πόθος

This book, which is supposedly about the ideal of selfless service, can be summed up as, "Hi, my name is Ram Dass and I'm a narcissist."

Compassion in Action: Setting Out on the Path of Service

Crossposted to http://rachelmanija.dreamwidth.org/1041066.html. Comment here or there.

A clear, well-written, informative, easy-reading book for the layperson on the history and current conceptions of autism, and what that means for people with autism. Grinker has an autistic daughter, and includes his own experiences with her to illuminate larger issues. He primarily writes about the US, but has two chapters with snapshots of the situation in South Korea and India.

I particularly liked the lengthy section in which he makes his case that autism is not increasing, but seems to be because we are more aware of it. I don't have time to lay out his detailed explanations of how he came to each of his conclusions, but the reasons for the perceived increase are as follows:

- It is only comparatively recently that autism, like many other mental and developmental disorders, has become understood as a unique phenomena rather than lumped in with every other disorder else as "mad" or "simple" or some such. That is, autism has always existed, but was not called "autism."

- Parents and researchers agitated for more awareness of autism. Once people became aware, they started noticing it more: laypeople recognized kids with autism, and doctors became able to diagnose it. Previously, the same kids would have been labeled mentally retarded or schizophrenic or something other than autistic.

- Due to improved services for autistic kids, pressure arose to diagnose kids with autism rather than with some other diagnosis which entitled them to less or inferior services. Hence, kids who previously would have been labeled mentally retarded are now labeled autistic. (Autism is also less stigmatized than mental retardation.) For the same reason, kids who have less severe problems, who previously would not have been diagnosed at all but would have struggled and been called weird, stupid, or lazy, now tend to get an autism diagnosis so they can get help.

- A misprint in an early edition of the diagnostic manual DSM-IV - "or" instead of "and" - led to many kids qualifying for an autism diagnosis who otherwise wouldn't have gotten it. (Basically, it should have been "must have this symptom AND this symptom," but it was printed as "must have this symptom OR this symptom."

Unstrange Minds: Remapping the World of Autism

Crossposted to http://rachelmanija.dreamwidth.org/1040761.html. Comment here or there.

This was hanging out above the clothesline at Phoxinus' house.  All part of Englishness, along with shepherd's pie, The Archers, pots of tea, and hedgerow jams.

21 April 2012

Nine

• Fri, 18:42: Cover I designed for The House of Forever, poetry collection by @SamHenderson123 Due October/Raven Electrick Ink. http://t.co/SyUVV7Bp
• Sat, 01:46: Just misread a trending video title on FB as "Frog rescues another frog from...socialism." The latter was supposed to be "socialcam." :-)
• Sat, 02:06: @kristinemuslim Thanks for boosting the signal re: The House of Forever by @SamHenderson123 :-)
• Sat, 04:10: @boxleitnerbruce Just watched "Dead Men Leave No Trails" on SMK. Hadn't realized your sister had appeared. Adorable scene!

http://notesfromthegeekshow.blogspot.com/2012/05/of-all-pricks-to-choose.html

From Sodom! The Musical. Again, following on directly from the previous post. Yes, that's two posts in the space of ten minutes or so! Well, I had both songs written, and the other one's only wee. Anyway


 *


"Of All the Pricks to Choose"

[Scene: A portico next to a garden adorned with naked statues of both sexes in various postures. In the middle of the garden is a woman representing a

http://notesfromthegeekshow.blogspot.com/2012/05/comfort-my-cunt.html

From Sodom! The Musical. To follow on directly from the previous post.



 *


"Comfort My Cunt"


[The stage is dark. Soft music is played. A small voice, in a mournful key:]

    VOICE:
Unhappy cunt, oh comfortless,
From lavish slurps to sad distress,
Comfort my cunt.
Comfort my cunt.

Now shorn of ornamental hair,
And starved to gasp at empty air.
Comfort my cunt.
Comfort my cunt.

In exile

Ear situation: the infection itself seems to be mostly gone, but there's still the problem of my (lack of) hearing. I'm going back to the clinic for a third time on Tuesday, and I'm desperately hoping the final approval on my MassHealth will come through by then, as that's what's prevented the nurse practitioner (who's doing the best she can with a bad situation) from referring me straight to an ENT. I miss the NHS so much it's unbearable. I'd have been referred to a specialist by now. I should have been seeing one from the very beginning.

The full-time post at the museum, after three weeks of deliberation on their part, went to somebody else. Which is just as well, given I'm still waiting to hear from the antiquarian-book guys (the latter is a better job). Still, it's one more thing to make me feel beyond crushed. Three weeks of juggling a mutant ear bug with lots of waiting piled on top just...

