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taste

Marisa Aragón Ware.

All year I’ve been reading about taste. Someone somewhere identified that one of the things AI can’t do is “taste.” Now it seems a certain part of the world can’t stop talking about taste, and much of it is trying to define taste, presumably to boil it down into a useful prompt.

This is a bit of a shift from the prevailing notion of “you’re allowed to like stuff,” which turned into “can’t we just let people enjoy things,” which quickly warped into “you have to like everything or you are a monster.” Especially if lots of other people seem to like it, which is one reason why the mainstream culture is so completely flat right now. Taste was demonised by poptimists who defined themselves as victims of those with taste.

And now everyone’s turned around and gone, oh shit, the robots can create everything I said I liked and I’m a slop-eater. There is no status or cultural cache in that. People are freaking the fuck out. They’re trying to find out what taste even is.

Tastemakers have discernment. They know they don’t have to and aren’t supposed to like everything, and they immediately distrust anything so flat and edgeless that it screams of being designed to be liked by the largest number of people. They have knowledge and powers of recognition, they have context and they own their idiosyncrasies. They don’t like what other people like, because they have taste and other people don’t. Other people sit on the kerb of a street in a town that isn’t pretty enough for Instagram influencers, their skin aged prematurely by their phone screens and the digital billboards all around them, googling for peptides to restore the collagen their own phones are evaporating out of their faces and being told by the Google AI summary that tobacco reduces skin cancer. Goldfish with tits of congealed microplastic fuck in the black water sludging its way down the gutter. A “celebrity,” which they understand to mean “someone who is on a screen somewhere for a period of time longer than fifteen seconds,” appears on the nearest digital billboard. Its teeth are white. Taylor Swift white, Rylan white, bone-white, skull-white, nothing-white. The alien teeth seem to swell on the screen, as an inhuman voice drones from the frame about low-cost funerals to the musical accompaniment of something Spotify has inserted into eight million playlists this year. They know the song intimately but they don’t know what it’s called or have any context about it beyond the fact that it must be popular because all the machines make them listen to it over and over again. The teeth seem to invert and bend, twisting inwards to become the event horizon of a black hole that emits only the elongated howling word ddddeattttthhh in an utterance that sounds eerily like Pedro Pascal’s because he had a spare three minutes to ensure he was literally fucking everywhere. They run from the town into the countryside, because “people” on X have told them to “touch grass.” But the grass bends away from their feet, because even vegetal microintelligences can tell when something approaches that is essentially Wrong and no longer of this world. They fall to their knees and whisper for mercy to a seedling in the undergrowth, as an AI gardening podcaster had once told them to talk to plants. But the seedling blackens and crumbles under their graveyard breath. They crawl through the undergrowth to the shore, and look at the water, but they do not know how to feel about the water because no mathematics has told them how to feel about it, for they are basically just a meat coffin containing a low-voltage ghost that knows nothing and feels nothing beyond a faint, fearful urge to spend money on tokens to feed huge calculators that might tell them what to like. In the weeks and months to come, even the carrion eaters reject the corpse by the shore, instinctively recognising that its grey fibres contain no nutrition. Because they have taste.

TODAY

TELEMETRY:

OPERATIONS: got a pitch off the desk yesterday, got some prose down, but not enough of anything else. Wiped down the boards, expired some hanging projects
STATUS: the curse of putting the winter clothes away: woke up to a rainy 13C day, so I’m in a grey waffle-knit henley and a grey Wrangler snap-front. A lightless day.

Swatch Metropolis.


READING: THE REVOLUTIONISTS, Jason Burke (UK) (US+)
LISTENING: AJ Brady warned me weeks ago that a new Boards Of Canada was coming, and I’m only just now giving it a listen.

MISSION CONTROL: I can be contacted via the Cheng Caplan Company or Inkwell Management. Link in masthead to join my free newsletter.

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wavy

Craig Hubbard.

Searching hard for my motivation today, because I am not particularly in my body or particularly with it. Not enough coffee in the world, everything is kind of wavy, and I really need to wipe down the boards and reset things. And also start backing things off this machine in prep for the arrival of the new one. But a musician has been sending me raws of her new music videos and maybe I’ll just sit and watch them for a while.

