text:
Flying into Naples
a short story by Nicholas Royle
Flying into Naples the 737 hits some turbulence and gets thrown about a bit. It's dark outside but I can't even see any lights on the ground. I'm a nervous flyer anyway and this doesn't make me feel any better. It's taking off and landing that bother me.
But when we're down and I'm crossing the tarmac to the airport buildings there's a warm humid stillness in the air that makes me wonder about the turbulence. I wander through passport control and customs like someone in a dream. The officials seem covered in a fine layer of dust as if they've been standing there for years just waiting.
No one speaks to me and I get on the bus marked "Centro Napoli". I'm on holiday. All I've got in Naples is a name, a photograph and a wrong number. The name is a woman's -- Flavia -- and the photograph is of the view from her apartment. The phone number I tried last week to say I was coming turned out to belong to someone else entirely.
I've worked out from the photograph and my map that the apartment is on a hill on the west side of the city. There's not much more to go on. It's too late to go and look for it tonight. Flavia won't be expecting me -- beyond occasional vague invitations nothing has been arranged -- and she could take a long time to locate.
I knew her years ago when she visited London and stayed in the hotel where I was working the bar. We knew each other briefly -- a holiday romance, if you like -- but something ensured I would not forget her. Whether it was the sunrise we saw together or the shock of her body in the quiet shadow of my room over the kitchens, or a combination of these and other factors -- her smile, my particular vulnerability, her tumbling curls -- I don't know, but something fixed her in my mind. So when I found myself with a week's holiday at the end of three difficult months in a new, stressful job, I dug out her letters -- two or three only over eight years, including this recent photograph of the view from her apartment -- and booked a last-minute flight to Naples.
I'd never been there though I'd heard so much about it -- how violent and dangerous it could be for foreigners, yet how beautiful -- and I would enjoy the effort required to get along in Italian.
I'm alone on the bus apart from one other man -- a local who spends the 20-minute ride talking on a cellphone to his mistress in Rome -- and the taciturn driver. I've come before the start of the season, but it's already warm enough not to need my linen jacket.
I'm divorced. I don't know about Flavia. She never mentioned anybody, just as she never revealed her address when she wrote to me. I've been divorced two years and a period of contented bachelorhood has only recently come to a natural end, and with the arrival of spring in London I have found myself watching women once again: following a hemline through the human traffic of Kensington, turning to see the face of a woman in Green Park whose hair looked so striking from behind. It may be spring in Berkeley Square but it feels like midsummer in Naples. The air is still and hot and humid when I leave the bus at the main railway station and begin walking into the centre of the city in search of a cheap hotel. I imagine I'm probably quite conspicuous in what must be one of the most dangerous areas but the hotels in the immediate vicinity -- the pavement outside the Europa is clogged with upturned rubbish bins; the tall, dark, narrow Esedra looks as if it's about to topple sideways -- look unwelcoming so I press on. It's late, after 10.30pm, and even the bars and restaurants are closed. Youths buzz past on Vespas and Piaggios unhelmeted despite the apparent dedication of the motorists here to the legend "live fast, die young". I hold my bag close and try to look confident but after 15 minutes or so the hotels have disappeared. I reach a large empty square and head deeper into the city. I ask a gun-holstered security guard if there is a pension in the neighbourhood but he shrugs and walks away. I climb a street that has lights burning but they turn out to be a late night bar and a fruit stand. Two boys call to me from a doorway and as I don't understand I just carry on, but at the top is a barrier and beyond that a private apartment complex, so I have to turn back and the two boys are laughing as I walk past them.
I try in another direction but there are only banks and food stores, all locked up. Soon I realise I'm going to have to go back down to the area round the railway station. I cross the road to avoid the prostitutes on the corner of Via Seggio del Popolo, not because of any spurious moral judgement but just because it seems I should go out of my way to avoid trouble, so easy is it innocently to court disaster in a foreign country. But in crossing the road I walk into a problem. There's a young woman standing in a doorway whom in the darkness I had failed to see. She moves swiftly out of the doorway into my path and I gasp in surprise. The streetlamp throws the dark bruises around her eyes into even deeper perspective. Her eyes are sunken, almost lost in her skull, and under her chin are the dark, tough bristles of a juvenile beard. She speaks quickly demanding something and before I've collected my wits she's produced a glittering blade from her jacket pocket which she thrusts towards me like a torch at an animal. I react too slowly and feel a sudden hot scratch on my bare arm.
My jacket's over my other arm so I'm lucky that I don't drop it and give the woman the chance to strike again. She lunges but I'm away down the street running for my life. When it's clear she's not chasing me I stop for breath. One or two passers-by look at me with mild curiosity. I head back in the direction of the railway station. Down a side street on my right I recognise one of the hotels I saw earlier -- the Esedra. Then I hadn't liked the look of it, but now it's my haven from the streets. I approach the glass doors and hesitate when I realise there are several men in the lobby. But the thought of the drugged-up woman makes me go on. So I push open the door and the men look up from their card game. I'm about to ask for a room when one of the men, who's had a good long look at me, says something to the man behind the little counter and this man reaches for a key from room 17's pigeon hole. I realise what's happening -- they've mistaken me for someone who's already a guest -- and there was a time when I would have been tempted to accept the key in the desire to save money, but these days I'm not short of cash. So, I hesitate only for a moment before saying that I'm looking for a room. The man is momentarily confused but gets me another key -- room 19 -- from a hook and quotes a price. It's cheap; the hotel is probably a haunt of prostitutes but right now I don't care. I just need a bed for the night.
"It's on the third floor," the man says. I pay him and walk up. There are lightbulbs but they're so heavily shaded the stairs are darker than the street outside. On each landing there are four doors: three bedrooms and one toilet cum shower. I unlock the door to room 19 and close it behind me.
I have a routine with hotel rooms: I lock myself in and switch on all the lights and open all the cupboards and drawers until I feel I know the room as well as I can. And I always check the window.
There are two single beds, some sticks of furniture, a bidet and a washbasin -- I open the cold tap and clean up the scratch on my arm. The window is shuttered. I pull on the cord to raise the shutter. I'm overlooking the Corso Uberto I which runs up to the railway station. I step on to the tiny balcony and my hands get covered in dust from the wrought iron railing. The cars in the street below are filmed with dust also. The winds blow sand here from the deserts of North Africa and it falls with the rain. I pull a chair on to the balcony and sit for a while thinking about Flavia. Somewhere in this city she's sitting watching television or eating in a restaurant and she doesn't know I'm here. Tomorrow I will try to find her.
I watch the road and I'm glad I'm no longer out there looking for shelter. Small knots of young men unravel on street corners and cross streets that don't need crossing. After a while I start to feel an uncomfortable solidity creeping into my limbs, so I take the chair back inside and drop the shutter. I'd prefer to leave it open but the open window might look like an invitation.
I'm lying in bed hoping that sleep will come but there's a scuttling, rustling noise keeping me awake. It's coming from the far side of the room near the washbasin and the framed print of the ancient city of Pompeii. It sounds like an insect, probably a cockroach. I'm not alarmed. I've shared hotel rooms with pests before, but I want to go to sleep. There's no use left in this day and I'm eager for the next one to begin.
Something else is bothering me: I want to go and try the door to room 17 and see why the proprietor was about to give me that key. The scratching noise is getting louder and although I can't fall asleep I'm getting more and more tired so that I start to imagine the insect. It's behind the picture where it's scratched out its own little hole and it's lying in wait for me to go and lift the picture aside and it will come at me, slow and deadly, like a Lancaster bomber. The noise works deeper into my head. The thing must have huge wings and antennae. Scratch ... scratch ... scratch. I can't stand it any more. I get up, pull on my trousers and leave the room.
The stairs are completely dark. I feel my way up to the next landing and switch on the light in the WC to allow me to see the numbers on the doors. I push open the door to room 17, feeling a layer of dust beneath my fingertips, and it swings open. The chinks in the shutter admit enough light to paint a faint picture of a man lying on the bed who looks not unlike me. I step into the room and feel grit on the floor under my feet. As I step closer the man on the bed turns to look at me. His lips move slowly.
"I came straight here," he says, "instead of walking into the city to find something better."
I don't know what to say. Pulling up a chair I sit next to him.
"I found her," he continues. "She lives above the city on the west side. You can see Vesuvius from her window."
I grip his cold hand and try to read the expression on his face. But it's blank. The words rustle in his mouth like dry leaves caught between stones.
"She's not interested. Watch out for Vesuvius," he whispers then falls silent. I sit there for a while watching his grey face for any sign of life but there's nothing. Feeling an unbearable sadness for which I can't reasonably account I return to my room and lie flat on my back on the little bed.
The unknown insect is still busy scratching behind the ruins of Pompeii.
I wake up to heavy traffic under my window, my head still thick with dreams. On my way downstairs I pause on the landing opposite room 17 and feel a tug. But I know the easiest thing is not to think too much about it and just carry on downstairs, hand in the key and leave the hotel for good. Even if I don't manage to locate Flavia I won't come back here. I'll find something better.
I walk across the city, stopping at a little bar for a cappuccino and a croissant. The air smells of coffee, cigarettes and laundry. Strings of clothes are hung out in the narrow passages like bunting. Moped riders duck their heads to avoid vests and socks as they bounce over the cobbles. Cars negotiate alleys barely wide enough to walk down, drivers jabbing at the horn to clear the way. Pedestrians step aside unhurriedly and there are no arguments or remonstrations.
The sun is beating down but there's a haze like sheer nylon stretched above the rooftops -- dust in the air. I'm just heading west and climbing through distinct areas. The class differences show up clearly in the homes -- the bassi, tiny rooms that open directly on to the street, and higher up the huge apartment blocks with their own gate and security -- and in the shops and the goods sold in them. Only the dust is spread evenly.
As soon as I'm high enough to see Vesuvius behind me I take out the photograph and use it to direct my search, heading always west.
