands, and we just couldn’t understand it. We couldn’t understand it. The red bikini with hearts on one of us; the super-flat stomach with a belly-button piercing on another; the exquisite haircut that fell just so over the face; legs without a single hair, underarms like marble. And he preferred her? Why? Because he screwed her? But we wanted to screw, too, that was all we wanted! How could he not realize, when we sat on his lap and pressed our asses into him, or tried to brush our hands against his dick like by accident? Or when we laughed close to his mouth, showing our tongues. Why didn’t we just throw ourselves at him, once and for all? Because it was true for all of us, it wasn’t just an obsession of Natalia’s—we wanted Diego to choose us. We wanted to be with him still wet from the cold quarry water, to fuck him one after the other as he lay on the little beach, to wait for the owner’s gunshots and run to the highway half-naked under a rain of bullets.
But no. There we were in all our glory, and he was over there kissing on old, flat-ass Silvia. The sun was burning and flat-ass Silvia’s nose was peeling, she used the crappiest sunscreen, she was a disaster. We, though, were impeccable. At one point, Diego seemed to realize. He looked at us differently, as if comprehending that he was with an ugly skank. And he said, “Why don’t we swim over to the Virgin?” Natalia went pale, because she didn’t know how to swim. The rest of us did, but we didn’t dare cross the quarry, it was so wide and deep, and if we started to drown there would be no one to save us, we were in the middle of nowhere. Diego read our thoughts: “How about Sil and I swim over, you guys walk along the edge and we’ll meet there. I want to see the altar up close. Are you up for it?”
We said yes, sure, though we were concerned because if he was calling her “Sil” then maybe our impression that he was looking at us differently was wrong, but we were just dying for it to be true and we were going kind of crazy. We started to walk. Getting around the quarry wasn’t easy; it seemed much smaller when you were sitting on the little beach. It was huge. It must have been three blocks long. Diego and Silvia went faster than us, and we saw their dark heads appear at intervals, shining golden under the sun, so luminous, and their arms plowing slippery through the water. At one point they had to stop, and, as we watched from the shore—the sun beating down on us, dust plastered to our bodies with sweat, some of us with headaches from the heat and the harsh light in our eyes, walking as if uphill—we saw them stop and talk, and Silvia laughed, throwing back her head and treading water, paddling with her arms to stay afloat. It was too far to swim in one go, they weren’t professionals. But Natalia got the feeling that they hadn’t stopped just because they were tired, she thought they were plotting something. “That bitch has something up her sleeve,” she said, and she kept walking toward the Virgin we could barely see inside the grotto.


newyorker--2020-12-14--Can Kid Art Be Real Art?

Can Kid Art Be Real Art?

A thought prompted by a pair of untitled paintings currently on display at the Queens Museum : My kid could do that .
.
.
but thank God my kid didn ’ t do that .
Executed in what looks like tempera , the first painting depicts two tall teal-colored slabs .
In the second painting , one of the slabs is now stabbed by a pointy , angry red shape that could be an airplane or an explosion or both , because the subject , of course , is 9/11 .
The unknown painter , an actual child , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ kids to untangle their emotions about the attacks through painting and drawing .
Some of the resulting works are now part of a small but lively exhibition of kid art , dating back to 1900 , that will remain on view at the museum , in Flushing Meadows–Corona Park , until mid-January .
Can kid art be art art ?
Can it have not just psychological or sentimental import but genuine cultural worth ?
Can it even be “ good ” ?
Well , maybe .
“ Children ’ s art isn ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ It ’ s treated as ephemera , ” Amy Zion , the curator of the Queens Museum show , said .
“ We don ’ t really have a language to critically engage with it.
” ( Some might argue that this is to kid art ’ s benefit . )
The exhibition has a complicated backstory .
It began with an adult artist named Ulrike Müller , who was commissioned , in 2019 , to create a temporary floor-to-ceiling mural in the Queens Museum ’ s lobby .
That work , also @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of indeterminate species , monumental in scale yet drawn with a childlike simplicity of line and shape .
Müller was partly inspired by “ The Animals ’ Conference , ” an allegorical picture book published in 1949 , by Erich Kästner , in which the world ’ s beasts band together to rid the planet of war and bureaucracy , disgusted by the slow pace of human diplomacy .
( They should see us now ! )
The mural ’ s palette , though muted , evokes the W.P.A .
murals of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ garish aesthetic of the 1964 New York World ’ s Fair .
The museum is home to one of the fair ’ s main attractions : the Panorama of the City of New York , an insanely detailed scale model—roughly the size of two basketball courts .
A further strand of inspiration , Müller said , was a conversation she had with one of her art students at the Cooper Union , “ who , as a child , lived in lower Manhattan , and told me that for a long time after @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of all kinds of objects ” —cats ’ ears among them .
That kind of charged kid art , Müller felt , might illuminate and even comment on her own work .
She asked the museum about the possibility of installing some alongside her mural .
Children ’ s art can be difficult to curate .
Aside from parents stashing it away in the dustier reaches of attics and storage units , it has tended to be valued and preserved only when its scribblers have gone on to be famous adult artists , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ propagandistic purpose , such as bearing heart-wrenching witness to war or injustice , with atrocities depicted in styles usually reserved for drawings of pets or happy families .
In the process of curating the show , Zion found examples of both genres .
A domestic interior by Louise Nevelson ( née Berliawsky ) when she was about three betrays an eye for detail befitting the future sculptor of intricate wooden assemblages ; a drawing by the roughly nine-year-old Philip Howard Evergood pokes fun at a rich lady in a fancy hat several decades @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
muralist .
On the grimmer side are children ’ s views not only of 9/11 but of the Holocaust , the conflict in Kosovo , and the civil wars in Spain and Sierra Leone—the latter including a brightly colored painting of a boy being chased by another boy who is wielding what appears to be a club .
Zion said that she and Müller tried to broaden the usual curatorial boundaries for kid art by including works with no obvious art-historical or political context—works that could simply be described as “ good @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that exact term .
Both said that they are fascinated by kids ’ approaches to perspective and the sometimes ingenious ways in which they organize space .
Examples , culled from several caches of decades-old work mainly by New York City schoolchildren , include a dramatically angled and foregrounded pool table that Cézanne could have sketched , and a street scene with vertical climbs worthy of Wayne Thiebaud ’ s San Francisco paintings .
“ These aren ’ t just any kids , ” Zion said .
“ They are very talented artists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ becoming professional artists , but their control of the page is really fantastic.
” One small but unfortunate by-product of the pandemic is that the busloads of schoolchildren who would normally be pouring into the museum every day on field trips aren ’ t able to encounter these works by their forebears .
What might they make of the exhibit , if they slowed down to take it in while tromping to and from the Panorama ( where , by the way , the Twin Towers still stand ) , and then on @ @ @ @ @ @