Received in post, a gift from the author as routed through my literary agent: A POCKETFUL OF HELLFIRE, Alan LaRue (UK) (US+)

Alan LaRue was a devoted reader of the Ken Socrates World News Organization when he was young. Like any fan, he read all the articles and books, he knew and adored the Gonzo journalism, the crazy adventures and the wild personalities. He was especially enamoured with Ken himself, the wildest and most Gonzo of them all. He had even written and sent in few fan letters full of glowing praise and insight only a truly dedicated follower would appreciate. The letters included his return address, and a joking offer of drinks on him, someday, should Ken ever find his way to Alan’s neck of the woods.

Then, after the sad collapse of the KSWNO, after its founder being missing, assumed dead for years, Ken showed up at Alan’s door, looking for those drinks, and his quiet life as a librarian and amateur pie baker was turned on its doughy little head. Humanity itself was under dire, imminent threat and, according to Ken, only they could save it.

TODAY

TELEMETRY:

  • Here’s the weird flex of the day: the cover of Charli xcx’s new record MUSIC, FASHION, FILM is a simple shot of… John Cale, Marc Jacobs and Martin Scorcese. And an ashtray.

OPERATIONS: script and pitch
STATUS: The weather has turned cool and rainy, and the mancub is sad and needs comforting, as he’s been living in the garden ever since the top of the summer arrived. Or, as I have long suspected, he thinks I control the weather and he figures that if he’s nice to me I’ll bring the sun back.
READING: THE REVOLUTIONISTS, Jason Burke (UK) (US+) (hey, it’s a really long book)
LISTENING: “Vika Hidas,” Draamakuu:

MISSION CONTROL: I can be contacted via the Cheng Caplan Company or Inkwell Management. Link in masthead to join my free newsletter.

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retired: 1jun26

After losing several hours yesterday to running every fix and check I could think of, I came to the sad conclusion that this laptop, a T580 from 2018, is now starting to fail and therefore must be sent to live on a farm. This machine has had its keyboard replaced twice over the years and kept on chugging, but now its chipset is dying. So I caught the end of the Lenovo May sale by a whisker and ordered a new ThinkPad. I doubt the new machine will have the durability of this faithful monster, which I will be sad to retire.

June already.

New newsletter went out yesterday.

TELEMETRY:

A biotech startup called Bexorg is doing something that sounds like it was ripped straight from the pages of a cyberpunk novel — or from the script of “RoboCop,” for that matter.

The company is extracting human brains just hours after their owners died and then hooking them up to specialized life support machines, Science reports. While the masses of pink mush no longer host electrical activity, most of their key functions remain intact, allowing scientists to test experimental drugs, such as potential treatments for Alzheimer’s disease, like never before.

You’d hope that the disembodied cerebrums are most assuredly dead. But according to the reporting, an extracted brain hooked up to one of Bexorg’s proprietary life support machines, BrainEX, “hovers between life and death.” There’s no spark of consciousness, and yet the brains are kept running on an artificial lung, kidney oxygenate, blood, and other fluids.

Georgia Hart.

How to fold and read an “infinity book” – tried to embed the video here from two sources but no luck

Dan Henry 1939.

OPERATIONS: got the new cover for a graphic novel reprint currently codenamed PROJECT WALLOPS, so we will be headed to solicits shortly. I need to get a script off the desk today and then figure out how to zero out all the fucking money I spent yesterday
STATUS: I am physically de-teched until such time as the Google app that replaced the FitBit app is fixed to the point where it no longer hallucinates bicycles
READING: THE REVOLUTIONISTS, Jason Burke (UK) (US+)
LISTENING: a musician sent me her two new videos last night and I am playing them repeatedly today.

Also, THE ECHOING GREEN by Zachary Paul and Celia Eydeland:

And, while I was walking: MNMT 516: Conflation Port, because techno is good for walking.


LAST WATCHED: THE HOLCROFT COVENANT
DRINK: Flint Vineyard Rose

MISSION CONTROL: I can be contacted via the Cheng Caplan Company or Inkwell Management. Link in masthead to join my free newsletter.

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waiting for the drop

Will Stovall.

There is, for me, a weird pleasure in taking a night to wait for an idea to drop by touring the mental terrain I’d like it to drop in. It’s somewhere between setting intentions and going for a walk in a space where I hope to see something wonderful – and if I don’t, then I’ve still had a nice walk.