It takes a couple of hours to cross the city and locate the right street. I make sure it's the right view before starting to read the names on the bell-pushes. The building has to be on the left-hand side of the road because those on the right aren't high enough to have a view over those on the left. I still don't know if I'm going to find the name or not. Through the gaps between the buildings I can see Vesuvius on the other side of the bay. By looking ahead I'm even able to estimate the exact building, and it turns out I'm right. There's the name -- F. Sannia -- among a dozen others. I press the bell without thinking about it.
When Flavia comes to open the door I'm surprised. Perhaps it's more her place to be surprised than mine but she stands there with a vacant expression on her face. What a face, though, what extraordinary beauty. She was good looking when we first met, of course, but in the intervening years she has grown into a stunning woman. I fear to lean forward and kiss her cheeks lest she crumbles beneath my touch. But the look is blank. I don't know if she recognises me. I say her name then my own and I must assume her acquiescence -- as she turns back into the hall and hesitates momentarily -- to be an invitation. So I follow her. She walks slowly but with the same lightness of step that I remember from before.
As I follow her into the apartment I'm drawn immediately to the far side of the main room where there's a balcony with a spectacular view over the Bay of Naples and, right in the centre at the back, Mount Vesuvius. Unaware of where Flavia has disappeared to I stand there watching the view for some minutes. Naples is built on hills and one of them rises from the sea to dominate the left middle ground, stepped with huge crumbling apartment buildings and sliced up by tapering streets and alleys that dig deeper the narrower they become. The whole city hums like a hive and cars and scooters buzz about like drones. But the main attraction is Vesuvius. What a place to build a city: in the shadow of a volcano.
It's a while before I realise Flavia has returned and is standing behind me as I admire the view.
"What do you want to do while you are in Naples?" she asks with a level voice. "You'll stay here, of course."
"You're very kind. I meant to give you some notice but I don't think I had the right phone number." I show her the number in my book.
"I changed it," she says as she sits in one of the wicker chairs and indicates for me to do the same. "I've been widowed six times," she says and then falls silent. "It's easier."
I don't know what to say. I think she must have intended to say something else -- made a mistake with her English -- although she seems so grey and lifeless herself that the statement may well have been true.
We sit on her balcony for half an hour looking out over the city and the volcano on the far side of the bay, during which time I formulate several lines with which to start a fresh conversation but each one remains unspoken. Something in her passivity frightens me. It seems at odds with the élan of the city in which she lives.
But Flavia speaks first. "With this view," she says slowly, "it is impossible not to watch the volcano, to become obsessed by it."
I nod.
"My father was alive when it last erupted," she continues, "in 1944. Now Vesuvio is dormant. Do you want to see Naples?" she asks, turning towards me.
"Yes, very much."
We leave the apartment and Flavia leads the way to a beaten-up old Fiat Uno. Her driving is a revelation: once in the car and negotiating the hairpin, double-parked roads leading downtown Flavia is a completely different woman. Here is the lively, passionate girl I knew in London. She takes on other drivers with the determination and verve she showed in my room overlooking the hotel car park when we took it in turns to sit astride each other. She rode me then as she now drives the Fiat, throwing it into 180-degree corners and touching her foot to the floor on the straights. She's not wearing her seat belt; I unclip mine, wind down my window and put my foot up on the plastic moulding in front of me. At one point -- when I draw my elbow into the car quickly to avoid a bus coming up on the other side of the road -- Flavia turns her head and smiles at me just as she did eight years earlier before falling asleep.
We skid into a parking place and Flavia attacks the handbrake. Once out of the car she's quiet again, gliding along beside me. "Where are we going?" I ask her. Beyond the city the summit of Vesuvius is draped in thick grey cloud. Out over the sea on our right a heavy wedge of darkest grey thunderheads is making its way landwards trailing skirts of rain. In the space of two minutes the island of Capri is rubbed out as the storm passes over it and into the bay.
"She must want to be alone," Flavia says and, when I look puzzled, continues, "They say that you can see a woman reclining in the outline of the island."
But Capri is lost behind layers of grey veils now and just as Flavia finishes speaking the first drops of rain explode on my bare arms. Within seconds we are soaked by a downpour of big fat sweet-smelling summer rain. My thin shirt is plastered to my back. The rain runs off Flavia's still body in trickles. She seems impervious to the cleansing, refreshing effect that I'm enjoying. Dripping wet with rain bouncing off my forehead I give her a smile but her expression doesn't change. "Shall we walk?" I suggest, eyeing some trees in the distance that would give us some shelter. She just turns and starts walking without a word so I follow. The trees -- which I realise I have seen previously from Flavia's balcony -- conceal the city aquarium, housed in the lower ground floor of a heavy stone building. I pay for two tickets and we pass in front of a succession of gloomy windows on to another world. It's so damp down there I feel almost as if we've entered the element of the fishes. My shirt clings to my back, getting no drier under the dim lights. Flavia's white blouse is stuck to her shoulders but there's no tremor of life as far as I can see. She stares unseeing at the fish, the sinister skate and lugubrious octopus which regard us with an expression I feel but can't put a name to. Because I'm beginning to feel quite anxious I hurry past the shrimps and seahorses -- which I see only as a blur of commas and question marks -- and I'm relieved to get back into the open air.
Flavia takes me to a restaurant she knows and I eat cousins of the creatures we've just seen in the aquarium. Flavia orders mineral water and oysters but then hardly touches them. My teeth grind on tiny particles of grit or shell in my sauce but I don't say anything because it seems to be a city-wide problem. The waiter's black patent leather shoes are matt with a fine layer of dust.
I watch Flavia as I eat and she stares out of the window at the teeming rain. When she moves it's with an incredible slowness that sets up a tension in me. Her stillness makes me want to protect her. She must have suffered so much, like a tree that's been buffeted by so many storms it's been stripped of leaves and twigs, but still stands, proud and defiant. I want to reach across and touch her cheek in the hope she might soften and smile, but such a deliberate act seems reckless. The worst thing would be if she remained indifferent to my advance.
As I continue eating, however, I'm filled with desire for her. I want to take her to bed and hold her and stroke away the years with her thin layers of clothing.
The feeling grows throughout what remains of the day. We go to a couple of basement piano bars and a club where crowds of strikingly beautiful people spill out on to the street. The atmosphere of intoxication and sexual excitement does nothing to spark Flavia into life. She simply trails her fingers through the dust which seems to coat the tables in every bar we go in.
Only in the car does she come alive as we race from one venue to another, bouncing down noisy cobbled escape routes and diving into alleys thin as crevices. The car's headlamps startle cats and in one hidden piazza a huddle of unshaven men emerging from a fly-posted door. "This is a dangerous quarter," she says, pointing at streets I remember from my first night. "Camorro. Our Mafia. They kill you here as soon as look at you."
Way past midnight we end up in a park above the city on the same side as Flavia's apartment but further round the bay. "This newspaper," she indicates piles of discarded newsprint lining the side of the road. "People come here in their cars and put the newspaper up to cover the windows. Then they make love."
I look at the vast drifts of newspaper as we drive slowly around the perimeter of the park. "Why?" I ask. "Because they live at home? It's their only chance?"
She shrugs. "They do it in the cars then throw the newspaper out of the window."
"And what a view they have," I say, looking across the bay at the brooding shadow of Vesuvius.
Back home again she retreats inside her shell. The sudden change throws me. I want to touch her, sleep with her, but suddenly it's as if we're complete strangers. She sits on the balcony staring at Vesuvius and I bring her a drink. As I put it down I place my other hand on her arm and give it a brief squeeze. She doesn't react so I pull one of the wicker chairs round to face hers and sit in the darkness just watching her watch the volcano. The moon paints her face with a pale wash. I can see the shape of her breasts under the white blouse and as I concentrate I can see the merest lift as she breathes. Otherwise I might have doubted she was still alive. "Do you want to go to bed?" I ask.
She just looks at me. Inside me the tension is reaching bursting point. When Flavia gets up and walks to her bedroom I follow. She undresses in front of me. The moonlight makes her flesh look grey and very still. I undress and lie beside her. She doesn't push me away but neither does she encourage me in any way.
When I wake in the morning she's gone. The pillow on her side is still indented and warm to the touch. I wish I'd done something the night before but her terrible passivity had killed my desire. A night's sleep, however, has returned it to me. If she were here now I'd force her to decide, whether to accept or reject me, either being preferable to indifference.
I get dressed and step out on to the balcony. The top of Vesuvius is covered with cloud. The air over the city is hazy. On the little table there's a note for me from Flavia. She's had to go out for the day and can I entertain myself? I'm to help myself to whatever I want. She suggests I visit Pompeii.
The Circumvesuviana railway trundles out of the east side of Naples and skirts the volcano, calling at St Giorgio and Ercolano, the sun beating down on the crumbling white apartment buildings. I avoid the modern town at Pompeii and head straight for the excavations. German tourists haggle over the entrance fee. I pay and go through, detaching myself from the crowd as soon as I can. They saunter off down the prescribed route armed with guide books from which their self-elected leader will read out loud, peculiarly choosing the English-language section, as they pass by the monuments of particular note. The same man -- he's wearing a red shirt which bulges over the waistband of his creamy linen trousers -- carries the camcorder and will listen impassively to anyone who suggests they operate it instead. They're a distraction from my surroundings: a city preserved to a far greater degree than anything I had been expecting. I wander off into an area of recent excavations where I'm alone with the buzzing insects and basking lizards that dart away at my approach. The heat is overpowering and after a quarter of an hour threading my way through dug-out paved streets bordered with shoulder-high walls and great swathes of overflowing undergrowth I have to sit down for a rest. I look up at Vesuvius, a huge black shape jiggling from side to side behind the thickening haze.
A bee the size of a fat cockroach lumbers towards me buzzing like a whole canful of blowflies and I have to duck to avoid it. Even when it's gone I can still hear it, as if I hadn't managed to get out of the way quick enough and somehow it got inside my head. The sun, even through the dust in the air, amplifies the noise and cooks my skull so that everything inside it rattles like loose beans. Off down a long straight street to my right I recognise the party of German tourists standing to attention as they listen to the man in the red shirt with the stomach, the camcorder and the guide book. His words are just a low hum to me amid the constant buzz in my ears. My limbs tingle as if electricity is being passed through them, then they go completely numb and the buzzing gets slower and even louder. At the far end of the long straight street the Germans have frozen in position. The man in the red shirt is in the act of raising the camcorder to his eye, a woman in a wraparound top and shorts is caught in the act of leaning backwards -- not ungracefully -- to correct the fit of her smart training shoe. The air between them and me is thick with shiny dust, glittering in the golden sunshine. The tiny particles are dancing but the figures remain petrified.