A thought prompted by a pair of untitled paintings currently on display at the Queens Museum: My kid could do that . . . but thank God my kid didn’t do that. Executed in what looks like tempera, the first painting depicts two tall teal-colored slabs. In the second painting, one of the slabs is now stabbed by a pointy, angry red shape that could be an airplane or an explosion or both, because the subject, of course, is 9/11. The unknown painter, an actual child, had participated in a program that encouraged kids to untangle their emotions about the attacks through painting and drawing. Some of the resulting works are now part of a small but lively exhibition of kid art, dating back to 1900, that will remain on view at the museum, in Flushing Meadows–Corona Park, until mid-January.
Can kid art be art art? Can it have not just psychological or sentimental import but genuine cultural worth? Can it even be “good”? Well, maybe. “Children’s art isn’t really treated as art normally. It’s treated as ephemera,” Amy Zion, the curator of the Queens Museum show, said. “We don’t really have a language to critically engage with it.” (Some might argue that this is to kid art’s benefit.)
The exhibition has a complicated backstory. It began with an adult artist named Ulrike Müller, who was commissioned, in 2019, to create a temporary floor-to-ceiling mural in the Queens Museum’s lobby. That work, also now on view, depicts several animals of indeterminate species, monumental in scale yet drawn with a childlike simplicity of line and shape. Müller was partly inspired by “The Animals’ Conference,” an allegorical picture book published in 1949, by Erich Kästner, in which the world’s beasts band together to rid the planet of war and bureaucracy, disgusted by the slow pace of human diplomacy. (They should see us now!) The mural’s palette, though muted, evokes the W.P.A. murals of the nineteen-thirties as well as the slightly more garish aesthetic of the 1964 New York World’s Fair. The museum is home to one of the fair’s main attractions: the Panorama of the City of New York, an insanely detailed scale model—roughly the size of two basketball courts.
A further strand of inspiration, Müller said, was a conversation she had with one of her art students at the Cooper Union, “who, as a child, lived in lower Manhattan, and told me that for a long time after 9/11 she was drawing smoke coming out of all kinds of objects”—cats’ ears among them. That kind of charged kid art, Müller felt, might illuminate and even comment on her own work. She asked the museum about the possibility of installing some alongside her mural.
Children’s art can be difficult to curate. Aside from parents stashing it away in the dustier reaches of attics and storage units, it has tended to be valued and preserved only when its scribblers have gone on to be famous adult artists, or when the work can serve some propagandistic purpose, such as bearing heart-wrenching witness to war or injustice, with atrocities depicted in styles usually reserved for drawings of pets or happy families. In the process of curating the show, Zion found examples of both genres. A domestic interior by Louise Nevelson (née Berliawsky) when she was about three betrays an eye for detail befitting the future sculptor of intricate wooden assemblages; a drawing by the roughly nine-year-old Philip Howard Evergood pokes fun at a rich lady in a fancy hat several decades before Evergood became a socially conscious W.P.A. muralist. On the grimmer side are children’s views not only of 9/11 but of the Holocaust, the conflict in Kosovo, and the civil wars in Spain and Sierra Leone—the latter including a brightly colored painting of a boy being chased by another boy who is wielding what appears to be a club.
Zion said that she and Müller tried to broaden the usual curatorial boundaries for kid art by including works with no obvious art-historical or political context—works that could simply be described as “good,” though neither woman would use that exact term. Both said that they are fascinated by kids’ approaches to perspective and the sometimes ingenious ways in which they organize space. Examples, culled from several caches of decades-old work mainly by New York City schoolchildren, include a dramatically angled and foregrounded pool table that Cézanne could have sketched, and a street scene with vertical climbs worthy of Wayne Thiebaud’s San Francisco paintings. “These aren’t just any kids,” Zion said. “They are very talented artists who probably didn’t end up becoming professional artists, but their control of the page is really fantastic.”
One small but unfortunate by-product of the pandemic is that the busloads of schoolchildren who would normally be pouring into the museum every day on field trips aren’t able to encounter these works by their forebears. What might they make of the exhibit, if they slowed down to take it in while tromping to and from the Panorama (where, by the way, the Twin Towers still stand), and then on to the gift shop? ♦


newyorker--2020-12-14--What are the Odds That Trump Pardons Himself?

Morrow runs the odds-making operation at Bovada , an online sports book .
This year , with the N.C.A.A .
Tournament cancelled and the Olympics postponed , Bovada has cleaned up on political wagering .
It has allowed bets on everything from Biden ’ s running mate ( Kamala Harris led for weeks ) to which word Trump would say first at a post-election press conference ( “ fraud ” and “ steal ” lost to “ count , ” a heavy underdog ) .
“ If you are a patriotic American concerned about the electoral process , that ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said , of the press-conference bet .
“ But it got great engagement.
” The latest action is on Bovada ’ s pardon market .
From the start , the former Trump campaign chair Paul Manafort has been the favorite to receive a pardon , at minus 400 ( a winner must bet four hundred bucks on him in order to make a hundred ) .
He is trailed by the campaign advisers George Papadopoulos ( minus 325 ) and Rick Gates ( minus 300 ) .
When setting lines for events like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and probabilities .
But for pardons , Morrow said , “ we really just went through a Who ’ s Who of people who are in trouble , and who have some kind of connection to Trump.
” He added , “ Who would be in his best interest ?
Bannon makes sense , Gates makes sense , Manafort really , really , really makes sense.
” For those looking for a potential dark horse , Julian Assange is plus 250 : a hundred-dollar wager would net two hundred and fifty .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one , ” Morrow said .
“ That ’ s probably not fair .
I would recommend not betting that.
” Getting in on the pardon game requires a working knowledge of constitutional law .
“ I wasn ’ t sure if we wanted to put Trump himself as an option , because there ’ s still some legal discussion as to whether that ’ s possible , ” Morrow said .
Trump made the cut as a plus-160 dog .
Initially , his three eldest children did not .
“ We thought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ do it , ” Morrow said .
But , when the Times reported that Trump was , in fact , discussing the matter with advisers , the lines went up .
They ’ re currently plus 130 .
Jared Kushner is plus 150 .
Rudy Giuliani posed another quandary .
Can a President preëmptively pardon someone who hasn ’ t been charged with a crime ?
Giuliani began as a bargain , plus 240 .
“ That one was probably a mistake on our side , ” Morrow said .
“ I personally @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I would suggest that perhaps the trader behind it was thinking that , as it currently stands , Rudy doesn ’ t have any indictments pending.
” Bettors hammered the line all the way down to plus 140 .
Giuliani is now the most popular wager on the board .
Trump is second .
The election itself accounted for a quarter of Bovada ’ s 2020 revenue .
( “ It was bigger than Mayweather-McGregor !
” Morrow said . )
About two-thirds of the money was on Trump , though most savvy @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
The Biden bettors were paid only after the votes were certified .
Morrow is now concerned about the tiny chance that the certifications will be overturned ; he ’ d have to pay out the Trump wagers , too .
“ But , in the grand scheme of things , what ’ s a quarter of a year ’ s revenue versus , you know , the republic being torn apart ?
” Morrow asked .
“ That ’ s actually kind of given me a weird bit of peace.
” How @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kyrollos , a prominent professional gambler who goes by Spanky , recommended betting against the news .
That strategy returned a big profit for him on Election Night .
The market went crazy after Trump , then the underdog , won Florida .
“ I was trading until 4 a.m. , ” Spanky said .
“ Trump was a three-to-one favorite .
When I wake up , Trump becomes a three-to-one dog .
And then , by 7 p.m. , that became a ten- or fifteen-to-one underdog .
You never see movement like @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a lifetime .
Almost like last weekend ’ s Jets game .
Although that might have been on purpose.
” Despite the windfall , Spanky and his partners are sitting out the pardon market .
“ If we ’ re not getting down fifty , a hundred thousand a game , we ’ re really not into it , ” he said .
Plus , it ’ s personal .
Eight years ago , Spanky was pinched in a gambling bust .
He maintains that he was simply a bettor ( legal ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was moving convinced the police that he must be a bookie ( illegal ) .
He pleaded guilty to avoid a trial .
Officially , he ’ s a felon .
Earlier this year , he petitioned both Trump and Andrew Cuomo , on Twitter , for a pardon .
“ I ’ m a hundred to one , ” Spanky said .
♦