I would do anything to get out of this.

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

http://kjbishop.net/2012/05/26/a-strange-moment.html

http://kjbishop.net/?p=4961

Location: a certain amazing cemetery with a  jogging track through the graves. I’m running behind an old guy. Another old guy is running past in the opposite direction. He raises his hand as if to wave at the man in front of me. Except it isn’t a wave. He holds his arm straight out and says, “Heil Hitler!” The man in front of me returns the salute and the words. The man running towards me must have seen my jaw drop, because he laughed and waved in the normal fashion and said “Sawasdee” (hello). Maybe they’d just watched Iron Sky. Or were fans of Slur’s Hitler song?

Book Club Selections

May: Downbelow Station by C.J. Cherryh; Discussion Date: 05/30/12
June: God's War by Kameron Hurley; Discussion Date: 06/27/12
July: Among Others by Jo Walton; Discussion Date: 7/23/12

All discussion dates are subject to change.

You can find Calico Reaction all over the internet! Just take a look:

1) WordPress
2) Goodreads
3) Facebook
4) LibraryThing
5) Paperback Swap

FAVOR!! When I review a book you've read and reviewed yourself, would you kindly provide a link to your review in the comments of mine? I love seeing what others think, and sometimes I see those reviews when they're originally posted, but don't read them as I don't want to spoil myself on something I know I'll read in the future. The problem, then, is I often forget to go back and read the reviews I missed! So please, if you've reviewed something I'm reviewing, shoot a link my way. :)

Challenges

THEME PARK: Want to receive a monthly notification for what's happening in the 2012 book club? Details are here.

Mount TBR Challenge: Here's my goal for 2012: 25 books. Want to sign up? Click here.

Got a reading challenge you'd like to promote? Please comment. You may also comment to promote giveaways, but those links will be posted on my Facebook page.

This Week

Monday: A Fistful of Charms by Kim Harrison
Tuesday:
Wednesday: Downbelow Station by C.J. Cherryh (maybe. I hope!)
Thursday:
Friday:

Currently Reading: Downbelow Station by C.J. Cherryh

2012 Reading Total: 45 books, 1 DNF, 9 short stories

2012 Comics Total: 236 comics

"From the fringes you could see the blue remembered hills; then turning inward, heaven in a haze about the trees."

20 April 2012.

Nine

Hola!

I am lifting my head from the morass of editing this one story I never want to see again¹ and drafting this other story I don't want to have to write² to tell those who find such things interesting that there's a new interview of me up online.

This one is a little different, being an audio interview for the Galactic Chat podcast, so you actually get to hear my voice. I'm a little nervous about this aspect of it, because I absolutely loathe the sound of my own voice on playback. Does anyone else ever suffer from this dissonance? I swear I don't sound as plummy in real life as I always end up sounding on playback. Or at least, I don't think I do, but who knows?

Anyway! The interview is live, and we touch on the Binding books, and my collection for the Twelve Planets series, among other things, and I had a whole heap of fun conducting the interview, so head on over for a listen!

1. This is completely normal and an encouraging sign that the process is all working out as expected. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself. [↩]
2. Again. Normal. [↩]

Mirrored from Deborah Kalin.

http://theodoragoss.com/2012/05/25/the-immigrant-class-part-3/

http://theodoragoss.com/?p=5530

I’ve been trying to figure out how to describe the set of assumptions I grew up with because of my particular immigrant experience. It involved a double displacement: my mother had lost her home when she was a child (that’s what confiscated means, of course). She still remembers that house, and the pony she used to ride. She also lost her social class, because now there were supposedly no social classes, although of course that’s not what actually happened. What happened is that everyone still knew where everyone else fit in the social order, but the people who had once been peasants were now given preferential treatment – easier admission to the universities, for example. I wonder how much that really changed the social landscape of Hungary. I don’t know. But I do know that Hungarians still have an acute sense of social class. Once, I went on a skiing vacation in Austria with my father and his family. An uncle of mine was there, and I was told repeatedly that he was the one in the family who had inherited the title. Those sorts of things were not supposed to count under Communism, and yet they were always there – everyone still knew and remembered.

So I think that my mother grew up with a sort of double consciousness. She was taught that hereditary social privileges were ridiculous, outdated, and she will tell you that. Also that religion is the opiate of the masses. As is television. She believes, to her core, in hard work and individual merit. On the other hand, that core itself contains an instinctive conviction that there are certain ways to live. And those ways come from the ancient social structure that Communism was supposed to destroy.