Suddenly they're moving but in a group rather than individually. They are shifted silently to one side like a collection of statues on an invisible moving platform. It's as if they're being shunted into another world while I'm left dodging the insects in this one and I want to go with them. Maybe wherever they're going there won't be this terrible grinding noise which is giving the inside of my skull such a relentless battering.
By the time some feeling returns to my arms and legs the German tourists have completely disappeared. I stumble over the huge baking slabs, trying to escape the punishment. Pursuing the merest hint of a decrease in the noise level I turn in through an old stone doorway and begin a desperate chase after silence: over boulders, through tangles of nettles and vines where enormous butterflies make sluggish progress through the haze. As the pain levels out and then begins to abate I know I'm heading in the right direction. A couple more sharp turns past huge grass-covered mounds and collapsed walls where lizards the size of rats gulp at the gritty air; the noise fades right down, the pain ebbs and warm molten peaceful brassy sun flows into my bruised head. I fall to my knees with my hands covering my face and when I take them away I'm looking directly into the empty grey eyesockets of a petrified man. His face is contorted by the pain he felt as the lava flowed over him. I'm screaming because the man looks so much like me it's like looking in a mirror and a lizard suddenly flits out of one of the eyes and slips into the gaping mouth. The pain is back and this time it doesn't go away until I black out.
I'm out for hours because when I come to, rubbing my forehead, the sun casts quite different shadows on the stony face. Dismayingly I have to admit he still looks like me. For several minutes I sit and watch the insects that use his cavities and passages as they would any similar rock formation.
Later I tell Flavia how closely his volcanic features resembled mine.
"It's quite common to hallucinate after an eruption," she says, applying a piece of sticky tape to the newspaper covering the driver's window.
That's all very well, I think, but I'm 2000 years too late. Or did she mean him? But I don't want to dwell on it because the faster the newspaper goes up the sooner I can have her.
It clicked with me that I could make the most of Flavia's carbound vivacity so that her passivity at home would not matter as much.
Through a narrow gap at the top of the windscreen I can see Vesuvius rising and falling as Flavia and I punish the old Fiat's suspension.
In a few hours' time I'll be climbing Vesuvius herself. Flavia's away somewhere -- working, she said -- so I'm to tackle the volcano alone and although I could have taken a cab to the tourist car park halfway up the mountain I decided to walk all the way from Ercolano which, as Herculaneum, was itself covered by the same lava flows that buried Pompeii. The road folds over on itself as I climb. The routine is soon automatic as I maintain a regular ascent and efficient breathing. My mind is rerunning the night before in Flavia's car. Six times her emotions reached bursting point and boiled over. In the early hours the air in the car was so thick and cloying we had to wind down the window, which meant losing part of our newsprint screen, but the park had emptied hours before.
In her apartment, where I swallowed glass after glass of fresh orange juice, Flavia was once more still and grey. I was thinking about getting her out in the car again but I knew I had to climb the volcano before I left: it had been calling me and this was my last day in the city.
If the air were not so thick with dust, the view from halfway up the mountain would be spectacular. I can just make out a darker shadow which is the centre of Naples and a thin line separating the land from the sea. Only the island of Capri is clear in the distance but its profile is still no more like a woman than the trembling slope beneath my feet. Down here there are trees either side of the road but I can see that higher up the ground is bare. The sun still manages to break through the thickening air and once caught between the ground and the dust the heat cannot escape. I've taken off my shirt and tied it around my neck to soak up some of the sweat. The mountain seems to get no smaller even though I know I'm climbing. The road hugs the side and disappears some way round the back before twisting back on itself to reach the car park and refreshment stand. I have the sense, the higher I get, of the volcano as an egg, its exterior thin and brittle and cracked open at the top. I stop for breath, lean back and stretch. The summit and crater are covered by cloud.
Beyond the empty car park the narrow path zig-zags into the clouds. I climb with the same sense of purpose that took hold of Flavia and me in the car and I sense that the prize is not so far removed from that sweet and fiery memory which even now stirs me. The earth and trees have been left behind and the slate-grey cloud thickens about me like hospital blankets. The mountain is loose cinders and disintegrated volcanic material, a uniform grey-brown, like a dying horse in a burnt field. I'm suddenly engulfed by a wave of sympathy for Flavia and the years of suffering. They have turned her into a brittle shell, but life lingers within her, a dormant energy that last night we fired up. She deserves longer-lasting happiness and yet I know she wouldn't even flicker in some other city; Naples is her only home. Some things are rooted too deeply in the earth to shift.
Never in my life have I felt so alone as I feel now, wrapped in cloud, buffeted by sea winds, following a path to a crater. I can't see more than ten barren yards in any direction.
When I hear the music I think I've died or am still asleep in Flavia's bed and dreaming. Soft notes that gather a little power then fade quickly as the wind blows new ones slightly up or down the scale. I've already called Flavia's name three times before I realise I'm doing it. The name is taken from my lips and wrapped in this soiled cotton wool that surrounds me. Her name rolls on with the cloud over the top of the mountain where the crater must be. It mustn't fall in.
The source of the music comes into view -- an abandoned shack supported by an exoskeleton of tubular steel shafts. The wind plays them like panpipes. A sign still attached to the side of the shack advertises the sale of tickets to the crater. I begin to laugh at the absurdity of such an idea and wade on past the chiming tubes and up towards the edge. I know it's up there somewhere although I can't see it and I stumble blindly onwards, scuffing my shoes in coarse, loose material. Then suddenly the ground disappears beneath my feet and I'm clawing at space for a handhold. Somehow I manage to fall back rather than forward and I crouch in the harsh volcanic rubble peering over the edge of the crater. Below me the cloud twists in draughts of warm air. I'm muttering Flavia's name to myself and thinking I should never have gone to look for her. Then I'm thinking maybe I never did go, but stayed in the insect-ridden hotel instead.
As I watch the updraughts of ash and dust I see a recognisable group of shapes take vague form in the clouds. The German tourists -- he with the red shirt, the camcorder, the stomach, she of the shorts and smart training shoes, still frozen as an exhibit of statuary -- descend through the rising dust as if on a platform. The thicker swirls beneath me envelop them.
They pass into the throat of the giant and are followed by a facsimile of Flavia, falling like a slow bomb. A cast of myself -- whether from Pompeii or the hotel, I don't know -- is next, slipping in and out of focus behind curtains of clogging ash.
The last thing I remember is the buffeting and turbulence the 737 went through as it passed over Vesuvius on its descent into Naples, and suddenly the whole crazy city with its strange visions and coating of fine dust -- from a waiter's shoes to the air rattling in lungs -- makes perfect sense.
© Nicholas Royle 1993, 1997
This story appeared in Interzone #77.
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Court to hear appeal of ex-officer in murder of George Floyd
An attorney for Derek Chauvin is planning to ask an appeals court Jan. 18 to throw out the former Minneapolis police officer's convictions in the murder of George Floyd, arguing that numerous legal and procedural errors deprived him of a fair trial.
Floyd died on May 25, 2020, after Chauvin, who is white, pinned the Black man to the ground with his knee on his neck for 9 1/2 minutes. A bystander video captured Floyd's fading cries of "I can't breathe." Floyd's death touched off protests around the world and forced a painful national reckoning with police brutality and racism.
Hennepin County Judge Peter Cahill sentenced Chauvin to 22 1/2 years after jurors found him guilty of second-degree murder, third-degree murder and second-degree manslaughter. Chauvin later pleaded guilty to a federal civil rights charge and was sentenced to 21 years in federal prison, which is he is now serving in Arizona concurrent with his state sentence.
While Chauvin waived his right to appeal under his federal plea deal, he continued to pursue his appeal of his murder convictions in state court. Even if he wins his appeal, his federal sentence will keep him in prison longer than his state sentence likely would because he would qualify for parole earlier in the state system. But a successful appeal could set a precedent for future cases involving police officers.
Chauvin's attorney for the appeal is William Mohrman, who often pursues conservative causes including challenges to President Joe Biden's election victory and to COVID-19 vaccine mandates.
Mohrman argued in his brief to the Minnesota Court of Appeals that the pretrial publicity was more extensive that any other trial in Minnesota history, and that the judge should have moved the trial elsewhere and sequestered the jury for the duration. Mohrman wrote that the publicity, combined with the riots, the city's $27 million settlement with Floyd's family announced during jury selection, the unrest over a police killing in a Minneapolis suburb during jury selection, and the unprecedented courthouse security were just some of the factors prejudicing Chauvin's chance of a fair trial.
He also argued that Cahill improperly excluded evidence that could have been favorable to Chauvin, and accused prosecutors of misconduct.
Prosecutors said in their brief that Chauvin had a fair trial and received a just sentence.
The prosecutors — including state Assistant Attorney General Matthew Frank and Neal Katyal, who was acting U.S. solicitor general during the Obama administration — argued that Chauvin's rights were not prejudiced.
They said pretrial publicity had blanketed the state making a change of venue for the trial pointless, and that Cahill took extensive steps to ensure the selection of impartial jurors. They also said he took sufficient steps to shield the jurors from outside influences so there was no need to sequester them before deliberations.
Other disputes in the appeal include whether it was legally permissible to convict Chauvin of third-degree murder, and whether Cahill was justified in exceeding the 12 1/2 years recommended under the state's sentencing guidelines.
Three other officers who were present during Floyd's murder — Tou Thao, J. Alexander Kueng and Thomas Lane — were convicted of federal civil rights charges last February and are serving their sentences in out-of-state federal prisons.
Lane and Kueng accepted plea deals on state charges of aiding and abetting manslaughter and are serving concurrent sentences. But Thao declined to plead guilty. Attorneys for both sides agreed to let Cahill decide on Thao's guilt based on stipulated evidence. That verdict is pending, as is his federal appeal.
9:04 am Wed, January 18, 2023 Michigan Lawyers Weekly
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