Rudy Giuliani and Paul Manafort Illustration by João Fazenda
It’s Presidential pardon season! For obstructors of justice and launderers of foreign cash, the waning days of the Trump Administration might as well be the Super Bowl. Historically, this end-of-term bonanza has been the domain of a privileged guilty few, with the general public cut out of the action. But times change. Recently, a man named Pat Morrow surveyed the scene and thought, What if I gave you two-to-one odds on Giuliani?
Morrow runs the odds-making operation at Bovada, an online sports book. This year, with the N.C.A.A. Tournament cancelled and the Olympics postponed, Bovada has cleaned up on political wagering. It has allowed bets on everything from Biden’s running mate (Kamala Harris led for weeks) to which word Trump would say first at a post-election press conference (“fraud” and “steal” lost to “count,” a heavy underdog). “If you are a patriotic American concerned about the electoral process, that’s kind of depressing,” Morrow said, of the press-conference bet. “But it got great engagement.”
The latest action is on Bovada’s pardon market. From the start, the former Trump campaign chair Paul Manafort has been the favorite to receive a pardon, at minus 400 (a winner must bet four hundred bucks on him in order to make a hundred). He is trailed by the campaign advisers George Papadopoulos (minus 325) and Rick Gates (minus 300). When setting lines for events like a Mets game, Bovada uses stats and probabilities. But for pardons, Morrow said, “we really just went through a Who’s Who of people who are in trouble, and who have some kind of connection to Trump.” He added, “Who would be in his best interest? Bannon makes sense, Gates makes sense, Manafort really, really, really makes sense.” For those looking for a potential dark horse, Julian Assange is plus 250: a hundred-dollar wager would net two hundred and fifty. “Ghislaine Maxwell’s at three to one,” Morrow said. “That’s probably not fair. I would recommend not betting that.”
Getting in on the pardon game requires a working knowledge of constitutional law. “I wasn’t sure if we wanted to put Trump himself as an option, because there’s still some legal discussion as to whether that’s possible,” Morrow said. Trump made the cut as a plus-160 dog. Initially, his three eldest children did not. “We thought he did not have the power to do it,” Morrow said. But, when the Times reported that Trump was, in fact, discussing the matter with advisers, the lines went up. They’re currently plus 130. Jared Kushner is plus 150.
Rudy Giuliani posed another quandary. Can a President preëmptively pardon someone who hasn’t been charged with a crime? Giuliani began as a bargain, plus 240. “That one was probably a mistake on our side,” Morrow said. “I personally didn’t price this one. I would suggest that perhaps the trader behind it was thinking that, as it currently stands, Rudy doesn’t have any indictments pending.” Bettors hammered the line all the way down to plus 140. Giuliani is now the most popular wager on the board. Trump is second.
The election itself accounted for a quarter of Bovada’s 2020 revenue. (“It was bigger than Mayweather-McGregor!” Morrow said.) About two-thirds of the money was on Trump, though most savvy bettors, or sharps, bet Biden. The Biden bettors were paid only after the votes were certified. Morrow is now concerned about the tiny chance that the certifications will be overturned; he’d have to pay out the Trump wagers, too. “But, in the grand scheme of things, what’s a quarter of a year’s revenue versus, you know, the republic being torn apart?” Morrow asked. “That’s actually kind of given me a weird bit of peace.”
How are the sharps approaching pardons? Gadoon Kyrollos, a prominent professional gambler who goes by Spanky, recommended betting against the news. That strategy returned a big profit for him on Election Night. The market went crazy after Trump, then the underdog, won Florida. “I was trading until 4 a.m.,” Spanky said. “Trump was a three-to-one favorite. When I wake up, Trump becomes a three-to-one dog. And then, by 7 p.m., that became a ten- or fifteen-to-one underdog. You never see movement like that. That’s once in a lifetime. Almost like last weekend’s Jets game. Although that might have been on purpose.”
Despite the windfall, Spanky and his partners are sitting out the pardon market. “If we’re not getting down fifty, a hundred thousand a game, we’re really not into it,” he said. Plus, it’s personal. Eight years ago, Spanky was pinched in a gambling bust. He maintains that he was simply a bettor (legal), but that the large sums he was moving convinced the police that he must be a bookie (illegal). He pleaded guilty to avoid a trial. Officially, he’s a felon. Earlier this year, he petitioned both Trump and Andrew Cuomo, on Twitter, for a pardon. “I’m a hundred to one,” Spanky said. ♦