TELEMETRY:

Alice Rohrwacher, one of the best filmmakers working today, has started production on her adaptation of Audrey Niffenegger’s bestselling novel “Three Incestuous Sisters,” with Ottessa Moshfegh co-writing the script with her.

The cast includes Dakota Johnson, Saoirse Ronan, Jessie Buckley, Josh O’Connor, Mick Jagger, and Isabella Rossellini.

We were wondering if this was, in fact, the black-and-white silent film Rohrwacher has been teasing for well over a year. Now, The Film Stage has confirmed that it is indeed that movie. Hélène Louvart is the cinematographer.

Yes, in an era when blockbuster cinema gets louder and more chaotic, Rohrwacher is moving in the opposite direction — toward muteness. A silent film in 2026 sounds like a provocation.

Recent trend pieces I’ve read on the return of grunge style mostly highlight the source of influence as the 90s because it’s the closest available shorthand. But what’s happening now feels more specific than nostalgia alone. The aesthetic gaining ground is less Kurt Cobain and more a compound of faded Japanese denim, cracked leather, oxidized silver, washed-black everything, oversized knits with visible wear, military and workwear references, and old band-shirt textures.

Think: Archival vintage crossed with distressed luxury crossed with a deliberate refusal of perfection.


READING: THE REVOLUTIONISTS, Jason Burke (UK) (US+)
LAST WATCHED: Started NOUVELLE VAGUE but got too distracted by work thoughts to follow the subtitles haha
DRINK:

This subtle hint about cocktail delivery schedules was placed in the kitchen yesterday:

MISSION CONTROL: I can be contacted via the Cheng Caplan Company or Inkwell Management. Link in masthead to join my free newsletter.

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doommaxxing

Doom is the prefix du jour. Doomscrolling, doomposting, doomsplaining, doomspreading, doomgooing, and doomliving dominate discourse. (Ok, I made the last two up.) Doom joins other recent meme morphemes—the suffixes -maxxing, -pilled, and -slop—in giving our discussions about a contemporary life an overtly negative cast. Doomspending, in particular, has become synonymous with the declining fortunes of young Americans.

I have come to realise that looking for inspiration is not the best way to find it. I’ve also learned that inspiration doesn’t always have to come from an external input. Some people say, “I have to travel or go to an exhibition or read.” Yes, I can read a book and feel inspired, but I can also just be alone. You could lock me up in a cage, I think, and maybe the most amount of inspiration would come then. 

OPERATIONS: I need to get some overdue stuff out the door and then sit and think for several hours
STATUS: Desperately wanted to get out of the house today, but work isn’t going to let me
READING: THE REVOLUTIONISTS, Jason Burke (UK) (US+)
DRINK: Flint Vineyard Charmat Rose

MISSION CONTROL: I can be contacted via the Cheng Caplan Company or Inkwell Management. Link in masthead to join my free newsletter.

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vintage

I needed a new belt in a shade of brown, to match the brown straps on two watches I’ve recently bought. Just for the hell of it, I added “vintage” to the search string on eBay, simply to see if it threw up anything interesting. This showed up, a Sergio Cerruti Roma leather piece. It’s from the 1990s.

Vintage. 1990s.

I need to go and lie down.

OPERATIONS: yesterday was an utter clusterfuck, so today is all scripting
STATUS:

Made an ice cream base using 300ml of coconut cream, as I’m still trying to create dark chocolate Bounty ice cream. Missed it last night – touched it with cacao to bring the dark up, and covered the coconut. Experiments will continue. Tonight I will be essaying a cherry sorbet.


READING: THE REVOLUTIONISTS, Jason Burke (UK) (US+)
LAST WATCHED: rewatched MEGALOPOLIS

MISSION CONTROL: I can be contacted via the Cheng Caplan Company or Inkwell Management. Link in masthead to join my free newsletter.