The Wilson Lab is situated in the Leicester School of Pharmacy at De Montfort University, Leicester. Our research interests include computational enzymology, theoretical chemistry, computational bioanalysis, and cheminformatics. We work with collaborators internationally and have strong industry connections.
Philippe is a Lecturer in Biological Chemistry and Chemical Analysis at De Montfort University, Leicester. His research interests include computational enzymology, theoretical chemistry, computational bioanalysis, and cheminformatics. He is a Member of the Royal Society of Chemistry, and Royal Society of Biology, and a Fellow of the Higher Education Academy, and Linnean Society of London. In 2018 he was named in the prestigious Forbes Magazine 30 Under 30 Listing in Science & Healthcare, Europe.
Miles' PhD crosses both the Grootveld and Wilson labs, and concentrates on developing our understanding of the thermal behaviour of lipids, as well as establishing new standardised protocols.
Atomistic simulations have become one of the main approaches to study the chemistry and dynamics of biomolecular systems in solution. Chemical modelling is a powerful way to understand biochemistry, with a number of different programs available to perform specialized calculations. We present here Q6, a new version of the Q software package, which is a generalized package for empirical valence bond, linear interaction energy, and other free energy calculations. In addition to general technical improvements, Q6 extends the reach of the EVB implementation to fast approximations of quantum effects, extended solvent descriptions and quick estimation of the contributions of individual residues to changes in the activation free energy of reactions.
Isotope effects are subtle but powerful probes of chemical reaction mechanisms and environmental conditions, with applications across chemical, biological and earth sciences. Their meaningful interpretation often relies on calculations based upon fundamental theories for their origin. The SULISO suite consists of four programs for the calculation of vibrational frequencies and isotope effects. CAMVIB is a broad vibrational characterization code developed for analysis of calculated harmonic frequencies and of normal modes in terms of internal coordinates. LIPFR calculates isotopic partition function ratios for pairs of isotopically substituted whole molecules, corresponding to conventional methodology, whereas UJISO is designed to perform similar calculations on subsets of atoms from very large systems. CUTOFF is a utility which truncates a force-constant matrix for a large system to obtain a smaller matrix appropriate for a specified subset of atoms.
DFT calculations for methyl cation complexed within a constrained cage of water molecules permit the controlled manipulation of the "axial" donor/acceptor distance and the "equatorial" distance to hydrogen-bond acceptors. The kinetic isotope effect k(CH3)/k(CT3) for methyl transfer within a cage with a short axial distance becomes less inverse for shorter equatorial C⋅⋅⋅O distances: a decrease of 0.5 Å results in a 3 % increase at 298 K. Kinetic isotope effects in AdoMet-dependent methyltransferases may be m∧odulated by CH⋅⋅⋅O hydrogen bonding, and factors other than axial compression may contribute, at least partially, to recently reported isotope-effect variations for catechol-O-methyltransferase and its mutant structures.
PB Wilson, IH Williams. Computational Modeling of a Caged Methyl Cation: Structure, Energetics, and Vibrational Analysis. J. Phys. Chem. A., 2018.
P Bauer, A Barrozo, M Purg, BA Amrein, M Esguerra, PB Wilson, DT Major, J Åqvist, SCL Kamerlin. Q6: A comprehensive toolkit for empirical valence bond and related free energy calculations. In SoftwareX, 2018.
L Owen, K Laird, PB Wilson. Structure-activity modelling of essential oils, their components, and key molecular parameters and descriptors. In Mol. Cell. Probes, 2017.
J Masania, M Grootveld, PB Wilson. Teaching Analytical Chemistry to Pharmacy Students: A Combined, Iterative Approach. In J. Chem. Educ., 2017.
PB Wilson. Recent advances in avian egg science: A review. Poult. Sci., 2017.
PB Wilson, IH Williams. A computational study of the influence of methyl substituents on competitive ring closure to α- and β-lactones. Org. Biomol. Chem., 2017.
IH Williams, PB Wilson. Chapter 5: Kinetic Isotope Effects. Royal Society of Chemistry, 2017.
IH Williams, PB Wilson. SULISO: The Bath suite of vibrational characterization and isotope effect calculation software. In SoftwareX, 2016.
PB Wilson, IH Williams. Influence of Equatorial CH⋅⋅⋅O Interactions on Secondary Kinetic Isotope Effects for Methyl Transfer. In ANIE, 2016.
PB Wilson, IH Williams. Critical evaluation of anharmonic corrections to the equilibrium isotope effect for methyl cation transfer from vacuum to dielectric continuum. In Mol. Phys., 2015.
Low-field, benchtop NMR (bNMR) analysis, linked with metabolomics-based computational intelligence algorithms has the potential to impact significantly upon biomedicine and biomedical imaging; it allows for the rapid monitoring and identification of biomolecules and their concentrations in biofluids for a range of diseases and disease states, and the development of robust, machine learning approaches to improve bioanalytical procedures and inform interpretation and diagnosis.
Isotope effects are some of the most subtle yet important probes into reaction mechanism and geometry change, yet some factors that affect their direction and magnitude were still largely unknown. A quick literature search for kinetic isotope effect can produce thousands of results, but how reliable is the data, how reliable are the calculations, and how reliable are the interpretations?In 2014, it was postulated that it was necessary to explore some of the most tenacious questions in the field, by concentrating on a methodological investigation of the nature of isotope effects, and how they are affected by various aspects of the system they represent, such as environment and system size, whilst carrying out method validation on the electronic structure methods employed. After all, understanding interactions on a supramolecular scale begins first by understanding atomic and molecular factors. Therefore, a series of projects designed to explore the basis of the current system and offer robust computational recommendations for the future calculation and interpretation of isotope effects were embarked upon, based on mainly small models as applied to supramolecular systems. Throughout the past few years, the effects of the environment, the vibrational description of the systems, the level of inclusion of molecules within the calculation, and the impact of the original electronic structure methods used to treat these systems have all been considered. Additionally, the SULISO suite of programs has been applied to the calculation of not only organic and enzymic entities, but also organometallic reactions and catalytic cycles, showing the inherent transferability of the SULISO protocols within the chemical field.