newyorker--2020-12-14--America’s War on Syrian Civilians

America’s War on Syrian Civilians

As then , this battle was waged against an enemy bent on overthrowing an entire order , in an apparently nihilistic putsch against reason itself .
But Raqqa was no Normandy .
Although many Syrians fought valiantly against ISIS and lost their lives , the U.S. , apart from a few hundred Special Forces on the ground , relied on overwhelming airpower , prosecuting the entire war from a safe distance .
Not a single American died .
The U.S. still occasionally conducts conventional ground battles , as in Falluja , Iraq , where , in 2004 , troops engaged @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the battle for Raqqa—a war fought from cavernous control rooms thousands of miles away , or from aircraft thousands of feet in the sky—is the true face of modern American combat .
We have been conditioned to judge the merit of today ’ s wars by their conduct .
The United Nations upholds norms of warfare that , among other things , prohibit such acts as torture , rape , and hostage-taking .
Human-rights groups and international lawyers tend to designate a war “ humane ” when belligerents have avoided harming civilians as @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ Asymmetric Killing : Risk Avoidance , Just War , and the Warrior Ethos ” ( Oxford ) , Neil Renic , a scholar of international relations , challenges this standard .
He argues that , when assessing the humanity of a war , we should look not only to the fate of civilians but also to whether combatants have exposed themselves to risk on the battlefield .
Renic suggests that when one side fully removes itself from danger—even if it goes to considerable lengths to protect civilians—it violates the ethos of humane @ @ @ @ @ @ @ warfare is that fighters may kill one another at any time , excepting those who are rendered hors de combat , and must avoid targeting civilians .
It ’ s tempting to say that civilians enjoy this protected status because they are innocent , but , as Renic points out , civilians “ feed hungry armies , elect bellicose leaders , and educate future combatants.
” In Syria , home to a popular revolution , entire towns were mobilized for the war effort .
Civilians—even children—acted as lookouts , arms smugglers , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , is the type of danger that someone in a battle zone presents .
The moment that a person picks up a weapon , whether donning a uniform or not , he or she poses a direct and immediate danger .
This is the crucial distinction between armed personnel and civilians .
But what if the belligerents themselves don ’ t pose a direct and immediate danger ?
Renic argues that in such theatres as Pakistan , where Americans deploy remote-controlled drones to kill their enemies while rarely stepping foot on the battlefield @ @ @ @ @ @ @ fight back—meaning that , in terms of the threat that they constitute , they are no different from civilians .
It would then be just as wrong , Renic suggests , to unleash a Hellfire missile on a group of pickup-riding insurgents as it would be to annihilate a pickup-riding family en route to a picnic .
One might respond that , say , the Pakistani Taliban does pose an immediate threat to Pakistani civilians , if not to U.S. soldiers .
But Renic contends that the U.S. , by avoiding the battlefield @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for insurgents eager for a fight .
Whether this claim is correct or not , it ’ s clear that risk-free combat has brought warfare into new moral territory , requiring us to interrogate our old notions of battlefield right and wrong .
If we can distinguish combatants from civilians only by the danger that they pose to other combatants , then the long-distance violence of modern warfare is inhumane .
Renic concludes that the “ increasingly sterile , bureaucratized , and detached mode of American killing ” has the flavor of punishment @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sense .
In Barack Obama ’ s recent memoir , he writes that , as President , he wanted to save “ the millions of young men ” in the Muslim world who were “ warped and stunted by desperation , ignorance , dreams of religious glory , the violence of their surroundings.
” Yet he claims that , owing to where they lived , and the machinery at his disposal , he ended up “ killing them instead.
” Leaving aside Obama ’ s crude generalizations , Renic argues that he could @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” remote warfare .
Renic ’ s book is part of a broader trend of scholars and human-rights activists contending with the wreckage caused by America ’ s recent conflicts abroad .
Their studies share a basic quest : how can we use rules to make warfare more humane ?
Whereas Renic focusses on moral rules , much of this other work is concerned with legal rules .
In the aftermath of the Raqqa battle , Amnesty International and other organizations sifted through the rubble , carefully documenting whether this or that bombing @ @ @ @ @ @ @ This work is salutary , but a troubling question looms behind it : in our drive to subject the battlefield to rules , are we overlooking deeper moral truths about the nature of war itself ?
Many nations ignored even these lax regulations .
The Hague Conventions prohibited “ asphyxiating gases , ” but world powers flouted the treaties with abandon in the trenches of the First World War .
The conventions effectively outlawed the intentional targeting of civilians , but by the Second World War belligerents had recognized the military advantage of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , British policy actually barred aircraft from targeting military facilities , ordering them instead to strike working-class areas of German cities— “ for the sake of increasing terror , ” as Churchill later put it .
In 1943 , the U.S. and British Air Forces of Operation Gomorrah rained down fire and steel upon Hamburg for seven nights , killing fifty-eight thousand civilians .
Urban bombing campaigns left millions of homeless and shell-shocked Germans roaming a ravaged land that W. G. Sebald later described as the “ necropolis of a foreign , mysterious @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and its history , thrown back to the evolutionary stage of nomadic gatherers.
” Then came the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki , which killed about two hundred and fifty thousand people .
In all , Allied terror raids may have claimed some half a million civilian lives .
The pattern continued in the Korean War ; Secretary of State Dean Rusk later recalled that the U.S. had bombed “ every brick that was standing on top of another , everything that moved.
” During the Vietnam War , a powerful @ @ @ @ @ @ @ since the First World War .
Through television , the news of such atrocities as the My Lai massacre reached directly into American living rooms , and conscientious objectors and antiwar activists appealed to international law to justify their opposition to the carnage .
They were more successful in shaping U.S. conduct than they could have ever imagined .
After the war , the Pentagon revamped its arsenal with such inventions as laser-guided munitions , which could carry out “ precision strikes.
” The U.S. military began to follow the principles of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ found in other treaties , calling these combined regulations the Law of Armed Conflict .
American terror bombings became a thing of the past .
In the first Gulf War , hundreds of specialist attorneys sat alongside generals at CENTCOM headquarters in Saudi Arabia , and elsewhere , to insure that the U.S. followed legal rules of warfare .
It was the largest per-capita wartime deployment of lawyers in American history .
On the face of it , scrupulous adherence to the law is a victory for the cause of humane war .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ more complicated story .
Not long before the U.S. assault on Raqqa , Russian and Syrian forces launched a major offensive to capture the rebel-held eastern side of Aleppo .
Paying no heed to international law , they retook the city with savage efficiency , laying waste to crowded markets and hospitals .
Yet the end result looked no different from Raqqa : a large civilian death toll , honeycombed apartment buildings , streets choked with rubble , entire neighborhoods flattened .
The U.S.-led coalition waged its assault on Raqqa with exacting legal @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , with a fleet of lawyers scrutinizing strikes the way an in-house counsel pores over a corporation ’ s latest contract .
During the battle , the coalition commander , Lieutenant General Stephen J. Townsend , declared , “ I challenge anyone to find a more precise air campaign in the history of warfare.
” Although human-rights activists insist that the coalition could have done more to protect civilians , Townsend is right : unlike Russia , America does not bomb indiscriminately .
The U.S. razed an entire city , killing thousands in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ obvious war crime .
People from surrounding villages spent two weeks digging out bodies .
