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This morning I got a message on Duolingo.

It was from a woman I’ve been mutuals with for about a year—one of those quiet, low-stakes connections where you’ve been reacting to each other’s achievements for months and keeping your streaks alive in parallel.

It was short. It was in Vietnamese. I didn’t understand it at first.

So I translated it.

It said: “Would you be my boyfriend?”

On paper, that’s nothing. A sentence. A throwaway flirt. The kind of thing that should bounce off you and disappear into the scroll of the internet.

But it didn’t.

I felt my heart kick up in a way that honestly surprised me. Not because I suddenly believed I’d met The One through a language-learning app, but because something small and human had reached out and touched me in a place I didn’t realize was that hungry.

I responded with a boundary that kept it light: something like, “On Duolingo? Sure — study boyfriend.”

I didn’t promise anything real-world. I didn’t move the conversation off-platform. I didn’t try to turn it into a story bigger than what it was. I just let it be what it was: a tiny thread of warmth between two near-strangers who share the same weird daily habit of showing up to learn.

And that was the part that felt important.

Because the effect wasn’t created by a lot of words. It wasn’t created by intimacy. It wasn’t created by plans, or photos, or a long getting-to-know-you arc.

It was created by the knowledge that there was a real human nervous system on the other side.

I took these photos on a short walk near my house in East Durham. Nothing heroic. No grand mission. Just… me trying to remember that making pictures can be fun again.

It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Partly because the vibe out in public has felt more tense—like everyone is bracing for something, and everyone is watching everyone. Since the ICE raids started around here, that background hum of suspicion feels louder. And even beyond that: smartphones kind of flooded the world with “photography,” and somehow the magic got diluted. Not because the camera got worse—because the social feeling around taking pictures got heavier. Like you’re always one misunderstanding away from a weird moment.

But I miss the old feeling.

I used to shoot a lot of analog—mostly with a Zorki (my scrappy Soviet Leica clone) and a plastic Holga that could turn a normal scene into a dream with one light leak. I’m not using them right now because film + development costs have gotten steep. So yeah: I’m using an emulator app on my phone. And honestly? It gets you surprisingly close to the spark.

The point wasn’t to overthink, or to “capture” anything important. The point was to shoot from the hip—give myself permission to walk, notice, and press the shutter without asking the world for approval first.

If you feel that same tension—paranoia, self-consciousness, the “what will people think?” loop—this is your reminder: you can take a short walk and make art anyway. Even if the feeling doesn’t fully go away… you can still come back with something real.

I. Introduction — How “Free Speech” Became a Side to Root For

If you only learned about free speech from American politics in the last 25 years, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s a partisan brand rather than a constitutional principle. One election cycle, free speech is a conservative rallying cry against “cancel culture” and “Big Tech censorship.” Another cycle, it’s a progressive slogan against government surveillance, bans on books, or gag orders on teachers. The banners keep changing color, but free speech is supposed to live in the rulebook, not on one side’s uniform.

Underneath those shifting slogans, though, something quieter has been happening. Both major parties have grown increasingly comfortable with the idea that certain kinds of speech are too dangerous, too destabilizing, or simply too offensive to tolerate. What changes is not the impulse to restrict, but the justification: national security, public safety, preventing harm, fighting disinformation, protecting children, defending democracy. The list changes, but the move is the same: carve out one more exception when speech cuts against your own side.

The irony is that the legal First Amendment regime in the United States remains, historically speaking, very strong. Supreme Court cases like Cohen v. California—the one that protected a guy wearing a jacket that said “Fuck the Draft” in a courthouse corridor—are still the background law of the land. In that case, the Court held that the state could not punish him just for a four-letter word that offended people; offense alone was not a sufficient reason to criminalize speech. (Legal note: Cohen v. California, 403 U.S. 15 (1971).)

I. Two Ways to Answer the Same Hunger

In many cities, the same question is being asked in very different ways:

If a society is structured in a way that leaves people hungry while food is thrown away, what counts as a moral response?

