People have always made maps, and probably always bemoaned their limits. In S.Y. Agnon’s A Guest for the Night the author-narrator argues against the literal, rational interpretation of space:

I put on my hat and said, ‘Father in heaven, how much does a man know what is near and what is far?’ ‘What do you mean: How does a man know?’ said Erela. ‘Whatever is near is near, and whatever is far is far.’
‘Is that something you have learned from geography?’ said I, jesting. ‘First, replied Erela, ‘this is something every intelligent person knows by himself. And second, anyone who studies geography no longer has any doubts as to these concepts.’ ‘Geography,’ said I to her, ‘is androgynous.’

For Agnon, returning to the place of his birth, a place destroyed in World War I, destroyed by shifting political regimes and imperial ambitions (Allegiance to a state impossible to tell), geography is not a fixed concept, but one as fluid as life. This is a man who lived in cosmic time and cosmic space; everything defined by the year 70 ce and the exile from Jerusalem. Ordinary geography could never hope to capture his mythic sensibilities. Or, the masterful poem, “That the Science of Cartography is Limited” [—and not simply by the fact that this shading of/forest cannot show the fragrance of balsam,/the gloom of cypresses,/is what I wish to prove.] by Eavan Boland which yearns to uncover the social history of changing geographical representations, and the hidden cost of lives in the change from arable to barren.

Yet the need to understand our physical space has never been in doubt, and visual representations provide an artistic representation of our minds, and how we understand the world.

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This whimsical map of a “world metro” system may not be geographically accurate, but it does capture certain truths about world population, global flows, and metro distribution.

There is a similar need to visualize fictional space. Kevin Lynch argued in his classic, The Image of the City, that a major contributor to a city’s beauty is its legibility, “the ease with which its parts can be recognized and can be organized into a coherent pattern.” Even the dystopian Dark City in Dark City has a visual representation of its madness: the subway map that, read with its paratexts (schedules), visually represents the impossibility of ever leaving the city, of ever making it to Shell Beach. Read the rest of this entry »

This is the story of how one poor man (me) was electronically stolen from, and then verified, transferred, and “yes sir”ed by his bank to the point where he was forced to question his own humanity.

Last week, I received my first paycheck for the month of December. A day after that, my health insurance payment (paid for entirely by myself) hit my account, and then half of my paycheck was gone. I had just enough money left to get me through the week without feeling like I couldn’t buy at least one sandwich or Mac-Donald’s value meal – or maybe that two dog and small ice-with-a-little-drink special at Gray’s Papaya – during the week, in addition to making a small contribution towards those monthly expenses necessary to life (rent, groceries and television). Then another day passed. At the end of this day, a visit to my online banking center showed me that this “just enough” amount of money had become a “negative number written in a red font because it’s not a real” amount of money. A Chinese thief had charged the entire amount left in my account (plus a little bit more!) to my check card.

Probably, plus another clause, the thief was not even Chinese. The charge was made to the PayPal account of a Chinese man, but I’m decently sure that the thief is really some pimply-faced, nerdy white kid from the suburbs who when I find him will have brittle bones and will not know karate. As of now, I haven’t found him, because I never will, because the beauty of the internet is also the beauty of internet crime: identity and location are mostly relative. As far as I will ever probably know, the thief is who he appears to be, a Chinese man with a PayPal account.

Needless to say, I called my Bank (of America!) immediately upon noticing the charge. Here’s how my customer service experience went down:

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