You never know precisely how much time you have left, despite what life insurance industry mortality tables or death-prediction startups might claim. Now, an emerging field of death tech is capitalizing on such anxiety by pitching individual immortality as deepfakes or AI-driven chatbots. Meanwhile, we’re facing an ongoing environmental catastrophe perpetrated by colonialism and relentless extraction. These two forms of existential uncertainty may seem separate—but they are intrinsically related.
Early in the 19th century, an unknown musician somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains discovered that a steel handsaw, a tool previously used only for cutting wood, could also be used to produce full and sustained musical notes. The idea had undoubtedly occurred to many a musically-inclined carpenter at other times in other places.
Recently, after a particularly invigorating car wash, I had a yen for a slushie. Maybe the warming weather inspired me. Perhaps the proud signage of the QuikTrip convenience store nearby activated an unconscious desire. No matter, a slushie I did get. At QuikTrip, it’s called a Freezoni, a curious, quasi-Italian aspiration that bears no relation to the dispensed product. To my palate, the slushie wasn’t good: too wet, not frozen enough, like it was already half-melted from being left too long in a vehicle cup holder.
This made me wonder: Why are slushies so different from one another? Then the thought solidified into a more existential brain freeze, as I realized that I could not even guess what might separate a Freezoni from a Slurpee, let alone an Icee from a slush. What the hell is a slushie, anyway? I had no idea, and barely any intuition.
But the writing always crackles, written by someone who clearly knows what it’s like to desire another woman in ways you just barely understand. Sometimes, it’s good to feel lonely. It’s a reminder that an alternative feeling lives somewhere out there, that real connection is possible, even if it’s just beyond your grasp. Even the possibility of love, and being loved, is enough to keep driving us forward.
What would it be like to study music with a legendary composer in his prime? The latest novel by author and filmmaker James Runcie, “The Great Passion,” deftly evokes the rigors and rewards of studying with Johann Sebastian Bach. Crafted with storytelling “both earnest and exuberant,” it’s a symphonic, contemplative pleasure.
Like a sculpture made of ice cubes, each spartan prose brick accumulates into a single structure. Short as it is, "Very Cold People" feels monumental: an icy cenotaph for a not-so-distant past.