One answer says: steal. If the system itself is based on exploitation, then taking from large corporations—especially when they discard surplus goods anyway—can be framed as a small act of justice. Under this view, shoplifting from big-box stores or supermarket chains becomes a kind of micro-reparation: a way of clawing back value from an economic order that was rigged from the start.

Another answer says: build parallel systems. Instead of sneaking goods past the scanner, ordinary workers and volunteers quietly organize an alternative supply chain: surplus food is reclaimed with permission, rerouted into a mutual-aid network, and distributed for free from a folding table in the middle of the city. No questions asked, one bag per person, no money accepted.

Both approaches are trying to address the same reality: people are hungry in a world of abundance, and much of that abundance is controlled by institutions whose priorities are profit, not care. But they make fundamentally different bets about how to change that reality, and at what cost.

This essay looks at those two paths side by side. It does not deny the anger that fuels the first. It simply asks a harder question: Which underground do we actually want to grow?

The Pocket Cosmos

A Special Dispatch on the Coming Smartphone

Filed for December 1999 from the not-too-distant future

Imagine a device about the size of a deck of cards.

It fits in your pocket.

It weighs less than a paperback.

Its front is almost entirely made of glass.

Tap that glass, and you can:

• call anyone in the world
• send them a message
• look up a word in any major language
• check a street map for a city you’ve never visited
• read today’s headlines from five different countries
• listen to almost any song that has ever been recorded
• take a photograph and send it instantly across an ocean

This device is real. It is coming. And very soon, almost everyone you know will carry one.

We will call it the smartphone.

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A Library Without Walls

To understand what the smartphone represents, start with the most familiar tool of the serious mind: the library.

Today, in 1999, reaching serious knowledge requires movement. You go to the stacks. You search a card catalog (or, if you’re lucky, a web terminal on a shared computer). You wait for interlibrary loans. Information lives in buildings, on shelves, in limited copies.

The smartphone dissolves that geography.

Inside this small object is a permanent, portable ticket into something larger than any single library: a networked collection of encyclopedias, dictionaries, textbooks, lecture notes, research summaries, and how-to guides on almost any topic that human beings have bothered to write about.

You just read the condensed Mobility State proposal.

The most common pushback I get, from both left and right, boils down to two words:   “Nice brochure, but that’s just Scandinavia with better branding — and America will never pay for it.”

Wrong on both counts. Here’s why this package is cheaper, structurally different, and politically plausible in the actual United States we have in 2025.

1. This Is Not Even Close to Nordic-Scale Spending

Nordic social democracy runs at 45–55 % of GDP, funded by 25 % VATs and crushing payroll taxes.

A full-bore Mobility State toolkit — all four pillars, generously sized — adds roughly 3–5 % of GDP in new spending. That’s in the same financial ballpark as:

• the Trump-era Opportunity Zones + Child Tax Credit expansion, or
• one single year of the CARES Act (which was 25 % of GDP and passed in a weekend).

Rough cost envelope (2025 dollars):

• Universal Opportunity Accounts (“baby bonds on steroids”): ~$150–200 bn/yr
• True portable benefits (mostly re-plumbing health insurance): near revenue-neutral
• Modern GI Bill for economic transitions: ~$80–120 bn/yr
• Housing mobility + supply-side reform: revenue-neutral or growth-positive

That’s not “Sweden.” That’s “GI Bill 2.0 + Swiss health system + YIMBY zoning reform.” Congress has done bigger things when it feels the heat.

2. It’s Built for American DNA, Not European DNA

A Mobility State for an Age of Inequality

America’s real crisis is not just inequality; it is the collapse of mobility in a high-churn, high-immigration society. The old promise—work hard, play by the rules, move up—now feels like a rumor for millions juggling gig jobs, locked out of housing markets, or stuck with obsolete skills. We do not need nostalgic protectionism or minimalist fatalism. We need a mobility state: public policy designed not to freeze people in place with bigger cushions, but to equip them to move—across jobs, regions, and life stages—without falling through the cracks.