The coalition , meanwhile , announced that it had destroyed “ nine ISIL fighting positions , an ISIL command and control node , and 12 ISIL vehicles ” in the area that night .
Eventually , after reports surfaced that many civilians had died , the coalition admitted to killing twenty-four .
When a colleague and I visited , a year after the raid , we documented at least a hundred and twenty dead civilians , and found @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been present near the four houses .
A mother told me that some small children were obliterated , their bodies never found .
“ We take all measures during the targeting process .
.
.
to comply with the principles of the Law of Armed Conflict , ” U.S. Marine Major Adrian J. T. Rankine-Galloway said .
The essence of this legal code is that militaries can not intentionally kill civilians .
It is true that no one in the chain of command wished to massacre civilians that night—not the pilot or the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ points to this fact in calling the Tokhar incident an error , regrettable but not illegal .
Yet , though it is reasonable to invoke intention when referring to the mind-set of an individual—this is the idea behind the legal concept mens rea—it seems odd to ascribe a mental state to a collective actor like an army or a state .
It is clear , however , that the coalition could have foreseen the outcome of its actions : it had filmed the area for weeks , and intelligence indicating that the village @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to gather .
During the coalition ’ s campaign against ISIS , it often based its bombing decisions on faulty assumptions about civilian life ; in Mosul , it targeted a pair of family homes after failing to observe civilians outdoors over the course of a few afternoons .
Iraqis typically avoid the blazing midday heat .
Four people died .
The Law of Armed Conflict excuses genuine errors and proscribes intentional killing , but most American warfare operates in a gray zone , which exists , in part , because the law @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pillar of the legal code is the rule of proportionality : states can kill civilians if they are aiming for a military target , as long as the loss of civilian life is proportional to the military advantage they gain by the attack .
What this means is anyone ’ s guess : how do you measure “ military advantage ” against human lives ?
During the Mosul battle , snipers went onto the roof of the home of Mohammed Tayeb al-Layla , a former dean of engineering at Mosul University .
According @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rushed upstairs , pleading with them to leave .
In a flash , a warhead flattened the home , killing the snipers , al-Layla and his wife , and their daughter , who was downstairs .
It ’ s nearly impossible to say how one would weigh two dead snipers against a dead family , but most conventions would consider the killing lawful .
Much of the destruction in Raqqa follows the example of the al-Layla household : death by a thousand proportional strikes .
American officials are quick to point out that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ blame : militants dispersed themselves throughout schools and apartment buildings , and otherwise lived among the civilian population .
Yet this does not necessarily absolve the U.S .
When counter-insurgency doctrine was in vogue during the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan , American forces sought to win “ hearts and minds ” by embedding in population centers .
For an Afghan , few sights stirred as much dread as a column of beige armored Humvees snaking through a crowded market .
If a suicide bomber attacked the Humvees , Americans would rightly condemn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ civilians—even if he had the force of the law , in the guise of proportionality , behind him .
The contradictions of U.S. military conduct don ’ t go unnoticed .
Human-rights organizations frequently accuse the U.S. of committing war crimes , including in the Raqqa battle .
In nearly every case , though , the U.S. can muster a convincing defense .
What is in dispute is not whether or not the U.S. killed civilians but the interpretation of the law : the U.S. uses a much looser interpretation of intentionality and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ After such deaths occur , no independent arbiter adjudicates the U.S. ’ s actions—only vanquished forces ever get dragged before an international tribunal .
The Pentagon is left to judge itself , and , unsurprisingly , almost always finds in its own favor .
The law ’ s ambiguities allow the U.S. to classify atrocities like that in Tokhar as accidents , even if the deadly results were foreseeable , and therefore avoidable .
This may be why the U.S. military today tends to downplay the old martial virtue of courage .
Historically @ @ @ @ @ @ @ central to the idea of good soldiering that weapons or tactics lacking in valor sparked objections from the ranks .
Renic writes that when aircraft first entered the modern arsenal , in the nineteen-tens , fighter pilots engaged in dogfights reminiscent of the gallantry of a medieval duel .
But such long-distance tactics as mortar fire and aerial bombardment had little to do with valor .
A pilot from the First World War recalled , “ You did not sit in a muddy trench while someone who had no personal enmity against you @ @ @ @ @ @ @ away , and blew you to smithereens.
” He concluded , “ That was not fighting ; it was murder .
Senseless , brutal , ignoble.
” A British airman from the Second World War wrote , “ I was a fighter pilot , never a bomber pilot , and I thank God for that .
I do not believe I could ever have obeyed orders as a bomber pilot ; it would have given me no sense of achievement to drop bombs on German cities.
” Though sniping causes far less devastation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ unease .
In the First World War , a British brigadier-general denounced the practice as “ an act of cold murder , horrible to the most callous , distasteful to all but the most perverted.
” During the American Revolution , a young British officer trained his rifle ’ s sights on a target , only to decide that “ it was not pleasant to fire at the back of an unoffending individual who was acquitting himself very coolly of his duty.
” The individual in question was George Washington .
In 2014 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ignited a debate about whether its protagonist , a legendary marksman , had fabricated parts of his story .
But , Renic points out , nobody questioned the moral legitimacy of sniping itself , an indication of the extent to which courage has vanished as a battlefield norm in today ’ s wars .
Even if he is overstating the role of valor historically , it ’ s clear that the U.S. military today goes to great lengths to avoid risk , justifying its conduct instead by extolling the Law of Armed Conflict @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wind up protecting more civilians , but with bravery comes body bags—and , the moment that body bags arrived in the U.S. , we would be forced to contend with the hard questions that the law lets us ignore .
Were those deaths of Americans worth it ?
What is the purpose of this war ?
Should it be fought , and , if so , fought differently ?
These are conversations that neither the military nor human-rights organizations appear interested in having .
Faced with this bitter truth , some thinkers espouse @ @ @ @ @ @ @ states that the battlefield is no place for moral strictures .
But this doctrine can be used to excuse terrible and unnecessary suffering .
Another approach is pacifism , which , for all its merits , asks us to condemn both the tyrant and those violently resisting tyranny .
That leaves the moral tradition of “ just war , ” which maintains that warfare is a fixture of human existence , so the best we can hope for is to regulate when and how it is waged .
This is the essential idea @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , although armed conflict is not disappearing anytime soon , that doesn ’ t mean we must reduce war solely to a question of legal violations and battlefield rules .
Even if we can never abolish war , Immanuel Kant argued , we should act as if we could , and design our institutions accordingly .
Today in America , we could work to insulate the Pentagon ’ s decisions from defense contractors and other vested interests ; more important , we could revert the decision to make war to democratic control .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ for the Use of Military Force , which Presidents have since invoked to justify at least thirty-seven military activities in fourteen countries , including the U.S. war in Syria , without formal declaration or public debate .
Whether this or that pile of rubble was produced lawfully , or whether or not American boots touched Syrian soil , is not nearly as important as the fact that the U.S. was free to raze a foreign city with no public discussion or accountability .
Perhaps only when our foreign adventures are subject to democratic @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ending of wars—not just their conduct—as a matter of life and death .
♦

