Movie Studios Want Google to Take Down Their Own Takedown Requests

[ed. Sweet irony.]

In a comical display of meta-censorship several copyright holders including 20th Century Fox and NBC Universal have sent Google takedown requests asking the search engine to take down links to takedown requests they themselves sent. Google refused to comply with the movie studios requests and the “infringing” DMCA notices remain online. Meanwhile, the number of takedown notices received by Google is nearing 20 million per month.

There’s a dark side to Google’s transparency efforts, especially when it comes to publishing DMCA requests it receives from copyright holders.

With more than 100 million links to pirated files Google is steadily building the largest database of copyrighted material. This is rather ironic as it would only take one skilled coder to index the URLs from the DMCA notices in order to create one of the largest pirate search engines available.

Indeed, the DMCA notices are meant to make content harder to find on the Internet, but in the process they create a semi-organized index of links to infringing material.

by TorrentFreak |  Read more:

Distort by Jeff-Bartels
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Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio - Narcissus (1599)
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The Rise of the New Global Elite

[ed. Repost from April, 2011. Even more relevant today.]

If you happened to be watching NBC on the first Sunday morning in August last summer, you would have seen something curious. There, on the set of Meet the Press, the host, David Gregory, was interviewing a guest who made a forceful case that the U.S. economy had become “very distorted.” In the wake of the recession, this guest explained, high-income individuals, large banks, and major corporations had experienced a “significant recovery”; the rest of the economy, by contrast—including small businesses and “a very significant amount of the labor force”—was stuck and still struggling. What we were seeing, he argued, was not a single economy at all, but rather “fundamentally two separate types of economy,” increasingly distinct and divergent.

This diagnosis, though alarming, was hardly unique: drawing attention to the divide between the wealthy and everyone else has long been standard fare on the left. (The idea of “two Americas” was a central theme of John Edwards’s 2004 and 2008 presidential runs.) What made the argument striking in this instance was that it was being offered by none other than the former five-term Federal Reserve Chairman Alan Greenspan: iconic libertarian, preeminent defender of the free market, and (at least until recently) the nation’s foremost devotee of Ayn Rand. When the high priest of capitalism himself is declaring the growth in economic inequality a national crisis, something has gone very, very wrong.

This widening gap between the rich and non-rich has been evident for years. In a 2005 report to investors, for instance, three analysts at Citigroup advised that “the World is dividing into two blocs—the Plutonomy and the rest”:  In a plutonomy there is no such animal as “the U.S. consumer” or “the UK consumer”, or indeed the “Russian consumer”. There are rich consumers, few in number, but disproportionate in the gigantic slice of income and consumption they take. There are the rest, the “non-rich”, the multitudinous many, but only accounting for surprisingly small bites of the national pie.

Before the recession, it was relatively easy to ignore this concentration of wealth among an elite few. The wondrous inventions of the modern economy—Google, Amazon, the iPhone—broadly improved the lives of middle-class consumers, even as they made a tiny subset of entrepreneurs hugely wealthy. And the less-wondrous inventions—particularly the explosion of subprime credit—helped mask the rise of income inequality for many of those whose earnings were stagnant.

But the financial crisis and its long, dismal aftermath have changed all that. A multibillion-dollar bailout and Wall Street’s swift, subsequent reinstatement of gargantuan bonuses have inspired a narrative of parasitic bankers and other elites rigging the game for their own benefit. And this, in turn, has led to wider—and not unreasonable—fears that we are living in not merely a plutonomy, but a plutocracy, in which the rich display outsize political influence, narrowly self-interested motives, and a casual indifference to anyone outside their own rarefied economic bubble.

Through my work as a business journalist, I’ve spent the better part of the past decade shadowing the new super-rich: attending the same exclusive conferences in Europe; conducting interviews over cappuccinos on Martha’s Vineyard or in Silicon Valley meeting rooms; observing high-powered dinner parties in Manhattan. Some of what I’ve learned is entirely predictable: the rich are, as F. Scott Fitzgerald famously noted, different from you and me.