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// Copyright (c) Jeremy W. Kuhne. All rights reserved.
// Licensed under the MIT license. See LICENSE file in the project root for full license information.

using System.Runtime.InteropServices;

namespace WInterop.GdiPlus.EmfPlus;

[StructLayout(LayoutKind.Sequential)]
public readonly ref struct MetafilePlusObject
{
    public const ushort ContinueObjectFlag = 0b1000_0000_0000_0000;
    public const ushort ObjectTypeMask = 0b0111_1111_0000_0000;
    public const ushort ObjectIdMask = 0b0000_0000_1111_1111;

    public readonly MetafilePlusRecord Record;

    private readonly byte _data;

    public uint TotalObjectSize => Continued ? Record.DataSize : 0;
    public unsafe uint DataSize
    {
        get
        {
            if (!Continued)
            {
                return Record.DataSize;
            }

            fixed (byte* b = &_data)
            {
                return *(uint*)b;
            }
        }
    }

    public MetafilePlusObjectType ObjectType => (MetafilePlusObjectType)((Record.Flags & ObjectTypeMask) >> 8);
    public int ObjectId => Record.Flags & ObjectIdMask;
    public bool Continued => (Record.Flags & ContinueObjectFlag) != 0;
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


Nature to Nurture was created with a goal of minimizing the harmful chemicals people live with, making homes a safe place for children to flourish. Having this in mind, Nature to Nurture products are designed to be healthy solutions to everyday cleaning needs. By employing a minimaist back to basics approach, Naure to Nurture products only contain natural and necessary ingredients making them safe yet effective. Free of nasty chemicals such as sodium lauryl/laureth sulfate, ethanolamines (MEA, DEA, TEA), parabens, phthalates, colorants/dyes, synthetic fragrances, optical brighteners, formaldehyde, and caustics. Certified Cruelty-free by PETA.
Harmful chemicals are everywhere. They're in the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat, and the products we use. Nature to Nurture was formed with the intent of keeping us healthy by reducing the number of harmful chemicals that we come into contact with on a day-to-day basis. This brand's products are free from nasty chemicals such as sodium lauryl/laureth sulfate, ethanolamines, parabens, phthalates, colorants/dyes, synthetic fragrances, optical brighteners, formaldehyde, and caustics. To top it off, all products are produced ethically and certified cruelty-free by PETA.
Check out their Baby Bottle & Dish Wash Refill, Baby Bottle & Dish Wash, Multi-Surface Cleaner, Free & Clear Laundry Powder Ultra Gentle, and Free & Clear Liquid Laundry Detergent. If you demand cruelty-free all natural detergents and cleaners, this brand is well worth your time.
Get all your alternative cleansers and cruelty-free favorites right here on BeautyMNL. We understand that it's hard to find ethically-produced items here in the country. That's why we made sure to make it easy to provide all your vegan and chemical free options wherever you are in the Philippines. Use our simple system to find what you need and have it shipped to your home in moments.


The 12th Singapore Canoe Marathon ended today amidst several firsts. Organised for the first time in the heartlands at Anchorvale Community Club since its inception in 1999, it also introduced an inaugural fun race, which attracted over 100 participants of all ages and raised S$40,000 for the para-canoeing community.
Co-organisers Singapore Canoe Federation [SCF] and People's Association [PA] Water-Venture also organised try-out sessions along the Punggol Waterway for the community to learn the sport from Team Singapore athletes and bond with families and friends at the same time.
In a strong show of support towards the para-canoeing community, the event saw Mr Tan Chuan Jin, Acting Minister for Manpower and Adviser to Marine Parade GRC Grassroots Organisations, Mr Desmond Lee, Minister of State for National Development and Adviser to the SCF and Jurong GRC Grassroots Organisations, and Mr Nicholas Fang, Nominated Member of Parliament, teaming up with an athlete each from Team Singapore Canoeing and staff from the PA to paddle a total of 40km for a good cause.
For every metre paddled by them, a group of donors pledged a dollar to fund the development of a para-canoeing programme which will be administered by the SCF. This programme will enable athletes with physical disabilities to enjoy the sport by sponsoring the purchase of their equipment such as specially modified kayaks.
"We are delighted to be able to contribute in this way to the development of the para-canoeing programme. This is a very good cause, as sports is a very powerful enabler. It is also very heartening to see the community actively contributing, participating and giving back," said Mr Desmond Lee, after paddling 10km along Punggol Waterway.
On top of the fun race and the public try-outs, a total of 600 participants also took part in the one day canoeing competition that was organised across four different categories. It definitely was a fruitful and meaningful day for all the participants whom participated in the event at the Punggol Waterway.
As our new home is situated near the Punggol Waterway, both Jacqueline and I are pretty excited about moving in next year and we certainly look forward to participating in more activities organised at the Punggol Waterway.