The New Inequality: Resilience, Not Just Income

Today’s inequality is less about static wealth gaps and more about who has buffers against constant change. Asset owners ride appreciating houses and stocks; everyone else faces volatile pay, algorithm-driven schedules, and benefits that vanish when the job does. Automation, platforms, and global competition reward the adaptable and punish the exposed. The result is a divide in agency: some treat layoffs as detours; others never recover.

Why Obvious Fixes Keep Dying

Americans broadly support making retraining easier, benefits portable, or housing less gated. Yet reforms stall because of:

• Structural veto points and regulatory capture
• Cultural skepticism of “big government”
• Partisan branding wars (“socialism” vs. “welfare”)

The Mobility State: A Third Model

I. A Thought Experiment: Taking the Words Seriously

Imagine taking the founding slogans of the United States at face value.

Government derives its just powers from the consent of the governed.   No taxation without representation.   Treaties are the supreme law of the land.

Now imagine applying those same rules not only to the former British colonies along the Atlantic coast, but also to the Native nations who already lived across the rest of the continent. What would that have required? What would it have made impossible?

For most Americans, the answer was never really explored. In school, the story tends to come in two tracks. On one track, we follow the high-minded drama of the founding: declarations, constitutions, debates over federalism and rights. On the other track, out at the edge of the map, we get the adventure story of “the frontier”: settlers, wagon trains, homesteads, the march westward. Native peoples tend to enter the picture as background—sometimes as noble allies, sometimes as dangerous foes, often as temporary figures who fade away once the town is built and the railroad arrives.

What almost never gets spelled out is that these two tracks are not separate stories. They are the same story seen from different angles. The question is whether the principles in the first track ever had a real chance of constraining what happened in the second. If they didn’t, then we have to ask a harder question: did the United States quietly decide, very early on, that its founding rules did not fully apply when Native nations were involved?

On June 16, 2015, Donald Trump rode down a golden escalator and said the sentence that would define his politics:

“When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best… They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.”

You can read the full campaign announcement speech transcript here or in many other archives, but that one line is the part that stuck. At the time, a lot of people treated it like a bad joke. A clownish bit of over-the-top rhetoric that would either sink his candidacy or get sanded down once “real governing” began. Others, especially immigrants and Latinos, heard exactly what it was: an invitation. A green light for a certain kind of imagination about who “we” are and who “they” are.

Fast-forward a decade, and I’m sitting in Durham, North Carolina, reading about Operation Charlotte’s Web: heavily armed federal agents sweeping through Charlotte’s neighborhoods and business districts, grabbing people outside churches, bakeries, apartment complexes.

On the first day alone, at least 81 people were arrested in Charlotte. Reports describe masked agents, long guns, and aggressive tactics that left local immigrant communities terrified to leave home. Local coverage and national outlets have documented businesses closing, children kept indoors, and a Honduran-born U.S. citizen violently detained when he fit someone’s mental picture of what an “immigrant” looks like.

I. Introduction — The Broken Mobility Bargain

Take a thirty-year-old juggling a patchwork life in a big metro. She drives for two apps in the morning, stocks shelves on a short-term contract at night, and splits rent with roommates because buying into the housing market feels like science fiction. When her hours get cut or an algorithm changes, there is no buffer beyond a maxed-out credit card and a savings account that never quite fills. She is not lazy, not reckless, and not alone. Her story is what the old American promise sounds like when it starts to fray.

For most of American history, the country’s favorite promise has been simple: work hard, play by the rules, and you can move up. The details changed by era and region, but the core bargain felt stable enough that millions of people were willing to bet their lives on it. Today, that promise feels less like a rule and more like a rumor. Wealth and power have consolidated at the top; housing, health care, and education eat up a growing share of paychecks; and what used to look like a climb now feels, for many, like running in place.

You can see it most clearly in the lives built on the edges of the old structure. Gig workers who knit together three apps to make rent. Young renters who cannot imagine owning a home in the places where opportunity clusters. Immigrants who do everything right—study, work, pay taxes—only to discover that their credentials vanish in a maze of licensing boards and opaque requirements. For them, the path upward no longer looks like a clear route. It looks more like a maze with locked gates and missing exits. The result is not just hardship, but a spreading sense that the game itself has quietly changed—that it is not only hard, but rigged.