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PROJECT HAIL MARY (2026)

A couple of days after it reached town, I went to see the film adaptation of Andy Weir’s novel PROJECT HAIL MARY, directed by Lord & Miller and written by Drew Goddard. Goddard wrote the screenplay for the other Weir adaptation, THE MARTIAN, directed by Ridley Scott, in which Matt Damon once again has to be expensively rescued from something. (Someone once calculated that, in total, it would have cost some $900 billion to rescue Matt Damon from shit all those times.) Weir wrote another novel after THE MARTIAN, entitled ARTEMIS, which didn’t seem to be as well-received. And so it seems he went back to the good well for PROJECT HAIL MARY, which is about another brilliant guy abandoned in space.

Ryland Grace wakes up alone on a spaceship eleven light years from Earth with no memory of how he got there or why. Most of his memory comes back during the first act.

Ryland Grace was once a molecular biologist, but, after a poorly received paper on how alien life wouldn’t necessarily need water, he quit and become a middle-school teacher. In that role, he has to explain to kids how the discovery of star-eating cells discovered on the sun means they’ll all be dead in thirty years. And that’s when the head of an international project to save the world shows up at his school to draft him, having read his paper.

The cells are all over our region of the galaxy – aside from one star eleven light years away. Once they discover those cells output a huge amount of energy, there’s only one option left – use them to power a mission to that star, find out why that star is uninfected, and send the cure home on small probes. And there’s only enough main-mission fuel for a one way trip.

Not long after Ryland Grace gets there, he discovers he’s not actually alone – there’s an alien spacecraft nearby, from another infected star. It too only has one occupant. First contact, at the end of the world – for two worlds.

I don’t want to go the spoiler route – even though the book has been out for years and the film is an extremely faithful adaptation – so everything I’ve just said is in fact in the first act. It’s a big, long, packed film.

THE MARTIAN is, of course, competence porn in a Heinlein style. There’s some of that to HAIL MARY the novel, but this time it is undercut by the revelations about past events, and that’s maintained in the film. Also maintained, however, is one of my favourite things about the book – two smart beings in first contact solving mutually intelligible speech in a matter of weeks. It works very enjoyably on screen, and they even throw in a new joke or two.

One of the oddnesses about the book is that Grace presents as a little autistic and asexual. There’s a brief mention of a college girlfriend called Linda, but only in terms of the fact that she brought a lot of untidy crap into his neat little apartment, which is in itself something of a signal. He’s not great at making connections. In the book, I got the sense that he was really only comfortable around kids. This may just be me, but I spent the book feeling like there was something off about Grace. The problem the film had to solve was, basically, that Grace was being played by Ryan Gosling. Drew Goddard’s main fix is two lines of dialogue, tying into an overall slight reframing of Grace as conflict-averse, still childlike but also playful and personable in a faintly awkward and insecure way that fits with Gosling. That fix is masterful in its wise simplicity.

There’s an angle on the film where it is, in fact, about a person having to grow all the way up.

Goddard’s solves for the adaptation are, in fact, all brilliant. It’s a gold standard class. Even when his fixes are additive, they are only mildly so, visually driven and smooth as silk.

The first five minutes, Grace waking up from his induced coma on the ship, are played for laughs, and that was smart too. In his book ADVENTURES IN THE SCREEN TRADE, William Goldman talks about the first two or three pages of the script for HARPER. Paul Newman wakes up in the office he lives in, gets ready for the day, goes to make coffee – and the coffee can is empty. He looks in the bin. Sees old coffee grounds in there. Looks down at them with resignation. Puts them in the coffee machine. Finishes getting ready. Pours the coffee. And makes a face like he’s sucked piss off a nettle. Everyone laughs at the face Paul Newman makes. From that point on, you like him. Because we’ve all been there and we can’t help but laugh at the face he pulls. Same thing happens here. Those five minutes get us on Ryan Gosling’s side. It’s a hard science fiction film, the concepts will always be a bit complicated, but now we are going to stick with it because we are on that guy’s side.

It is beautifully shot. Even the frames in that opening funny scene are gorgeously done, eccentric and wonky and fun. The cutting is fantastic, veering from classical to juddering. The big set piece towards the end is almost psychedelic in its colouring. The set design is REALLY clever – at times it almost reminded me of the wonderful interiors in 2010: THE YEAR WE MAKE CONTACT. A particularly intelligent move was putting controls and screens on ALL the surfaces because the ship is designed to be operated in zero gravity. It is notable how many of the sets are physical. I’ve read that there’s next to no green-screen in this film, and I have to say, it felt like it. It feels like the last of the classically made physical-production big science fiction films.