For four months in 2017, an American-led coalition in Syria dropped some ten thousand bombs on Raqqa, the densely populated capital of the Islamic State. Nearly eighty per cent of the city, which has a population of three hundred thousand, was destroyed. I visited shortly after ISIS relinquished control, and found the scale of the devastation difficult to comprehend: the skeletal silhouettes of collapsed apartment buildings, the charred schools, the gaping craters. Clotheslines were webbed between stray standing pillars, evidence that survivors were somehow living among the ruins. Nobody knows how many thousands of residents died, or how many are now homeless or confined to a wheelchair. What is certain is that the decimation of Raqqa is unlike anything seen in an American conflict since the Second World War.
As then, this battle was waged against an enemy bent on overthrowing an entire order, in an apparently nihilistic putsch against reason itself. But Raqqa was no Normandy. Although many Syrians fought valiantly against ISIS and lost their lives, the U.S., apart from a few hundred Special Forces on the ground, relied on overwhelming airpower, prosecuting the entire war from a safe distance. Not a single American died. The U.S. still occasionally conducts conventional ground battles, as in Falluja, Iraq, where, in 2004, troops engaged in fierce firefights with insurgents. But the battle for Raqqa—a war fought from cavernous control rooms thousands of miles away, or from aircraft thousands of feet in the sky—is the true face of modern American combat.
We have been conditioned to judge the merit of today’s wars by their conduct. The United Nations upholds norms of warfare that, among other things, prohibit such acts as torture, rape, and hostage-taking. Human-rights groups and international lawyers tend to designate a war “humane” when belligerents have avoided harming civilians as much as possible. However, in “Asymmetric Killing: Risk Avoidance, Just War, and the Warrior Ethos” (Oxford), Neil Renic, a scholar of international relations, challenges this standard. He argues that, when assessing the humanity of a war, we should look not only to the fate of civilians but also to whether combatants have exposed themselves to risk on the battlefield. Renic suggests that when one side fully removes itself from danger—even if it goes to considerable lengths to protect civilians—it violates the ethos of humane warfare.
The core principle of humane warfare is that fighters may kill one another at any time, excepting those who are rendered hors de combat, and must avoid targeting civilians. It’s tempting to say that civilians enjoy this protected status because they are innocent, but, as Renic points out, civilians “feed hungry armies, elect bellicose leaders, and educate future combatants.” In Syria, home to a popular revolution, entire towns were mobilized for the war effort. Civilians—even children—acted as lookouts, arms smugglers, and spies. What really matters, then, is the type of danger that someone in a battle zone presents. The moment that a person picks up a weapon, whether donning a uniform or not, he or she poses a direct and immediate danger. This is the crucial distinction between armed personnel and civilians.
But what if the belligerents themselves don’t pose a direct and immediate danger? Renic argues that in such theatres as Pakistan, where Americans deploy remote-controlled drones to kill their enemies while rarely stepping foot on the battlefield, insurgents on the ground cannot fight back—meaning that, in terms of the threat that they constitute, they are no different from civilians. It would then be just as wrong, Renic suggests, to unleash a Hellfire missile on a group of pickup-riding insurgents as it would be to annihilate a pickup-riding family en route to a picnic.
One might respond that, say, the Pakistani Taliban does pose an immediate threat to Pakistani civilians, if not to U.S. soldiers. But Renic contends that the U.S., by avoiding the battlefield, has turned civilians into attractive targets for insurgents eager for a fight. Whether this claim is correct or not, it’s clear that risk-free combat has brought warfare into new moral territory, requiring us to interrogate our old notions of battlefield right and wrong. If we can distinguish combatants from civilians only by the danger that they pose to other combatants, then the long-distance violence of modern warfare is inhumane. Renic concludes that the “increasingly sterile, bureaucratized, and detached mode of American killing” has the flavor of punishment rather than of war in any traditional sense. In Barack Obama’s recent memoir, he writes that, as President, he wanted to save “the millions of young men” in the Muslim world who were “warped and stunted by desperation, ignorance, dreams of religious glory, the violence of their surroundings.” Yet he claims that, owing to where they lived, and the machinery at his disposal, he ended up “killing them instead.” Leaving aside Obama’s crude generalizations, Renic argues that he could indeed have saved them—by “severely restricting” remote warfare.
Renic’s book is part of a broader trend of scholars and human-rights activists contending with the wreckage caused by America’s recent conflicts abroad. Their studies share a basic quest: how can we use rules to make warfare more humane? Whereas Renic focusses on moral rules, much of this other work is concerned with legal rules. In the aftermath of the Raqqa battle, Amnesty International and other organizations sifted through the rubble, carefully documenting whether this or that bombing complied with the laws of war. This work is salutary, but a troubling question looms behind it: in our drive to subject the battlefield to rules, are we overlooking deeper moral truths about the nature of war itself?
The notion that warfare should be governed by rules is ancient, and dates at least to Augustine, who argued that a legitimate ruler can wage war when he has good intentions and a just cause. In the Middle Ages, the Church attempted to ban the crossbow, and took efforts to protect ecclesiastical property and noncombatants from wartime violence. But it was only in the nineteenth century that states attempted to fashion laws and treaties to regulate wartime conduct. During the American Civil War, the Union implemented the Lieber Code, which sought to restrict the imposition of unnecessary suffering—torture or poisoning, for example—on the enemy. The code also enshrined as legal convention the principle of “military necessity”: if violence had a strategic purpose—that is, if it could help win a war—it was allowed. In the Hague Conventions of 1899 and 1907, world powers accepted vague limits on wartime conduct while upholding the principle of military necessity. States agreed to a moratorium on balloon-launched munitions, which had little tactical value, but were silent on the question of motorized aircraft.
Many nations ignored even these lax regulations. The Hague Conventions prohibited “asphyxiating gases,” but world powers flouted the treaties with abandon in the trenches of the First World War. The conventions effectively outlawed the intentional targeting of civilians, but by the Second World War belligerents had recognized the military advantage of bombing towns and villages. In 1942, British policy actually barred aircraft from targeting military facilities, ordering them instead to strike working-class areas of German cities—“for the sake of increasing terror,” as Churchill later put it. In 1943, the U.S. and British Air Forces of Operation Gomorrah rained down fire and steel upon Hamburg for seven nights, killing fifty-eight thousand civilians. Urban bombing campaigns left millions of homeless and shell-shocked Germans roaming a ravaged land that W. G. Sebald later described as the “necropolis of a foreign, mysterious people, torn from its civil existence and its history, thrown back to the evolutionary stage of nomadic gatherers.” Then came the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which killed about two hundred and fifty thousand people. In all, Allied terror raids may have claimed some half a million civilian lives. The pattern continued in the Korean War; Secretary of State Dean Rusk later recalled that the U.S. had bombed “every brick that was standing on top of another, everything that moved.”
During the Vietnam War, a powerful antiwar movement emerged for the first time since the First World War. Through television, the news of such atrocities as the My Lai massacre reached directly into American living rooms, and conscientious objectors and antiwar activists appealed to international law to justify their opposition to the carnage. They were more successful in shaping U.S. conduct than they could have ever imagined. After the war, the Pentagon revamped its arsenal with such inventions as laser-guided munitions, which could carry out “precision strikes.” The U.S. military began to follow the principles of the Hague Conventions, as well as those found in other treaties, calling these combined regulations the Law of Armed Conflict. American terror bombings became a thing of the past. In the first Gulf War, hundreds of specialist attorneys sat alongside generals at CENTCOM headquarters in Saudi Arabia, and elsewhere, to insure that the U.S. followed legal rules of warfare. It was the largest per-capita wartime deployment of lawyers in American history.
On the face of it, scrupulous adherence to the law is a victory for the cause of humane war. Yet the ruins of Syria tell a more complicated story. Not long before the U.S. assault on Raqqa, Russian and Syrian forces launched a major offensive to capture the rebel-held eastern side of Aleppo. Paying no heed to international law, they retook the city with savage efficiency, laying waste to crowded markets and hospitals. Yet the end result looked no different from Raqqa: a large civilian death toll, honeycombed apartment buildings, streets choked with rubble, entire neighborhoods flattened.
The U.S.-led coalition waged its assault on Raqqa with exacting legal precision. It vetted every target carefully, with a fleet of lawyers scrutinizing strikes the way an in-house counsel pores over a corporation’s latest contract. During the battle, the coalition commander, Lieutenant General Stephen J. Townsend, declared, “I challenge anyone to find a more precise air campaign in the history of warfare.” Although human-rights activists insist that the coalition could have done more to protect civilians, Townsend is right: unlike Russia, America does not bomb indiscriminately. The U.S. razed an entire city, killing thousands in the process, without committing a single obvious war crime.
During the summer of 2016, residents of Tokhar, a riverside hamlet in northern Syria, gathered every night in four houses on the community’s edge, hoping to evade gunfire and bombs. This was the farthest point from a front line, a mile away, where U.S.-backed forces were engaging ISIS fighters. Every night, a drone hovered over Tokhar, filming the villagers’ procession from their scattered homes to these makeshift bunkers. The basements became crowded with farmers, mothers, schoolgirls, and small children. On July 18th, at around 3 A.M., the houses exploded. Thick smoke covered the night sky. Limbs were strewn across the rubble. Children were buried under collapsed walls.
People from surrounding villages spent two weeks digging out bodies. The coalition, meanwhile, announced that it had destroyed “nine ISIL fighting positions, an ISIL command and control node, and 12 ISIL vehicles” in the area that night. Eventually, after reports surfaced that many civilians had died, the coalition admitted to killing twenty-four. When a colleague and I visited, a year after the raid, we documented at least a hundred and twenty dead civilians, and found no evidence that any ISIS members had been present near the four houses. A mother told me that some small children were obliterated, their bodies never found.
“We take all measures during the targeting process . . . to comply with the principles of the Law of Armed Conflict,” U.S. Marine Major Adrian J. T. Rankine-Galloway said. The essence of this legal code is that militaries cannot intentionally kill civilians. It is true that no one in the chain of command wished to massacre civilians that night—not the pilot or the targeteers or the lawyers. The U.S. points to this fact in calling the Tokhar incident an error, regrettable but not illegal. Yet, though it is reasonable to invoke intention when referring to the mind-set of an individual—this is the idea behind the legal concept mens rea—it seems odd to ascribe a mental state to a collective actor like an army or a state. It is clear, however, that the coalition could have foreseen the outcome of its actions: it had filmed the area for weeks, and intelligence indicating that the village was populated would not have been difficult to gather. During the coalition’s campaign against ISIS, it often based its bombing decisions on faulty assumptions about civilian life; in Mosul, it targeted a pair of family homes after failing to observe civilians outdoors over the course of a few afternoons. Iraqis typically avoid the blazing midday heat. Four people died. The Law of Armed Conflict excuses genuine errors and proscribes intentional killing, but most American warfare operates in a gray zone, which exists, in part, because the law itself is so vague.