I didn’t understand this, when I was a child. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t do the seemingly simple and innocent things that my classmates did. Wear an anklet or designer jeans. It took me years to understand that these things were about social class. I remember, as an adult, reading a column by Judith Martin, who wrote as Miss Manners. She was asked about the proper way to wear an anklet, and responded, “The proper way to wear an anklet is on your wrist, where it is called a bracelet.” I find Martin fascinating because she has a thorough understanding of the history of manners. Her knowledge goes back to Emily Post and the Victorians. And the reason I couldn’t wear an anklet or designer jeans is that, although I was an American middle school student, I was in training to be a lady. My mother would probably tell me that was ridiculous, because she was trained to regard those sorts of social designations as outdated. She would simply say I was expected to dress properly. But you know where those rules come from, what properly really means. It means properly for a particular social class.

One thing that happens in immigrant families that come from a relatively high status in their home countries is a deep anxiety that the status will lost. That children brought up in the new country will not rise to an equivalent status. Hence the focus on education, which is the easiest and most reliable way to rise up again.

I think back now to the strange disjunctions of my childhood: my mother was a doctor, but she was raising two children, so in terms of income we were nowhere near as comfortable as most of the children I went to school with. We shopped at discount stores, and I often marveled at what my friends had: the clothes, the houses with rooms just for watching TV, their own cars! On the other hand, I spent so much time at the museums that I can probably still remember my way around the National Galleries of Art, I had a favorite opera and Shakespeare play, and I knew from a young age how to behave at a symphony because I was expected (sometime compelled) to go. When my brother or I cooked, we made Kraft Macaroni and Cheese or Campbell’s Tomato Soup, but the silverware in the drawer was actual silver. The art on the walls was original art. I think I was the only person in my graduating class who applied to Harvard. I didn’t get in, and to be honest I’m not sure I would have survived it at that point. I was young and confused, and I didn’t know who I was or who I was supposed to become. I had both an inferiority and a superiority complex: inferiority because I was so obviously poorer than my classmates, which was even more true at the University of Virginia, and so much in America seemed to be based on wealth, but also superiority because I felt smarter, more cultured. And some of the things they cared about so much, I knew weren’t important.

A sort of aside here. I was taught from a young age that conspicuous display of wealth is vulgar – that it marks one as coming from a lower social class. Once, when I complained about my clothes, my mother told me with scorn that it was the children of the nobility who wore ragged clothes – that is, who wore their clothes out.  They were the ones who did not display their wealth. The real problem with designer jeans wasn’t so much the expense – it was that I would have a label on my butt. And that was something one simply did not do. I still can’t bring myself to wear anything with a conspicuous label, even if I bought it for $5 at Goodwill, which is more likely than not. I like Ralph Lauren, but anything with an RL visible on it would make me intensely and instinctively uncomfortable. I think this particular standard exists because in an aristocracy, everyone already knows who everyone else is. It is only in a socially fluid society that external labels mark status. So having an external label signifies that you are a wannabe. Someone whose social status is not already fixed. Complicated, isn’t it? Of course for me, it meant that I was doomed to being permanently uncool.

One of the reasons we had art on the walls is that my grandmother was trained as an artist, so we had her art, art from friends of ours who were artists, art that my mother had collected. She was used to living with art. I’ll end today by including two paintings by my grandmother. First, a watercolor of my mother as a child.

And second, a watercolor of geraniums. I have a painting of hers rather like this in my own collection. Because of course I have a collection of art myself. Art is the one thing I have always been extravagant about.

( Preview + Code + Rules )

My only reaction to this is, um, wow.

In pictures:

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

A vampire story that sucks the blood out of weak-ass YA novels, and will also make you deeply uncomfortable.

Shori is a mystery. Found alone in the woods, she appears to be a little black girl with traumatic amnesia and near-fatal wounds. But Shori is a fifty-three-year-old vampire with a ravenous hunger for blood, the lost child of an ancient species of near-immortals who live in dark symbiosis with humanity. Genetically modified to be able to walk in daylight, Shori now becomes the target of a vast plot to destroy her and her kind. And in the final apocalyptic battle, her survival will depend on whether all humans are bigots-or all bigots are human.

( Only Octavia Butler could get away with this, and I'm still not sure what she was thinking. )

Verdict: Octavia Butler iswas :( brilliant and I have yet to be disappointed by her, and I loved this modern, highly intelligent take on vampires done in her signature style, which incidentally also happens to be a brilliant subversion of the YA & PNR vampire shit that has been afflicting shelves these past few years, though I don't think Butler intended it. I wish I could shove Octavia Butler into the hands of everyone who coos over the writing in a YA novel. But, this is also a book with some huge freakin' squicks for which it makes no apologies, so be warned.