I. Introduction — The American Paradox

For as long as it has existed, the United States has carried two competing self-portraits. On one hand, it is the archetypal “nation of immigrants”—a country defined not by bloodline but by the recurring arrival of new people, new languages, and new cultural currents. On the other, it has repeatedly flirted with the idea of building a large, protective, European-style welfare state, the kind associated with stability, solidarity, and a tightly woven social safety net. These are both powerful visions of what a nation can be. But they do not always coexist easily.

The tension is simple to describe and notoriously difficult to resolve: can a country sustain both high levels of immigration and a far-reaching social-democratic welfare state? Many modern political movements treat these two ideals as naturally compatible—morally aligned, even. Yet historically, the countries that built the most comprehensive social-democratic systems did so under conditions of cultural homogeneity and slow demographic change. The United States, by contrast, has been defined by constant demographic renewal, often in rapid waves.

A century ago, though, something different happened. The United States tightened its immigration laws dramatically, shutting the door to whole regions of the world under the logic of racial “preservation.” And it was precisely in that same era—roughly from the 1930s through the 1960s—that America developed the beginnings of a modern welfare state, expanded union power, and laid the foundations of its vast administrative apparatus. These two forces—redistribution and demographic closure—grew together not because they were philosophically aligned, but because one was artificially engineered to make the other politically possible.

From the moment a new immigrant steps onto Ellis Island, America sells itself as the land of limitless possibility—an intellectual blank slate where beliefs are meant to be forged in the fires of reason rather than inherited bloodlines. Yet beneath that aspirational veneer lies a potent creed, one that demands its own form of ideological conformity.

In theory, the United States should be a paradise for freethinkers: a nation whose founding documents exalt individual liberty, skepticism of authority, and the Enlightenment’s valorization of reason. The First Amendment’s protection of speech and religion seems tailor-made to shelter those who question dogma, tradition, and entrenched power.

But ideals are one thing, lived reality another. Americans often find that straying too far from the “official” creed—whether by challenging unfettered markets or criticizing founding myths—invites swift social sanctions. In practice, deviance from accepted narratives can brand you as unpatriotic or even subversive.

This tension stems from America’s identity as a creedal nation rather than an ethnic one. Where many countries lean on shared ancestry or cultural homogeneity to forge national unity, the U.S. leans on a shared set of principles. And principles, as it turns out, can be policed just as rigorously as lineage.

So does America really want freethinkers? The short answer: it wants them up to a point. Freethinking that reinforces prosperity, innovation, and technological progress is celebrated—think Silicon Valley iconoclasts or academic mavericks. But freethinking that threatens political stability, economic orthodoxy, or the consumerist consensus is often met with suspicion or outright hostility.