The alien Rocky, an actual physical puppet by all accounts, moves like a drunken cat. It sees by echolocation and Lord & Miller do flashes of Rocky-vision in ways that remind you they directed the Spider-Verse films. One wonderful touch is that Rocky has “tattoos,” incisions on his rocky form. Every element feels considered.

The big reversal in PROJECT HAIL MARY comes at about the point it did in THE MARTIAN, and broadly has the same effect – it stops the film’s momentum dead, and it has to spin up again. In THE MARTIAN, it spins back up successfully. Not so much here, because it comes after the big effects-heavy set-piece – a set-up you probably shouldn’t think about too hard – and for me the film kind of crept to the end after that. Your mileage will likely vary. You can’t fault Goddard for sticking to the novel’s structure, but the loss of energy is real.

It’s a good film. Like the book, it’s clever, and the filmmakers get a real ride out of it, with a decent number of laughs. (If you read the book, you will be pleased to know that “fist my bump” made it into the film.) I’m still surprised it was released in March, as I think it has summer film written all over it. But nobody’s going to be sad about a big smart well-made blockbuster brightening the spring.

It’s fun. You won’t regret seeing it at all. If you’re a writer, read the book and then watch the film and study Goddard’s choices – you will learn some things. And Lord & Miller and Drew Goddard will get to make anything they fucking want to after this because after this weekend it will have made $160 million in the US alone, the best even opening for a non-franchise film in a March frame. Rough rule of thumb – the studio gets half of domestic box office and a third of foreign. HAIL MARY cost something over 200 mil, I believe. It will earn out in the next few weeks, as it’s only going to drop 42% in the US this weekend.

Bad news: there is already talk of a sequel.

Not out on physical media yet, because it’s on Prime Video (UK) (US+)

(Originally written on my newsletter, 29 March 2026)

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let go

Tony Cokes.

Well, the heatwave is here. Today is linen trousers, thin socks and one of the 100% cotton popover tops I get from from a manufacturer in Tibet, which are remarkably durable.

Today begins a much less connected season, in a way. I managed to read the top ends of four newspapers and four news/magazine sites this morning. (If anyone’s keeping up, the current stack is: The Guardian, The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, Le Monde, The Economist, BBC News, Politico and Foreign Policy.) I am gathering up the print objects that have gone unread so far this year, and last night I started catching up with the Times Literary Supplement and The Wire after I squeezed a litre of organic orange juice. (The Zulay (UK) (US+) is the best squeezer I’ve ever had.)

Less-tech summer: a 1950s Swiss watch.

TELEMETRY:

(link)

Tuhat:

The honest response to all this, for someone like me, isn’t to write a manifesto. It is to build something small, and then to use it, and then to invite a few other people to use it, and to see what happens. Not a revolution. A tree.

That is what Tuhat is. Tuhat is Finnish for one thousand, and the rule is exactly that — every post must be at least a thousand words. No notes. No threads. No hot takes. No algorithm sorting writers into winners and losers based on how often they post or how spicy their headlines are. You get a page at tuhat.net/u/you, and your readers find you the old fashioned way, through a URL, an RSS feed, or an email subscription you actually own and can export as a CSV.

The constraint is the point. A thousand words is enough room to make an argument, tell a story properly, or sit with something difficult without rushing to a punchline. It is also enough friction that nobody publishes here for the dopamine of it. If you don’t have something you genuinely want to say, you won’t bother. That is by design.

John Coulthart:

a further evolution of a form of digital drawing I’ve been developing, a process in which you draw a portion of the picture then copy and paste it to a new layer, distort it slightly using one of Photoshop’s Distort filters, then draw over and around the new section until it blends seamlessly with the rest. This has the effect of creating unpredictable forms that underly the work as a whole, rather like the Surrealist techniques of frottage, grattage, decalcomania and so on. The Surrealist processes were all the product of physical materials but the impulse is the same whatever technique you may use: the introduction of a random element that might evade the conscious input of the artist and the habitual strokes made by the drawing hand.