And boy am I sucking at my Mount TBR challenge. This is only the second book I've picked off of it this year.

Also by Octavia Butler: My reviews of Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents.

---

My complete list of book reviews.

So iTunes just cued up Mystic Lipstick (Celtic Tenors cover), a folk song written in 1989 by Jimmy McCarthy. (McCarthy wrote a number of Christy Moore's folk hits.) And it seems strangely appropriate, because I've just finished watching an episode from the fourth series of Waking the Dead that featured Irish nationalism and British politics, and I have been having thinky thoughts about Romanticism rolling around in my head since I got back from Greece.

Greece has been terribly romanticised in its turn, of course. Leaving aside its mythological status as the Cradle of European Civilisation (a construct of the European Renaissance), the 18th century saw it constructed as a Romantic destination on the Grand Tour (et in Arcadia ego), a construct which bore little relationship to reality. The 19th century and the Greek war of independence saw the construction of a (self-built, internally contradictory) national mythology, and its growth as an Interesting Place for international Classically-interested archaeologists... well, let's just say that from a certain point of view the likes of Schliemann on the mainland and Evans in Crete contributed to the erection of Whole New Interesting Mythologies.

And now the stories northern Europe tells about Greece have to do with laziness and profligacy, and you know what? No more true than ROMANCE. Fuck off, ECB in Frankfurt. Look at some context.

Ireland did not, of course, see itself lionised and mythologised during the European Renaissance - quite the opposite, since the 16th century saw it viewed as a land of barbarians ripe for colonisation and the 17th century witnessed the repurposing of martyr and atrocity stories from the Thirty Years War to give voice to the anxieties and stife arising from the Rebellion of 1642 and the English Civil War - but the 18th century saw the beginnings of an interest in Irish antiquarianism and the start of a "national" impetus towards myth-making and - as the 19th century began - lionising the Catholic Emancipation movement in messianic and nationalistic terms. Nationalism and tenants' rights are the two major themes of Ireland's politics in the 19th century, and though the lack of a Home Rule victory until the 20th century prevented the canonisation of an officially-sanctioned nationalist mythology until much later, the pantheon contains numerous unofficial and contradictory saints. Complicating matters for Ireland is that its Protestant and Anglo heritage is much less easy to disavow than the Turkish heritage of Greece. If it is to be disavowed, it must be done in subtle terms, acknowledging Exceptional Anglo-Irishmen, casting the others as West Brits, betrayers of nationalism and the Historical Imperative of Irish Nationhood.

Then you have the Romantic Irish movement at the end of the 19th century, existing alongside Gaelic revivalism and the growing European antiquarian interest not only in "Celtic" cultures, but in magic and mysticism. No overview of Irish Romanticism is complete without an understanding of how the likes of Yeats and the rest of the Celtic Twilight literati partook of an international intellectual/literary atmosphere that included members of the Theosophical Society and the Order of the Golden Dawn. (And if anyone can point me to a solid and readable academic study that discusses this, I'd be grateful - I used to have a handful of references, but that was when I was still in school.) Lady Gregory was connected with figures from this milieu, and Yeats himself was a member of the Order of the Golden Dawn. A misty mysticism pervades much of Yeats' writing. He positioned himself as a "national poet" of the new Ireland, even after independence, and as many of the other literary figures who entered the national pantheon (Pearse, for example) not only died in the Rising or in the War of Independence/Civil War years, but had a vested interest in portraying their relationship to Irish Nationhood in mystical, quasi-religious, at times messianic terms (it is easier to get people to die if you position dying as a salvific act), misty mysticism pervades Irish literature of the late 19th and early 20th century.

It is an obscurantist haze layered over a complicated reality. What makes it worse is that misty mysticism - or at least its salvific/messianic nationalist offshoots - remain common currency in certain puddles of political rhetoric, and enjoyed a much wider currency than they do now within my own lifetime. (See Northern Ireland, pre-Peace Process.)

And both the misty mysticism and the complicated historical reality inform present national politics. But because our national myths (our dialectics, even!) rely all too much on the Romantic Mirage (and its obverse, the Lazy Irish Savage: hello, ECB! Our financial woes are actually mostly your fault, since you helped provide the credit - and then mandated the socialisation of debt - that got us to this point!), it is nearly impossible to even construct an argument about history today without engaging the Mirage. (The Mirage is politically useful, in that it elides discussion of class and the historical benefits conferred thereby: many of the present prominent political figures of the Republic have several generations of political connections, and those that do not generally come from publican or professional backgrounds.)