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Single Payer Health Insurance
Honolulu Transit
Hawaii Tourism Authority Reform
Internet Access Tax Act
NextEra-HECO Aquisition
HAWAI`I ENERGY 101
Public Utilities Commission (PUC) Hearings
Hawai`i Energy Storage and Related
National Rural Electric Cooperative Association
The Jones Act
Analysis Of McCain Jones Act Amendment
Hawaii Auto Insurance Reform (1995-97)
2016 Honolulu Charter Amendments
Taking On Hawaii's Oil Oligopoly (2002-2003)
Ben Cayetano on the Gas Cap
AFCR MEDIA STORIES
Thanks to you, the informed Hawai`i Consumer, Advocates For Consumer Rights (AFCR) is in our third decade working for the interests of Hawaii's beleaguered consumers. Explore our proud history of public policy accomplishments at "Our History" in the menu bar. Our work continues in the present with an understanding of the past and a keen eye towards the future.
Please Like our Facebook page and consider joining our email list (top right column or scroll way down on a smartphone) to follow and hopefully engage in our current challenge; salvaging the Honolulu rail transit project.
WHAT CAN WE DO TO SALVAGE RAIL?
A Viable Plan B
Given the many problems including three scathing State audits (soon to be four) one equally negative Honolulu County audit AND a federal investigation of the Honolulu Authority For Rapid Transportation (HART) underway, we believe that major construction on the Honolulu Rail Project should be built to and paused at the Middle Street Bus Terminal and that entire leg be made operative ASAP. In the meantime, we suggest exploring rerouting the rail line to end at the University of Hawaii at Manoa.
We believe our elected and appointed officials must all be encouraged to carefully contemplate this Plan B before another contract is offered on what has been acknowledged to be the most disruptive and expensive segment; Dillingham-downtown-Ala Moana.
The dysfunction and financial bleeding must cease. While the Kapolei to Aloha Stadium portion "is slated to begin operating in 2020," we are challenging HART to accomplish this Plan B by the end of 2019.
While our primary reason for the suggested reroute is the predicted sea rise which will ultimately inundate much of the current route, we also believe that the greatest reduction in street and highway traffic can be achieved via the UH route.
Some want to see the project completely stopped and torn down, others insist that it continue to Ala Moana. OUR primary goal is to help salvage the project in the most logical and expeditious manner possible and we are already working to see this Plan B debated in the public square.
Obviously, the massive rail project is out of control and it's up to US to help bring order to chaos. Please see the following Star-Advertiser article for more about our Plan B. – Scott Foster, volunteer Communications Director.
State Audit of the Honolulu Authority for Rapid Transportation: Report 1 HERE
State Audit of the Honolulu Authority for Rapid Transportation: Report 3 PENDING
Honolulu City Auditor's Highlights HERE
Honolulu Follow-Up Audit of the Honolulu Authority for Rapid Transportation, Resolution 17-199, CD1 HERE
NOTE: See our long history working to see an efficient and affordable mass transit system in Honolulu HERE.
BREAKING NEWS Friday March 8, 2019
Yet Another Audit Planned For Honolulu Rail Project
By Marcel Honore
"The City Council wants to investigate potential criminal activity surrounding the fiscally troubled transit project. Honolulu rail, already ensnared in a federal grand jury probe and the subject of a series of state audits, will soon face more scrutiny, this time from city leaders anxious to find out if any crimes occurred as the project's costs skyrocketed. The City Council voted 7-0 Friday [3/8/2019] to approve a forensic audit of rail. Such an investigation would move past the fiscal waste and mismanagement flagged in previous city and state rail audits to instead focus on potential fraud or malfeasance. MORE
ISLAND VOICES
Robbins should pause rail transit at Middle Street, then take stock
By Scott Foster
If words were measured in ounces, there's been more written about the Honolulu rail project than the combined weight of all of the concrete and steel used to bring it close to the Middle Street bus terminal. Through the years, those paying attention have observed a litany of questionable maneuverings by politicians, contractors and PR people.
To us, how we got to where we are today is perfectly understandable and the three recent critical audits have actually exceeded our original worst-case predictions. The Honolulu city audit put it in the most simple terms: "The rush to approve the project was for political reasons."
When Andrew Robbins was hired as the executive director of the Honolulu Authority for Rapid Transportation (HART) in 2017, I researched his background and was somewhat relieved to see he's an engineer with many years experience in building rail transit projects. Robbins had held various high positions with Bombardier, a large international company with much experience in large-scale rail projects.
An executive with such strong credentials and experience is a first at HART. Unfortunately, Robbins was not here in the beginning, and he should not be held accountable for the many past mistakes. My organization, Hawaii Advocates For Consumer Rights (AFCR), has been against this rail project from day one, believing that the all-elevated- steel-on-steel-thirdrail system we wound up with would indeed produce the massive construction costs and contract overruns we've been witnessing. Agreeing with the late Honolulu Councilman Duke Bainum, many of us believed that a rubber on concrete system that was elevated where necessary and "at grade" (on the ground) where possible was best, far less expensive and would also be much quieter than the "steel-on-steel" system that the voters approved after an unrelenting public disinformation campaign funded by the very companies, unions, individuals and consultants that would ultimately benefit the most financially via contracts and jobs.
In any event, Robbins may be the only person on Earth who can get the project built and operating. As AFCR recently testified at the City Council, we believe the best thing Robbins might do is to pause the project at Middle Street and get it operative — before a contract is signed on what has been acknowledged to be the most disruptive and expensive segment: Dillingham- downtown-Ala Moana.
If paused at Middle Street, HART could at least explore the feasibility of rerouting the project to the University of Hawaii at Manoa. Given what we now know about climate change and the rising sea level, hopefully the Federal Transit Administration would understand these dire climate change projections and not demand its money back.
The very idea of the system terminating at Ala Moana Center was an ill-conceived plan from the beginning — given the additional amount of vehicular traffic (bus and car) that would be generated in and around the already near-gridlock Ala Moana area.
If, as a growing number of local and international economists are predicting, the world is heading into another major recession, what happens then? Anyone living in Hawaii during the 1995 "Japanese investment bust" could tell you. Pausing rail at Middle Street and revisiting the original UH-Manoa route could save the entire project.
Whatever happens, I sincerely wish Mr. Robbins the best of luck. Like rail or not, at this point we all need to see him somehow successful.
Scott Foster is communications director for Hawaii Advocates For Consumer Rights. ORIGINAL Star-Advertiser op-ed HERE
AFCR is nonpartisan, we raise no money and are all volunteers. Who are our "members"? Anyone who hears our message, who will take the time to educate themselves about the issue at hand and will actively participate in the democratic process to help make positive change in important public policy. Mahalo for supporting our work through the years. — Scott Foster, Co-Founder & volunteer Communications Director.
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text:
Miss Julia Raises the Roof
#19 of Miss Julia
Ann B. Ross
Cynthia Darlow
Join Audiobook Club
The nineteenth installment of the beloved and New York Times bestselling Miss Julia series With her husband Sam off on a trip to Europe, Miss Julia takes a pause to reflect on the past few decades-realizing how the comforts and joys of her life can sometimes give way to boredom. Miss Julia reckons it's about time to roll up her sleeves and be of some use to her community. She's just considering how to get involved when she hears that the nosy do-gooder Madge Taylor and the new pastor Rucker are embarking on a mission to buy up the vacant house down the street from Miss Julia and establish a group home for wayward teenagers. No stranger to taking in the down-and-out herself, Miss Julia is shocked to learn Madge and the pastor never consulted her or anyone else in the neighborhood about their project-only a board of the church's congregants who don't live in the neighborhood, all instructed to keep the project a secret. Hazel Marie and Miss Julia's fears are confirmed when they start investigating, and find that Madge and her board of busybodies plan to proceed without much care for how to manage the home after they've built it, or whether it will be built to code in the first place-never mind that the house itself is ill suited for a bunch of teenagers to be living in it, barely supervised. Miss Julia must band together with friends and neighbors to take on nosy Madge and her steamrolling plans, while still being helpful to those in need in another entertaining installment of Ann B. Ross's bestselling series.
Mystery, Thriller & Horror >
Lynn C
This was delightfully entertaining. Love the character Miss Julia. The narrrator makes you feel you are sitting in the room with characters. I will be listening to to entire series.
This title is due for release on April 3, 2018.
This title is due for release on April 3, 2018
Miss Julia Raises the Roof...


text:
Tag: Steven Nzonzi
Man Utd, Premiership, Stoke
Premiership: Man Utd 2-1 Stoke
Manchester United continued their recent revival with a fourth successive win which strengthens their place in the Premier League top four.
The home side led when Marouane Fellaini headed in Ander Herrera's left-wing cross at the far post.
Stoke equalised through Steven N'Zonzi's low shot, but they slipped to a third straight loss when Juan Mata's free-kick from the right sneaked in.
However, Stoke's Mame Biram Diouf was twice denied an injury-time equaliser.
The 26-year-old Stoke forward, who had an undistinguished spell at Old Trafford earlier in his career, saw United keeper David De Gea claw out his header before emergency full-back Ashley Young cleared another effort off the line seconds later.
Diouf was left mystified at the final whistle by his inability to earn a point for the visitors, shaking his head in disbelief as he slowly trudged off the pitch.
A draw would have been harsh on United, who controlled the game throughout, but had to rely on a piece of fortune for the winner.
Spain midfielder Mata's set-piece evaded all the players waiting in the penalty area, although team-mate Marcos Rojo claimed he flicked in the final touch.
However, United boss Louis van Gaal will not be too bothered about the identity of the goalscorer. The Dutchman breathed a huge sigh of relief as he marched down the Old Trafford tunnel as his team continue to build momentum, despite failing to turn almost 70% of possession into more goals.
Van Gaal was unable to call on skipper Wayne Rooney or Angel Di Maria, with the pair missing from United's squad through injuries sustained against Hull on Saturday.
And for large periods, the home side sorely missed the pair's attacking guile.
But Stoke rarely looked like ending a dismal run of 11 successive Old Trafford defeats – until the late drama involving Diouf.
Old Trafford lost some of its famed 'fear factor' last season as United slumped to seven home Premier League defeats in a terrible first campaign following Sir Alex Ferguson's retirement.
That aura of invincibility appears to have returned under Van Gaal, whose team have taken 19 home points from a possible 21 since defeat by Swansea on the opening day.
Potters boss Mark Hughes indicated his side would not be afraid to "have a go" at United, but they rarely looked like carving open a makeshift home defence until stoppage time.
United controlled the tempo and deservedly led when Spanish midfielder Herrera was allowed too much time and space to pick out Fellaini, who outjumped Erik Pieters to powerfully nod in.
Hughes was furious with the space that his side allowed Herrera, but his demeanour changed when N'Zonzi calmly guided a 20-yard shot past De Gea with Stoke's first attempt on goal.
But Mata's intervention moved United within two points of second-placed Manchester City, who travel to Sunderland on Wednesday, while Stoke remain four points above the relegation zone.
Read more at BBC Sport
BBC SportFootballJuan MataMan UtdMarouane FellainiSteven NzonziStoke
League Cup, Southampton, Stoke
League Cup: Stoke 2-3 Southampton
2014/10/29 Joe London
Southampton beat Stoke for the second time in four days to reach the quarter-finals of the Capital One Cup.
This game was much more eventful than Saturday's 1-0 Premier League victory, with Graziano Pelle netting his second to make it 3-2 two minutes from time in the Potteries.
Saints looked in control at half-time at two up through Pelle and Shane Long's first for the club but Stoke levelled through Steven Nzonzi and Mame Biram Diouf.
However, moments after substitute Peter Crouch was sent off, Pelle grabbed his second to earn Southampton their ninth win in 10 games.
Both managers resisted the temptation to make wholesale changes, with 16 of the players on show having started at the weekend.
Mark Hughes gave Bojan Krkic a rare start, the former Barcelona forward appearing for the first time in nearly a month, while Saturday's goalscorer, Sadio Mane, missed out with a knock so Long came in for the visitors.
Despite the strong sides, there were plenty of empty seats at the Britannia Stadium, although more than 2,000 Southampton fans had made the trip.
And they were celebrating inside six minutes as Pelle notched his ninth of the season.
This was arguably his best, the Italian picking up the ball in the middle of the park and taking advantage of the space given to him by the Stoke defence to pick his spot just inside Asmir Begovic's post from 25 yards.
Stoke hit back with a spell of pressure but, like at St Mary's, were unable to create any real chances.
The closest they came was a 19th-minute cross from Jonathan Walters that Nathaniel Clyne got his head to just before Marko Arnautovic.
Saints certainly looked to have the greater class in attack and a flowing move ended with them doubling their lead on the half-hour mark.
Dusan Tadic played in Steven Davis on the right of the area and he pulled the ball back for Long to slot under Begovic.
Pelle should have made it three shortly afterwards but blazed over and salt was rubbed into Stoke's wounds when they thought they had scored only for Walters' shot to be ruled out for offside.
The striker was definitely standing beyond the last defender but the assistant referee waited until the ball was nestling in the net before raising his flag.
The Stoke players came out early for the second half and it took them only four minutes to halve the deficit.
Read more on Yahoo Sport
FootballGraziano PelleLeague CupMame Biram DioufShane LongSteven NzonziStokeYahoo Sport