However bad a writer you think you are, you are not worse than AI. But you still keep letting it do your writing for you, as if I won’t be able to tell. Listen: I can tell. I can always tell. You think I won’t notice, but I will. There’s no hiding from me. If you let AI do your writing I will find out, and I will kill you.

OPERATIONS: am behind.
STATUS:

I have taken my FitBit off, because the app was “updated” to Google Health and now it hallucinates bicycles.

I have just taken delivery of two cases of ale from Williams Bros brewery and a case of wine from Flint Vineyard. Flint is a Norfolk vineyard that makes an exceptional sparkling, and William Bros is the home of the Fraoch heather ale and a remarkable summer ale called Birds And Bees.

Four phone calls before noon suggests that this is going to be a difficult day for focus.


READING: THE REVOLUTIONISTS, Jason Burke (UK) (US+)
LISTENING: SUPER​​​-​​​HEAVY HAMOAZIAN REVERIE, Urthona
LAST WATCHED: SCARFACE (1983), because you always drop the remote when SCARFACE comes on. Also, THE RUNNING MAN (2025), and finished watching THE BOYS, and did two episodes of British period crime show LEGENDS.
DRINK: found a 25 year old Lagavulin in the back of the cupboard

MISSION CONTROL: I can be contacted via the Cheng Caplan Company or Inkwell Management. Link in masthead to join my free newsletter.

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THE VISIONARIES, Wolfram Eilenberger

After all, one did not write a book for other people. Any more than one wrote it for an already existing self. One wrote it, in fact, to renew one’s own self in the process of writing, and creatively go beyond its previous limits. Or in other words: to transcend oneself. Thus it is not for others that each person transcends himself; one writes books and invents machines that were demanded nowhere.


I’ve resigned myself to the idea that I will read fewer books this year, because the ones in my stack are generally long and difficult. It took me several weeks to get through THE VISIONARIES by Wolfram Eilenberger, which is not as well-written as the other book by him I’ve read, TIME OF THE MAGICIANS, and since both books have the same translator, the busted sentences, tangled syntaxes and wild tonal inconsistencies are all on Eilenberger and his original editor.

It is, despite that, full of good stuff.

It follows the lives of four female philosophers – Simone de Beauvoir, Hannah Arendt, Ayn Rand and Simone Weil – in the period 1933-1943, showing their intellectual emergence and comparing and contrasting their lives. They didn’t really know each other: de Beauvoir and Weil met once, and de Beauvoir records that meeting:

I don’t know how the conversation got started; she declared in no uncertain tones that only one thing mattered in the world: the revolution which would feed all the starving people of the earth. I retorted, no less peremptorily, that the problem was not to make men happy, but to find the reason for their existence. She looked me up and down: “It’s easy to see you’ve never been hungry,” she snapped. Our relations ended right there.

Its biggest problem is tonal – it veers between warmly autobiographical, admiring and accepting, critical and faintly shitty (especially in de Beauvoir’s case). But it does, remarkably, make you want to root for the young Ayn Rand. And when he stops reifying Weil’s hallucinations and frowning on de Beauvoir’s love life, he surfaces a ton of wonderful and useful things, and it’s worth the money just for that.

But in Weil’s view the human being is not small enough. Because in comparison with the transcendent infinity with which Dasein faces God, the infinity of the social is only a secondary and derivative substitute, earthbound and hence practically diabolical. Weil joins with Plato in describing this sphere of the social and of social pressure as “the Great Beast”: “Obedience to the Great Beast: that is wherein the social virtues lie.”

…in the Notebooks Weil’s critique of “the great We” goes far beyond this commonplace, and quite fundamentally takes aim against the sphere of the social as the ultimate object of moral action (in whichever form). Even Ayn Rand could not have put it in such extreme terms: “Man is a social animal, and the social element represents evil.”


THE VISIONARIES, Wolfram Eilenberger (UK) (US+)

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hints of summer: 21may26

I can feel it today. Sumer is icumen in.

I have had an incredibly unproductive week so far, at a very bad time in my schedule to be out of juice, so I am taking the long bank holiday weekend to get back on track and reset and prepare. I need to get sixty pages out, reply to a ton of emails and messages, deal with a shedload of life stuff, put the fucking phone down for a while and actually get around to finalising and enacting my small plans for this website.

Today is St Helena’s day, patron saint of archaeologists.

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