What is more relevant to our times, though, is that the rich of today are also different from the rich of yesterday. Our light-speed, globally connected economy has led to the rise of a new super-elite that consists, to a notable degree, of first- and second-generation wealth. Its members are hardworking, highly educated, jet-setting meritocrats who feel they are the deserving winners of a tough, worldwide economic competition—and many of them, as a result, have an ambivalent attitude toward those of us who didn’t succeed so spectacularly. Perhaps most noteworthy, they are becoming a transglobal community of peers who have more in common with one another than with their countrymen back home. Whether they maintain primary residences in New York or Hong Kong, Moscow or Mumbai, today’s super-rich are increasingly a nation unto themselves.

by  Chrystia Freeman, The Atlantic |  Read more:
Photo: Stephen Webster/Wonderful Machine

The Sailfish

Four days after my mother died I went scuba diving for the first time. Indirectly, it was her death that led me to take up diving in the first place. Going underwater seemed like a way to displace the emotional turbulence of my grief. It quickly became an obsession. In that alternative, liquid world I found freedom and tranquillity, mixed with excitement and the stimulation of discovery. That obsession became the focus of my life: I moved countries and jobs so that I could dive regularly in warm tropical water. I took my wife and three-month-old daughter to a small island where surface life posed many challenges: practical, financial, emotional and spiritual. Going underwater kept us sane, and all other problems were subordinated to the short but frequent doses of euphoria delivered by the ocean.

Almost 15 years after my mother’s death, I was the sole passenger on a seaplane over the Indian Ocean when my father died. We landed in a lagoon where a rubber dinghy collected me and ferried me to a larger boat where I was to spend a week cruising the outer atolls of the Maldives, diving four times a day. Mobile phones did not reach to that part of the islands at the time, but the cruiser was equipped with a satellite phone. As I carried my luggage to my cabin, I was summoned to the bridge. On an echoing, static line my wife broke the news. Before I could ask for any details, the connection was broken and I was unable to speak to anyone in the outside world for another five days.

The shock was immense. But I was surrounded by people — ship’s officers, diving staff and a handful of other passengers — none of whom I had met before. There was no point in trying to return home, and I had no means of reaching any members of my family. I decided that there was no one aboard the boat in whom I could confide. It seemed rude to impose my grief on strangers who would inevitably feel awkward at the situation. My loss was a painful, private wound that could not be exposed.

Two hours later I was in my diving kit, sitting on the side of the boat ready to plunge. The dive leader explained that we were heading to a reef promontory that was swept by a strong current. We were to follow him, swimming as quickly as possible to the deepest part of the reef, about 36 metres down. The speed of descent was meant to keep the current from forcing us apart. I was last into the water, and I followed a stream of silver bubbles into the misty grey-blue depths. Halfway down I could already see the other divers clutching on to the reef to steady themselves. Surrounding them were dozens of grey reef sharks, the object of the dive. Keen though I was to join them, I paused, sensing a presence behind me. Swivelling in the water and looking back towards the pale surface of the sea, I stared into the eyes of an ocean giant: a sailfish.

Sailfishes are about the size of a man. They have a long, sword-shaped bill, just like marlin. I abandoned my descent and finned towards the lurking presence. For a few moments the giant fish hung there, suspended like a mounted trophy. Then it raised and lowered its sail, blue skin traversed by flashing shadows in the bright-lit surface waters. It was the kind of encounter that is so immediate and thrilling that time and action seem compressed. For no more than five or six seconds we watched one another, then the sailfish shimmered, sideways, downwards, blending again into the darker water beyond my vision. None of the other divers saw my encounter, though the dive leader did, and we talked about it privately that night. I wanted his affirmation that I and the sailfish had really been just metres apart. I did not, could not, tell him about my father.

I have had hundreds of special underwater experiences, but I have never again seen a sailfish underwater. I know from other dive masters that such encounters are rare. I cannot shake the idea that, for many people on earth, this would have been a clear example of shape-shifting: my father’s only opportunity to say goodbye. My father was not a spiritual man. Indeed, he revelled in denying the existence of God — partly, I think, in order to infuriate my mother who, frankly, believed in everything. At university, I studied, at different times, classical civilisation, literature and anthropology. Did my experience merely spring from a recalled shamanistic tradition? Or was it an evocation of deeply buried lectures on Tolkien’s Sauron, or a childhood memory of a tale of Zeus and Io, Athena and Arachne? The intensity of my meeting with the sailfish was doubtless increased by my reeling mind.