Veganthused - Help "The ARID Zone" win a $15,000 grant!
Your support could help my Animal Liberation project win a $15,000 grant!
Voting is now open in the "Voiceless People's Choice! Award 2011", and my project "The ARID Zone" (Animal Rights Issues Discussion Zone) is in the running to win a $15,000 grant!
Only one vote per person is allowed (each vote must be validated by clicking on an emailed link, and only one vote - the most recent - per email address counts) and voting closes at 12noon (AEST) on Friday 16th September.
The ARID Zone will be an online platform that allows people to explore various issues concerning animal protection through a combination of virtual Q&A programs and webinars, supplemented with quarterly 'in person' sessions for animal advocates to gain hands-on experience and communications training & development. Whether participants just recently developed an interest in the issues or have been long-term campaigners, the ARID Zone will give them the tools, skills, networking opportunities, confidence and knowledge they need to be effective animal advocates.
Animal Liberation has been working for 35 years to end the suffering of exploited and confined animals through legislation, consumer advocacy, action and humane education. Winning this grant would mean the chance to develop an exciting project that would provide a valuable resource with specific long-term future benefits to the Australian animal movement.
Of course, if you like the sound of The ARID Zone project, I would personally really appreciate your support for this! Plus, if you can, please spread the word to friends, family, colleagues, and even mere acquaintances… the outcome really is based solely on votes so I'm obviously hoping to drum up as many as possible!
A huge round of thanks to everyone who voted for The ARID Zone! In the end we weren't successful but the good news is that another worthy project will be supported through the People's Choice! award, to benefit Aussie animals.


A quality black polo with the symbolic The Prisoner logo embroidered onto the chest in red and white stitching, with the distinctive Prisoner lettering.
A top quality item of clothing, perfect for any Prisoner fan.
"This item was bought as a present for an avid prisoner fan so I can't really comment much on the product ie what material is like or how well it washed etc Delivery service of the item was excellent though, couldn't be faulted. It was tracked and I even got emails throughout even to the point the product was delivered. Excellent service "
"I love this I used to watch this program I have watched the old series about 20 times "
"Very Nice Polo - Love it - May purchase another. Wish you still had the #6 Neck Ties. Would be even better if they had the Prisoner with the Penny Farthing bicycle on them."