Гроза гремела над морем. Приближался шторм. Позади лес...и чудовище. Дальше бежать некуда. Анна подошла к краю скалы, внизу бушевали волны, и с шумом били о скалы. Острые как лезвие. На мгновение, в сознании Анны промелькнула мысль, и картинки ее падения...а затем пустота. Я Анна Амредж. Хватит ждать! Я не боюсь тебя! Выходи. Я знаю что ты там! Анна сделала решительный шаг. И посмотрела в чашу леса. Где-то в этой тьме, смотрит голодным взглядом чудовище. Которого она так сейчас боится. Из леса вышел Ричард, он упал на колени. Анна помоги мне! Господи Ричард, что с тобой? Этот чудовище напало на тебя? Ты ранен? С этими словами, она бросилась без раздумий к Ричарду, обнимая, и осматривая нет ли у него серьезных ранений. Анна... послушай меня! Не жди... Беги...на его лице была тревога и желание что-то сказать. Анна взяла ладонями лицо Ричарда. Я не брошу тебя, Ричард. Не сейчас ни когда либо. Я люблю тебя. Он почувствовал прикосновение к губам. И дикое желание, попробовать ее на вкус....вкус крови. Нет, ты не знаешь кто я! Анна, я прошу тебя, сейчас же, бежать. Что ты такое говоришь? Почему ты гонишь меня? Ричард...я не понимаю что происходит. Я...я люблю тебя Анна. Просто знай. Такие как я. Не выбирают кем им быть. Ты должна меня понять. Пожалуйста. Его взгляд, поднялся в небо, рука поднялась, указывая на луну. Которая озарила тьму. И освятила их, полнолуние было ярким как солнце. Анна обернулась чтобы посмотреть на лунный свет. До нее донеслись звуки.... подобные тем что она слышала, когда убегала от чудовища, похожее на волка. Она обернулась, перед ней стоял, то самое существо с волчьей головой. Она сделала шаг, затем ещё шаг назад. Подойдя к краю. Всё это время, не переставая смотреть на рычащего зверя.Она почувствовала что, земля под ногой обвалилась. В этот момент чудовище сделало прыжок, так жадно хотелось ему плоти. И совсем не хотелось упустить добычу. Свет озарился, вокруг нее. Он освещал все ее тело. Между ними образовался барьер, невидимый. Так близко его видеть. И понимать что это тот кого она любит. Она вспомнила лес, и мертвую Деби. Как искали тело. А нашли только одежду, разорванную и в крови. И все те кто пропал, в этом проклятом лесу. Это был отец Ричарда, мистер Джон. Волна приняла ее мягко. Падение и тот момент когда вода ее накрыла, она увидела юную девушку, с красивым лицом. Она взяла Анна за руку. И они понеслись к берегу. Меня зовут Нали, я живу в океане. Я и мой народ. Она обратилась к Анне, поклонившись. Твоя мама была мне как сестра. Раньше мы с ней виделись часто. Но позже ее убила сестра близнец, твоя тётя. Впитав ее силу, и силой завладела миром ведьм. Для Анны это было как сон. Ее тело сияло. Падение с обрыва, в бушующее море. Чудесное спасение. Вокруг плавали женщины с хвостом. А где то, либо живой либо мертвый, рыщет волк. Она прервала разговор. Я не могу в это поверить, моя мама погибла сегодня утром. От рук чародея. Наши посмотрела на Анну, взглядом полным понимания и сострадания. Анна, твой народ находится в рабстве. Самый сильный и жестокий предводитель, завладел душой твоей тети. Чтобы править миром ведьм, и этим миром миром людей. Ещё не много и начнется война, скоро печать может расколоться. Если они соберут все камни вместе. Анна. Мне жаль что на твои плечи выпало бремя, когда никого нет. И ты одна. Но у тебя есть я и мой народ. Анна послушай меня пожалуйста. Я открою тайну, твоего рождения. И многое расскажу. Только сейчас надо чтобы ты смирилась с тем что произошло. Сегодня полнолуние, и день твоего совершеннолетия. Время когда высшие силы, откроют твое сознание. И ты сама всё поймёшь. Огонь защищает и подчиняется тебе, вода расскажет то что слышит вокруг. Земля и воздух оберегают.

Why should adding or removing a spatial dimension do anything so dramatic to gravity?

At first glance, it seems like it should only change the picture. Space would have a different geometry, certainly, but why should that alter the basic possibility of a world with stars, planets, and enduring motion?

The hidden hinge is that gravity does not merely happen in space. It spreads through space. Change the dimensionality, and you change the way influence thins out with distance. That means you change the force law itself. And once the force law changes, the architecture of possible motion changes with it.

This is why dimensionality is not just a background feature. It reaches directly into the question of whether bound orbital structure can persist.

Geometry comes first

Imagine a source whose influence spreads outward equally in all directions. In ordinary three-dimensional space, that influence is distributed over the surface of a sphere. The area of that sphere grows like $r^2$, so the same total influence is diluted over a larger and larger surface as distance increases.

That is why the force falls as

$$ F(r) \propto \frac{1}{r^2}. $$

This is not a numerical accident. It is the three-dimensional expression of geometric spreading.

In $d$ spatial dimensions, the enclosing surface around a point source grows instead like $r^{d-1}$. So the corresponding central force typically scales as

$$ F(r) \propto \frac{1}{r^{d-1}}. $$