And yet, how strange, in the hours and days following the loss of both of my parents, that I was able to be underwater, the place where I am happiest. I felt blessed by that. My mother had died without ever seeing me discover this pleasure. When I was a young adult, she worried constantly that I was frequently unhappy. I hope she would have been pleased that I had discovered something that gripped me with such deep joy. Dad lived long enough to witness some of my underwater life. And yet his habit was to deny spirituality, to deny faith, to deny any sentimentality. When I met the sailfish in the hours following his death, it bothered me that he, of all people, might have been proved wrong in his view of the universe. But if reincarnation, perhaps momentary, as a sailfish was his route to wishing me farewell, I hope it came with a sense of acceptance: that all shall be well. I take my dead parents with me still, every time I dive.

Immersion gives birth to these thoughts, tilling and ploughing my subconscious and bringing a sense of renewal. I have occasionally met other divers who say that being underwater allows them to reach new realms of spiritual, intellectual and emotional freedom. But they share that knowledge cautiously. By contrast, I have met lots of people who proclaim a special connection with certain marine creatures. I know divers who believe that they can connect with great white sharks, manta rays, even octopuses. I once spent a week with a group of middle-aged women in the Bahamas. They believed in the power of crystals, and were convinced that they could make a connection with wild dolphins. Dolphins seem to suffer that indignity more than most. There was even a woman who engineered an informal marriage ceremony with a captive one.

by Tim Ecott, Aeon |  Read more:

Photo by Alastair Pollock Photography

prey
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PETA Kills Puppies

Warning: Some of the following graphic photos may distress the reader.

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) is an organization that publicly claims to represent the best interest of animals -- indeed their "ethical treatment." Yet approximately 2,000 animals pass through PETA's front door every year and very few make it out alive. The vast majority -- 96 percent in 2011 -- exit the facility out the back door after they have been killed, when Pet Cremation Services of Tidewater stops by on their regular visits to pick up their remains. Between these visits, the bodies are stored in the giant walk-in freezer PETA installed for this very purpose. It is a freezer that cost $9,370 and, like the company which incinerates the bodies of PETA's victims, was paid for with the donations of animal lovers who could never have imagined that the money they donated to help animals would be used to end their lives instead. In fact, in the last 11 years, PETA has killed 29,426 dogs, cats, rabbits, and other domestic animals. (...)

Acording to inspection reports by the Virginia Department of Agriculture, the PETA facility "does not contain sufficient animal enclosures to routinely house the number of animals annually reported as taken into custody... The shelter is not accessible to the public, promoted, or engaged in efforts to facilitate the adoption of animals taken into custody."

Routine inspections often found "no animals to be housed in the facility" or, at best "few animals in custody," despite thousands of them impounded by PETA annually. Since they take in thousands per year, where were they? "90% [of the animals] were euthanized within the first 24 hours of custody," according to the Virginia Department of Agriculture inspector. How can people adopt animals from PETA when they kill the animals they acquire within minutes without ever making them available for adoption? How can people adopt animals when they have no adoption hours, do no adoption promotion, and do not show animals for adoption, choosing to kill them without doing so? In fact, when asked by a reporter what efforts they make to find animals homes, PETA had no comment.

by Nathan J. Winograd, Huffington Post |  Read more:
Image: Virginia Department of Agriculture

Robert Rauschenberg, Engagement, solvent transfer on Arches paper with gouache, watercolor, wash and pencil, 57.47 x 75.88 cm, 1968.
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Pjotr Theebe, Freedom
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Soaking Up the Sake: Izakayas

Now that sushi is sold in supermarkets and ramen has come to food courts, what next?

Easy: izakayas. These informal Japanese restaurants have been opening at a rapid pace around the country, but most Americans haven’t figured them out yet. Where’s the sushi bar? What’s with the tiny portions? Is this Asian fusion tapas or what?

That’s the izakaya: easy to love, but hard to nail down. It’s friendlier than a French bar à vins, has more food choices than a Spanish tapeo, and takes itself less seriously than a British gastro pub.

But it makes the same point: drinking is primary; food is secondary; and if you’re doing it right, there will be hangovers.