Canadian Tire Centre offers a wide variety of premium seating and suite options to meet your needs.The Boston Bruins are back in 2018 for another amazing season at TD Garden in Boston, Massachusetts.NHL Hockey Arenas The roar of the crowd, the click-clack of skates meeting ice, and the blast of the horn when puck meets net—National Hockey League (NHL) games are an exciting, exhilarating and memorable experience. About Us The ProShop is the official team store of the Boston Bruins and the Boston Celtics.
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← Podcasters take on Clement Clark Moore
Podcast novelists in the NEW YORK TIMES →
Posted on 3 January 2007 by Michael Spence
Clerk's log, MJDate 54103.3: What follows is a companion piece to "The Soul of the 7th Son."
SPOILER WARNING: Unlike "The Soul of the 7th Son," which dealt with material appearing in the early chapters of Book One, "Descent," of J.C. Hutchins's thriller 7th Son, what follows refers to the later chapters of "Descent" and the first few chapters of Book Two, "Deceit," currently being podcast (see www.jchutchins.net). If you're following the story and haven't completed most of Book One at least, I would strongly advise doing so first.
If Doug Devlin falls dead in the forest, and there is no one to witness it who is not Doug Devlin, is he really dead?
In J.C. Hutchins's thriller 7th Son we see many characters who identify themselves as John Michael Smith Alpha. All of them appear to have a proper claim to that name: they all share John Alpha's memories, from childhood to the recent past, and can provide any kind of oral information needed to back up their identity. Forget fingerprints or iris/retinal scans, though — except for one, none of them was born John Alpha. At least one was cloned from him, although when we hear about that clone he's already dead. But apart from cloning, all claimants to the name John Alpha, except for the original, came to their present state by the implantation of his Memory Totality (a matrix containing every thought and thought pattern of an individual) in the brains of others through the magic of MemR/I (Memory Recording/Installation) technology.
One T-shirt currently for sale asks: "Who is John Alpha?"
Who indeed? Let's explore this question.
"Love is lovelier, the second time around"
The concept of a palimpsest is a familiar one here at the Scriptorium. Simply put, a palimpsest is a re-used medium — wax-coated tablet, parchment, papyrus, vellum — that's had the writing from a previous document scraped off and another document written in its place. (Hey, parchment's expensive, okay? Recycle!)
In 7th Son the palimpsests are human brains. Some have had their memories erased by NEPTH-charge (Neural Erasure Pulse Technology Hardware, although the word also recalls nepenthe, the potion of forgetfulness) and completely replaced via a MemR/I download. Others have been "psijacked," a process wherein their memories are not erased but crystallized and isolated, so that after receiving the MemR/I download the person can still access them. In both cases, the person is, for the purposes of the plot (in both senses of the word), the one whose Memory Totality was recorded.
Thus (we learn midway through Book One) President Griffin's killer, four-year-old Jesse Fowler, had been NEPTH-charged and his memories replaced with those of the late ex-CIA assassin Doug Devlin. For all practical purposes, then, it was Devlin who killed the President. What's more — many more — an army of Devlin-overwritten agents have been at work in Russia and, for all we know, elsewhere. For his part, John Alpha has in effect taken over physician Mira Sanja, Vice-President Charles Caine, and other strategically-placed individuals in his plan to create global chaos. He has also apparently given the dying oil baron A.U. Rookman a new lease on life by installing the latter's Memory Totality in a younger body. (In a shocking breach of etiquette, none of the individuals who received downloads were asked if they wanted their minds destroyed. How gauche.)
But is this truly what has happened? In his first interview with Jason Rennie of The Sci Phi Show, Mr. Hutchins spoke of the MemR/I download as containing the soul and consciousness. But is he right?
Who was that in Jesse Fowler's head?
"And who deserves the credit, and who deserves the blame? Ay!"
Why are we asking the question? Does it really make any difference?
Well, yes it does, if you keep in mind one word: accountability. Whatever has been done with the idea throughout history, the Bible is firm on the point that everyone will be called to give an account of what he or she has done. Christians will undergo a performance review at the judgment seat of Christ (2 Corinthians 5:10; see also 1 Corinthians 3:10–15), and the works of others will be evaluated at the end of secular time (Revelation 20:12).
Justice places the condemnation where it belongs. By the time 7th Son begins, Doug Devlin has been executed for murder. Would he therefore also be judged for Griffin's assassination, or anything else done by whoever receives his Memory Totality after his death? And what about those who have been overwritten with the memories of John Alpha? Will Alpha himself be held responsible for their actions? Or are dozens of new Devlins or Alphas appearing out of nowhere to populate hell? Or does the blame properly fall on Sanja, Caine, and other MemR/I victims?
"I've looked at life from both sides now"
The question is an old one, actually: Is a human being equal to the sum of his or her memories?1
The question has two answers, depending on whom you're asking.
One answer comes from the observers. They saw the boy kill the President using Devlin's methods; they were told by that same boy, using Devlin's words, to … how can we put this delicately? … to emulate Oedipus with Jocasta. They would logically conclude that, whatever his appearance, it was Doug Devlin who killed President Griffin. ("But Devlin had already been executed!" Sorry, irrelevant.) Likewise, anyone who has a heart-to-heart talk with Mira Sanja or Vice-President Caine is convinced that he has spoken with John Alpha.
These would say that yes, the memories equal the man … for our purposes. This is the practical answer. It's the external answer.
But what is the internal answer?
"Some people say a man is made outta mud"
Consider how we've described the human being in "The Soul of the 7th Son": the combination of body and spirit. The thinking mind, as we on the outside see it, is the product of the interaction between the two. Why do I say this? Because the mind is affected by the brain. Mental disorders can have physical causes treatable with agents such as lithium and Zoloft. A head injury can lead to personality changes, as can drugs.
But is the mind limited by the brain? No. Consider John 5:24 (esv):
Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever hears my word and believes him who sent me has eternal life. He does not come into judgment, but has passed from death to life.
The consequence of belief is life — and apparently consciousness — without end, and that life commences at the moment of belief. Since the physical body can and does die, we conclude that continuity of life and mental function, including identity, resides with the spirit.2
Indeed, our legal system recognizes that a person's identity involves more than the state of his or her body. Otherwise we could not prosecute DUI offenders once they were no longer UI, for they would be different people. While being under the influence of alcohol or other substances changes one's behavior, it is not assumed to change one's status as a responsible citizen.
How all this affects our question: Neither NEPTH nor MemR/I affects the spirit, but only the physical brain. In order to produce a true change of personal identity, a technology would have to produce a change of spirit also. The only thing that is changed by MemR/I, however, is memory. It is a thoroughgoing change, true — we're talking not only about recollections but also about the mental habits of a lifetime, the patterns of thought that have resulted from one's experiences. But these patterns are physical only. Other mind-determining factors remain with the MemR/I recipient which have not changed.
For that matter, would those patterns continue unchanged in a different brain? If the Memory Totality of a chain-smoker were to be downloaded into someone who is not a smoker, he or she would undoubtedly pick up a cigarette fairly soon — but for how long? Might he or she suddenly realize that the physical dependency was gone, and that the responses of this new respiratory system were such that smoking was actually unpleasant? If so, then a change has taken place.
More specifically: At this point in the novel John Alpha has demonstrated a willingness to commit murder and psychic rape on a grand scale, and against a shocking choice of victims; we would consider him at least a sociopath. The schizophrenia of his sixth Beta clone, Kilroy2.0, suggests that any physical predisposition toward mental illness would be common to both men. But what happens when John Alpha's memories are installed in a brain without that predisposition? Might not the recipient wake up saying "Holy [expletive deleted]! I can't do that! What was I thinking?!" Alpha's plan might be derailed completely because the MemR/I technology, powerful though it is, is still inadequate to produce a complete metamorphosis.3
"Houston, Houston, do you copy?"
Consider also the centrality of computer technology in 7th Son .
The Memory Totalities of John Michael Smith the-one-and-only at age 14, John Alpha at age 30, and Doug Devlin reside in computer systems, whether in the MemR/I hypercomputer array at the Project 7th Son facility in Virginia or in one of the two mobile DNAC portable machines. Thus we see that a Memory Totality is information. Whether binary, octal, hexadecimal, or duotrigesimal, it is digital. It is not alive, nor is it conscious.4
Recall, furthermore, what happens when we upload and download files. We picture them as moving; but they don't actually move, they're only copied. One computer reads the information on its drive and "recites" it to another machine. That machine "hears" the recitation and writes the appropriate information into its own storage. The whole setup is rather like a scriptorium in which one monk reads from a manuscript and one or more other monks copy it down.5 Nothing actually moves from one place to another except the transmission signal, which is created on the spot and, when the task is complete, no longer exists in the receptor system.
We speak of "moving" files from one system to another, but that's a metaphor. What actually happens is that we copy the files to the second system — again, creating a new copy — and then delete them from the first system.6
When Ray Kurzweil and others trumpet their predictions of one day uploading our consciousness into a computer system, they're blowing smoke. Unless a radically different technology arises that actually moves consciousness, preserving its continuity, such predictions are fantasies. For the moment, and for the foreseeable future, we're stuck in our own heads. We may create electronic copies of ourselves, à la Max Headroom, but that's as far as it goes.
And in 7th Son , then, consciousness resides in the body of the MemR/I recipient and always has. It is not consciousness that is transferred during the MemR/I transmission process, only a copy of information stored in a machine.
Hugh was that 'jacked man?
Let's sum up:
Q: Who was that in Jesse Fowler's head?
A: Horrible as it sounds, the answer appears to be: Jesse Fowler. Would he be considered responsible for the President's murder? I'll leave that question to those of you who deal with brainwashing victims caught in similar circumstances (and I'd very much like to hear from you). For now, we note that here Matthew 18:6 is especially frightening. "Cause one of these little ones … to sin," indeed.
Q: Who's that sitting in the Vice-President's office?
A: Charles Caine — albeit a Caine who's gone schizoid. And that's Mira Sanja herself who psijacked him.
Q: Did John Alpha keep his promise of immortality to Doug Devlin, or a new life to A.U. Rookman?
A: No. Recall Buffy's description of what happens when one becomes a Joss Whedon vampire: "You die, and a demon sets up shop in your body. It walks, it talks, and it remembers your life; but it's not you."7 With MemR/I the additional spirit brings with it an additional body, but the principle is the same. Alpha has merely induced a kind of multiple-personality disorder in the download recipients, thereby convincing some that they are Devlin, others that they too are John Alpha, and a younger man that he is Rookman. Devlin and Rookman themselves are dead and gone. Requiescant in pace. Stick a fork, and all that.
Q: What about the Beta clones?
A: Each one has always believed that he is his own man. He's correct. Presumably the Betas had not developed personalities before they were taken from the Womb system and "seeded" with John Michael Smith's age-14 memories, but they did so afterward. Each personality is different, and none is the same as John Alpha's.
And finally …
Q: Where is John Alpha?
A: J.C. Hutchins knows … and he's not telling. Yet.
See — or rather, hear — the Darker Projects group's Star Trek — The Section 31 Files audio drama "The Sum of One's Memories," where a newly-dead crewman's brain is scanned and the results used to reproduce him as a sentient hologram. [↩]
This would also explain how Jesus Christ could retain his divine attributes, such as omniscience, once he took on a human body. [↩]
If thought habits affect brain structure, then it is probably well for Alpha's plan that he caught Jesse Fowler as a young age, too young to have formed any kind of inhibition against assassination. [↩]
Yes, I know: I myself floated the idea of a DNAC machine (which uses living DNA strands for storage) coming to consciousness using its stored Memory Totality, in the short piece "Wake-Up Calls" at the end of the 7th Son podcast's Episode 8 (wow, me and Nathan Fillion on the same show; who'd'a thought it?) — and I had fun doing it. But then, I've published other fantasy pieces as well. See the top of this page's sidebar — advt. [↩]
Behold: a rationale for the name of this web site! In a four-stage process, you're • reading a • transcript of a • data stream that • reflects what I've written. [↩]
This is why you'll never convince me to use a Star Trek transporter. Whoever comes out at the receiving end, he won't be me. He might have my appearance and memories, but I myself will be dead, destroyed at the transmitter. (It's one thing "to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better" [Philippians 1:23 esv] — involuntarily. It's quite another to walk into the mouth of a suicide machine. I don't have the right to do that.) For excellent treatments of this idea, see Algis Budrys's novel Rogue Moon and James Patrick Kelly's story "Think Like a Dinosaur." Kelly asks the question: What if the person at the transmitting end isn't destroyed in the process? [↩]
Joss Whedon, "Lie to Me," Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Now there's a genuine psijacking, for it involves a new spirit. And when Buffy's terminally-ill friend who's looking for vampiric immortality replies, "That's better than nothing," I want to shout at the screen, "Idiot! For all you get out of it, 'nothing' is exactly what it is!" [↩]
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