newyorker--2020-12-14--A Pandemic Horoscope for December

A Pandemic Horoscope for December

CAPRICORN : You started off the year energized , but unforeseen circumstances have left you feeling listless .
For a dynamic sign like the Goat , you ’ re tired all the time , and you ’ ve been finding it difficult to concentrate .
This month , prepare to continue to not get any work done .
Also , that lingering career anxiety you ’ ve been feeling isn ’ t just in your head after all !
Don ’ t worry .
It ’ s highly likely that your entire profession is screwed .
AQUARIUS : As an @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but , for some reason , you haven ’ t been running around as much lately .
Ever since March , you ’ ve barely ventured out , instead spending the bulk of your time online .
It ’ s a good thing you love technology , Aquarius , because the stars predict that you will be logging a lot of Zoom hours this month .
Keep an eye out for a notice from your bank with some unwelcome news about your finances .
PISCES : Poor , sensitive Pisces .
This @ @ @ @ @ @ @ !
Would it make you feel better to know that someone is admiring you from afar ?
That ’ s right , some attractive stranger ’ s eyes are set on you , dear Pisces !
Unfortunately , you ’ ll probably never meet the person .
ARIES : Ever since Mercury entered Pisces in mid-March , you haven ’ t been able to shake an unusual anxiety .
Much of your stress is related to new developments in your career , your health , your personal life , your family , global @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of our democracy , and the industry you work in .
This month , buckle up , because it ’ s all about to get much worse .
Oh , and you may receive some unfavorable information regarding your finances .
TAURUS : The moon entered your Tenth House of Career Success at some point , but I ’ ve lost track of when , as it ’ s all become a meaningless blur .
That said , in normal times your career might be getting a boost right now , but a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Protect that rainy-day fund , responsible Taurus , as you ’ re about to get bad news about your finances .
GEMINI : As the life of the party , Gemini , you have a hard time settling down .
But , with Jupiter in retrograde since mid-September , it might be a good moment to avoid social gatherings .
The moon in your Seventh House of Not Being an Idiot suggests that going out in public is a mistake .
But , if you do , wear a fucking mask .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , even for a Cancer .
You are a sensitive creature who needs coaxing to come out of your shell .
Unfortunately , that ’ s not going to happen , at least not this month .
Just remember that you ’ re not alone—well , at least metaphorically .
Have you thought about adopting a pet ?
I know your sourdough starter is technically a living organism , but it won ’ t love you back .
LEO : You love drama , and , lucky for you , there ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ now !
But , if your moon is in Cancer , Gemini , Capricorn , Scorpio , Aquarius , Virgo , Leo , Pisces , Sagittarius , Aries , Libra , or Taurus , I would avoid cable news .
Also , I hope that you have a nest egg , because you are about to receive some troubling news regarding your finances .
VIRGO : How ’ s it going , control freak ?
The past few months have been a little rocky for you , and , sorry to say , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be subsiding .
This month , try to stop obsessing about what you can ’ t control and focus instead on what you can control , like the amount of stuff you ’ ve been ordering on Amazon .
Do you really need that six-dollar milk frother ?
The answer is yes .
LIBRA : Feeling a little lonely lately ?
If you ’ re single , there ’ s a good chance you ’ ll stay that way for the immediate future .
If you ’ re in a relationship , good @ @ @ @ @ @ @ up .
On the bright side , a medical breakthrough on the horizon might make it easier for you to navigate society .
The bad news : you ’ re probably last in line for it .
SCORPIO : Scorpio is a natural homebody , but nine months in isolation is a lot , even for you .
Since you ’ ve been moving around so much less lately , you may have put on a few pounds around your midsection , or all over your body .
Don ’ t fret , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ entered your Fifth House of It Doesn ’ t Even Matter Anymore , no one is likely to notice .
SAGITTARIUS : As one of the most resourceful signs of the zodiac , you have all the skills necessary to weather any storm , except for the one that ’ s currently approaching .
We ’ re about to embark on an astrological apocalypse , which isn ’ t actually a thing , but what do I care ?
I ’ m not even an astrologer .
I ’ m grasping at straws @ @ @ @ @ @ @ everyone else in this country ( except Jeff Bezos ) , I ’ m scrambling to find ways to monetize my skill set now that my profession ( standup comedy ) won ’ t be coming back anytime soon .
Are you still reading this ?
Want to know what the stars have to say about your finances ?
It ’ s not looking good .
♦