“Hangover prevention is a big topic of conversation at izakaya meals,” said Yukari Sakamoto, a Japanese-American sommelier and writer who lives in Tokyo. (She swears by a morning-after remedy called Ukon no Chikara.) “That is, when you’re not talking about what to eat next.”

From the words for sake (rice wine) and stay, traditional izakayas are places anyone can linger for the price of a drink. The word is usually translated as tavern or pub — not very helpfully, since those words suggest a menu more T.G.I. Friday’s than Nobu. An izakaya isn’t a destination for great ramen, or perfect tempura, or impeccable sushi — although the menu, confusingly, will list all those dishes and more. Izakaya food, like most bar food, is salty and spicy, crunchy and savory, and engineered to be especially delicious with beer or wine.

But our phrase “bar food” can’t cover the dizzying spread of house-made tofu and pickles, grilled seafood, deep-fried bites like octopus balls and chicken wings, home-style meat stews, fried rice, noodle bowls and local seasonal produce that characterize even modest izakayas in Japan.

At their best, izakaya meals can also be models of Japanese culinary poise and delicacy. “It’s supposed to be a kind of casual place to eat and drink,” said Eric Bromberg, the chef and restaurateur who opened Blue Ribbon Izakaya and Sushi on the Lower East Side last year. “But since it’s Japan, everything comes out beautiful and elegant anyway.” (...)

In Japan, where the custom goes back at least to the 19th century, izakayas — marked by glowing red lanterns and long sake lists — are where co-workers go to celebrate a promotion, where young people meet to fill up before clubbing or karaoke, where families gather for an inexpensive weekend treat. There are upscale and hole-in-the-wall izakayas, kawaii izakayas where the waitresses are dressed as little girls, and chains of kechi yasui (“for misers”) izakayas where the drinks or food come free. Among young people, sake consumption has been steadily declining in Japan as stronger drinks become popular, and chain izakayas are among the efforts by the sake industry to bring them back.

“In Japanese life, there is a lot of drinking, but it is always combined with eating,” said Ms. Sakamoto, who was raised in Minnesota and attended culinary school in New York City, and was a sommelier at the Park Hyatt in Tokyo. “Which is why we have more izakayas than bars.”  (...)

Although the menu may look huge and rambling, there is a logical sequence to an izakaya meal.

“To a Japanese eye, an izakaya menu looks like a bento box,” Ms. Sakamoto said. “And you just know how to eat it: something raw, something pickled, something fried, something simmered.”

by Julia Moskin, NY Times |  Read more: 

Photo: Danny Ghitis for The New York Times

How a Leafy Folk Remedy Stopped Bedbugs in Their Tracks

Generations of Eastern European housewives doing battle against bedbugs spread bean leaves around the floor of an infested room at night. In the morning, the leaves would be covered with bedbugs that had somehow been trapped there. The leaves, and the pests, were collected and burned — by the pound, in extreme infestations.

Now a group of American scientists is studying this bedbug-leaf interaction, with an eye to replicating nature’s Roach Motel.

A study to be published Wednesday in The Journal of the Royal Society Interface details the scientists’ quest, including their discovery of how the bugs get hooked on the leaves, how the scientists have tried to recreate these hooks synthetically and how their artificial hooks have proved to be less successful than the biological ones.

At first glance, the whole notion seems far-fetched, said Catherine Loudon, a biologist at the University of California, Irvine, who specializes in bedbug locomotion.

“If someone had suggested to me that impaling insects with little tiny hooks would be a valid form of pest control, I wouldn’t have given it credence,” she said in an interview. “You can think of lots of reasons why it wouldn’t work. That’s why it’s so amazing.”

“The areas where they appear to be pierceable,” Dr. Loudon said, “are not the legs themselves. It’s where they bend, where it’s thin. That’s where they get pierced.”

This folk remedy from the Balkans was never entirely forgotten. A German entomologist wrote about it in 1927, a scientist at the United States Department of Agriculture mentioned it in a paper in 1943, and it can be found in Web searches about bedbugs and bean plants.

But the commercial availability of pesticides like DDT in the 1940s temporarily halted the legions of biting bugs. As their pesticide-resistant descendants began to multiply from Manhattan to Moscow, though, changing everything from leases to liability laws, the hunt for a solution was on.

by Felicity Barringer, NY Times |  Read more:
Photo: Megan W. Szyndler and Catherine Loudon/University of California, Irvine

North Korea
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Aurelio Ayela, Topete Topete and Dad watching TV engaging a lot. 1998
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Masters 2013: Hole-by-Hole Guide to Augusta

[ed. It's -- the Masters! (...warning, blog posts may be sporadic). Wonderful interactive graphic on how the course should be played (click here).]

Past and present Masters stars reveal how they would tackle each hole from tee to green at Augusta National as the world's best players gear up for the first golf major of 2013.

by Paddy Allen and Ewan Murray, The Guardian | Read more:

Image: PGAgolfArt.com

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Paying For Your Ex-

[ed. Click HERE for larger graphic.]

What is probably the most exclusive club in the world has a similarly exclusive price tag. The bill included $450,000 on Bill Clinton’s Harlem office and $85,000 on George W Bush’s telephone bill, said the report by the non-partisan Congressional Research Service.

The cost of funding the former presidents will raise eyebrows, given that the hefty speaking fees they can command after leaving office and the well endowed presidential centres and foundations that facilitate many of their post-presidential activities.

The figures don't include security provided by the Secret Service, costs which are on a separate, undisclosed budget.

by Mark Oliver and Conrad Quilty-Harper, The Telegraph |  Read more:

h/t TYWKIWDBI

Herbert Boeckl, Sunset behind the mountains Karawanken. 1919
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Lost in Translation

I am far more afraid of being lonely right beside someone than I am of being lonely and all alone.

It’s a dupe, you know?

Being alone, you steel yourself. There is no expectation but for self-perseverance and at least you’re allowed that thrill of pride. But if you set down your independence and let down your draw bridge and then it doesn’t work? Then you find yourself—or them—still impenetrable? Who can survive that?

You’ve been there, too. Those quiet doubting long drive homes. Those shut out, wordless, withholding trips beside a partner who’s closing down. Or maybe it’s you that has shut down this time, stuck enduring the nearly unbearable wait for them to simply notice. (...)

What I mostly loved about Lost in Translation the first time around, I think, was the gaps. It is a movie defined by what is missing. The quiet spaces and the unspoken words and even the now-classic final scene. The whispered farewell between Bob and Charlotte that we’re not asked or allowed to hear.

Do you remember this? There are entire websites devoted to analyzing and breaking down what Bob says to Charlotte in the film’s final moments, his aging cheek pressed to hers – soft and taut and flawless as a whole lifetime left before you.

I really love that Sofia Coppola never told us. I want something in all this to remain pure. If it must be a secret, then so be it.

And that’s the beauty of the entire movie, really – its sort of Japanese elegance. What it invites and never forces. The line that it toes. (...)

Finishing this essay took too long for no particular (and a hundred insignificant) reasons. Sitting on an airplane drinking gin and tonics and wondering about quinine and procrastinating it, I read this quote and finally pulled it all together:

“First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world — a world intense and strange, complete in himself.” 

- Carson McCullers, “The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories”

And I thought: that’s it, exactly, and yet still only a part of it. Just like travel, we often enter into love for far different reasons than we choose to remain in that country. We change, they change. What we want changes. We learn them too well, the illusion burns off, they stop needing us, we let them down.

Somehow, we drift apart and there is an incredible loneliness in the indecision over whether we’ll choose to paddle after each other or not.

Sometimes it takes work to love a country. Most times, it’s never what you thought it would be and you have to decide if you can just let it be what it is, and love it fiercely anyway.

by Erica C., A Bright Wall in a Dark Room |  Read more:

h/t and photo: YMFY

Slow Cooking, Slow Eating

The enjoyment of good food and drink in many countries was once the particular preoccupation of the wealthy right wing, of people who had the time and money to indulge in luxuries. Slow Food, whether the organization or the concept, is grittier. In the United States, for instance, there’s an allied new wave of young apprentice farmers and food artisans who have little concern for money. Anyone who follows the news closely these days recognizes food as the highly political topic it always was, from government subsidies to the “externalized” costs of industrial farming (such as water pollution) to the content of school lunches to hunger at home and abroad. Food in all its complexity, including its capacity for deliciousness, is a subject increasingly associated with the left wing.