CAPRICORN: You started off the year energized, but unforeseen circumstances have left you feeling listless. For a dynamic sign like the Goat, you’re tired all the time, and you’ve been finding it difficult to concentrate. This month, prepare to continue to not get any work done. Also, that lingering career anxiety you’ve been feeling isn’t just in your head after all! Don’t worry. It’s highly likely that your entire profession is screwed.
AQUARIUS: As an air sign, you love to travel, but, for some reason, you haven’t been running around as much lately. Ever since March, you’ve barely ventured out, instead spending the bulk of your time online. It’s a good thing you love technology, Aquarius, because the stars predict that you will be logging a lot of Zoom hours this month. Keep an eye out for a notice from your bank with some unwelcome news about your finances.
PISCES: Poor, sensitive Pisces. This really hasn’t been your year! Would it make you feel better to know that someone is admiring you from afar? That’s right, some attractive stranger’s eyes are set on you, dear Pisces! Unfortunately, you’ll probably never meet the person.
ARIES: Ever since Mercury entered Pisces in mid-March, you haven’t been able to shake an unusual anxiety. Much of your stress is related to new developments in your career, your health, your personal life, your family, global warming, income inequality, the state of our democracy, and the industry you work in. This month, buckle up, because it’s all about to get much worse. Oh, and you may receive some unfavorable information regarding your finances.
TAURUS: The moon entered your Tenth House of Career Success at some point, but I’ve lost track of when, as it’s all become a meaningless blur. That said, in normal times your career might be getting a boost right now, but a cosmic shift has thrown everything into limbo. Protect that rainy-day fund, responsible Taurus, as you’re about to get bad news about your finances.
GEMINI: As the life of the party, Gemini, you have a hard time settling down. But, with Jupiter in retrograde since mid-September, it might be a good moment to avoid social gatherings. The moon in your Seventh House of Not Being an Idiot suggests that going out in public is a mistake. But, if you do, wear a fucking mask.
CANCER: You seem pretty emotional lately, even for a Cancer. You are a sensitive creature who needs coaxing to come out of your shell. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen, at least not this month. Just remember that you’re not alone—well, at least metaphorically. Have you thought about adopting a pet? I know your sourdough starter is technically a living organism, but it won’t love you back.
LEO: You love drama, and, lucky for you, there’s a lot of it on TV right now! But, if your moon is in Cancer, Gemini, Capricorn, Scorpio, Aquarius, Virgo, Leo, Pisces, Sagittarius, Aries, Libra, or Taurus, I would avoid cable news. Also, I hope that you have a nest egg, because you are about to receive some troubling news regarding your finances.
VIRGO: How’s it going, control freak? The past few months have been a little rocky for you, and, sorry to say, the storm doesn’t appear to be subsiding. This month, try to stop obsessing about what you can’t control and focus instead on what you can control, like the amount of stuff you’ve been ordering on Amazon. Do you really need that six-dollar milk frother? The answer is yes.
LIBRA: Feeling a little lonely lately? If you’re single, there’s a good chance you’ll stay that way for the immediate future. If you’re in a relationship, good luck with that—everyone I know is breaking up. On the bright side, a medical breakthrough on the horizon might make it easier for you to navigate society. The bad news: you’re probably last in line for it.
SCORPIO: Scorpio is a natural homebody, but nine months in isolation is a lot, even for you. Since you’ve been moving around so much less lately, you may have put on a few pounds around your midsection, or all over your body. Don’t fret, dear Scorpio. Now that Venus has entered your Fifth House of It Doesn’t Even Matter Anymore, no one is likely to notice.
SAGITTARIUS: As one of the most resourceful signs of the zodiac, you have all the skills necessary to weather any storm, except for the one that’s currently approaching. We’re about to embark on an astrological apocalypse, which isn’t actually a thing, but what do I care? I’m not even an astrologer. I’m grasping at straws. (Remember straws?) Like everyone else in this country (except Jeff Bezos), I’m scrambling to find ways to monetize my skill set now that my profession (standup comedy) won’t be coming back anytime soon. Are you still reading this? Want to know what the stars have to say about your finances? It’s not looking good. ♦


“April,” by Cynthia Zarin

Now out of this vast silence the cherry trees scraping their gnarled limbs on the sky , and the wind hurls down a flurry of petals , a snowstorm really , a thousand prints on the wet pavement , each one a pair of white shutters , opening .
Numinous , the souls of the dead , and now you , .
.
.
among them—an intake of breath .
How little it seems to me now , we knew each other .
But still , it is so beautiful , the place where you were— a table , two @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through the floor , and outside , a flicker of swallows in the hedgerows , the tulips ’ purple chevrons a row of arrowheads .
.
.
.
It is wherever you want to be , although by now you are beyond wanting .
Or at least that ’ s what they say of the dead .
The place where you were holds the light the way the leaves do after dusk when small animals conduct their assignations—the shrew , the mouse , the mole running their études in the mossy shadows .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ afraid of falling short .
If only you hadn ’ t done such a good job of dying .
But it is so beautiful where you were , above the garden , where it is snowing , this morning in April , on the bleached white pansies , the downed cherry blossoms .
.
.
.
where you so often sat , talking and talking .

Audio: A version read by the author.
Now out of this vast silence
the cherry trees scraping their gnarled limbs
on the sky, and the wind hurls down
a flurry of petals, a snowstorm really,
a thousand prints on the wet pavement,
each one a pair of white shutters, opening.
Numinous, the souls of the dead, and now you,
. . . among them—an intake of breath.
How little it seems to me now,
we knew each other.
But still, it is so beautiful, the place where you were—
a table, two chairs, a tree growing up
right through the floor, and outside,
a flicker of swallows in the hedgerows,
the tulips’ purple chevrons a row of arrowheads.
. . . It is wherever you
want to be, although by now you are
beyond wanting. Or at least that’s
what they say of the dead.
The place where you were holds the light
the way the leaves do after dusk
when small animals conduct
their assignations—the shrew, the mouse, the mole
running their études in the mossy shadows.
. . . You were always so
afraid of falling short. If only you hadn’t
done such a good job of dying.
But it is so
beautiful where you were, above
the garden, where it is snowing, this morning in April,
on the bleached white pansies,
the downed cherry blossoms
. . . .
where you so often sat,
talking and talking.