As the North American interest in food and farms has grown, more people have become familiar with the organization Slow Food, which was started in 1986 by leftwing intellectuals in the gastronomically and vinously rich Italian region of Piedmont. (Right away I have to pause and say that I work with people who do or did work for Slow Food, but I’m not much of a joiner, and a few years ago I let my brief membership lapse.) The immediate cause for starting Slow Food was the opening of the first McDonald’s in Italy, near the Spanish Steps in Rome. A few years later, in 1989, the Slow Food movement went international when delegates from 15 countries met in Paris to sign the Slow Food Manifesto.

This short document is rather wonderful. It says: “We are enslaved by speed and have all succumbed to the same insidious virus: Fast Life, which disrupts our habits, pervades the privacy of our homes and forces us to eat Fast Foods.” The manifesto contains a large element of hope: “May suitable doses of guaranteed sensual pleasure and slow, long-lasting enjoyment preserve us from the contagion of the multitude who mistake frenzy for efficiency.” And the manifesto proposes just that single solution to the problem: “A firm defense of quiet material pleasure is the only way to oppose the universal folly of Fast Life.”

As slogans go, the meaning of “slow food” is perfectly clear. It’s the opposite of fast food. The Slow Food mother organization in Italy celebrates the country’s traditional regional food, publicizing and arranging support for many individual foods. Those include lardo di Colonnata and alici di menaica. The first is cured fat back, as prepared in marble coffers in a particular quarrying village above Carrara in Tuscany; the second is cured anchovies, caught in an ancient design of net in just one fishing port 100 miles south of Naples. The symbol of Slow Food is the snail. Slow Food opposes mass-production and a high-speed life. It supports what I would call a civilized life.

These days Slow Food talks about Slow everything — even Slow Fish, meaning fish that have been caught in ways that don’t result in overfishing or other damage to the environment. But “slow food” also has a lower-case meaning. And a slow life doesn’t revolve just around food.

You’re living a slow life when you gather seashells along the shore, feed a campfire, visit a nearly empty museum on a weekday morning, talk late into the night, read an ink-on-paper book cover to cover without stopping to do much else, and, I would say, if you take the time to be bored. Part of being civilized is not just being slow but occasionally coming to a stop, establishing a point of reference for the moment when you start moving again. When you stop you aren’t really stopping, of course, because that’s often when good ideas rise to the surface. (...)

Some of the most delicious food, including some of the greatest dishes, is made using cooking techniques that by nature are slow. Most of these involve liquid — braising, poaching, stewing, soup making. But proper roasting, too, takes time, whether on a spit or in an oven (though the latter is really baking). Some examples of excellent results from slow tactics are a French navarin (braised lamb shoulder with spring vegetables, including turnips), oxtail soup (which starts as a braise), braised lamb shanks with whole garlic cloves and bulb fennel, pieds et pacquets from Marseille (sheep’s feet with packages of sheep stomach), osso buco from Milan, and the beef brasato made in different regions of northern Italy.

Of course, those who believe in slow food don’t really oppose fast cooking techniques. What’s wrong with toast? Or call it bruschetta. Certain techniques are inherently fast — sautéing, frying in deep fat, grilling. They apply high heat directly to relatively thin or small pieces of food, and if the cooking goes on too long the food burns. A lamb chop grilled medium rare takes just two or three minutes per side. A classic French omelette takes less than five minutes from cracking the eggs to sliding the cooked omelette onto a plate. Spinach, with the washing water still clinging, can take just a minute to cook through in a wide covered pot, stirred once or twice, a hybrid of boiling and steaming. Peas, green beans, cut-up carrots, turnips, or broccoli put into a big pot of boiling water don’t take more than a few minutes. (You can boil spinach, too, but if it’s young and delicate, it loses too much flavor to the water.) Then, to have all the good qualities of this quickly cooked food, you have to eat it quickly, before the vegetables lose their utterly fresh taste, before the grilled meat or fish looses juice and the bit of outer crispness.

Slowness really means living at the right speed for whatever you are doing, living more in the present moment, rather than looking always ahead to the next thing: deadlines, bills, future plans. It’s not about being inefficient or taking too much time. It’s about moving at the right speed.

by Edward Behr, The Art of Eating |  Read more:

Photo: Kimberly Behr