It's impossible to ignore it, you know. It just sits there, even if you never mention it, pulling the conversation askew with all the gravity of a soul-sucking black hole.

I say this, because I am contemplating opening Kevin Hearne's Tricked, which based on previous track record, will be an entertaining pseudo-Celtic mixed mythological romp set somewhere in the continental United States. While at the same time I am still reading Ian McDonald's King of Morning, Queen of Day - which at least in its first part, juxtaposes the weird and Romantic with the utterly mundane and is the better book for it. The more painful: but McDonald understands that the layers of the rotten onion (the Matryoska dolls of Irish mythology, each one stranger than the next) have a kind of recursive complexity impossible to reduce to linear clarity. The only possible shape is the spiral. Not the line, not the circle, but a twisted helix bending around an indefinable centre.

My analogy runs away from me. Still.

*rambles along, ramblingly*

This entry was originally posted at http://hawkwing-lb.dreamwidth.org/479383.html. There are comments there. Comment where you like.

A Pattern of Breaking

Change is the pattern life follows.
She would like to change that pattern
for a few years--long enough
to recover, rebuild her life.
But change is the weave woven here
in this mortal, suffering world,
despite her dreaming, her wishing.
Change: the pattern she must weather.

----

http://notesfromthegeekshow.blogspot.com/2012/05/two-timers-waltz.html

And lo, with this following on directly from the previous post's debauched denouement, Scene One of Sodom! The Musical is complete!


"The Two-Timer's Waltz"

[BOLLOX and PUCKANELLO lie post-coitus.]    PUCKANELLOMy lord and sugar daddy dear,O royal master of my rear,Permission to speak freely here?    BOLLOX:Go on, you know you have my ear.    PUCKENELLO:The last time you were in that tombThe

http://notesfromthegeekshow.blogspot.com/2012/05/all-things-under-heaven.html

My mind is a sewer. Yes, it is. My mind is a fricking sewer. Say the words "Sodom! The Musical" to it, and it proceeds to rewrite The Farce of Sodom and make it even more sordid. Cause, you know, Rochester -- assuming the attribution to Rochester is correct -- just didn't go far enough, not without at least a nod to felching.

Oh well. For those of you debauched enough to join me in my bawdy

I named a character once in The Bone Palace, an offhand reference that didn't warrant an entry in the dramatis personae but is still in print. Now I find myself needing to write more about that character and a) not liking his name much anymore, and b) finding it a bit too similar to someone else who shows up quite often. How many of you would be wildly irritated if I changed someone's name between books? (I doubt most people even remember that he was ever mentioned, but somewhere out there is the reader who will.)

( You are about to view content that may not be appropriate for minors. )

http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/UrbanGhostsMedia/~3/Bsb18nb6mXg/

http://www.urbanghostsmedia.com/?p=17029

This week's link round-up explores a variety of offbeat topics from Detroit's subterranean salt city and ancient trees to urban exploration and amazing vertical gardens.

[[ This is a content summary only. Visit my website for full links, other content, and more! ]]

The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees (2011)
Written by: E. Lily Yu
Genre: Short Story/Fantasy
Published by: Clarkesworld
Rating: It's a Gamble

And at last, we come to the final short story nominated for the Hugo, and incidentally, it was my least favorite of the bunch. Yet, despite knowing it won't get my top vote, I went ahead and read it for a second time before reviewing. My first read was filled with interruptions, and as a result (or maybe the interruptions themselves were a result of the following), I had a hard time grasping the shifts in perspective, of understanding when we'd moved from a human perspective to a wasp perspective to a bee perspective and then back and forth again. On the second read, I had that trouble one specific time, in the beginning, despite knowing what to look for. After that, I was okay with the shifts, and honestly, the story's not so badly written that I should have trouble. Instead, it requires careful attention. A reader must pick up key words to recognize the shift, and a second read really helps in this regard. My first read was not one where I gave full, careful attention, so I'm glad I gave this a second shot for the sake of review.

As previously mentioned, the writing is good. It should be, given the publisher in particular, but the style of prose is enjoyable once you understand the type of story you're getting. It's kind of fable-esque, an allegory, given that we get the point of view of both the cartographer wasps (which is an utterly fantastic premise) and the anarchist bees, reminding of stories like Orwell's Animal Farm, though this isn't nearly so bleak. There was an interesting discussion in the comments as to whether or not this story merited the term "science fiction" (for the record, you can read this story for free and its comments on Clarkesworld's website, and I've got a direct link to the story above), and my first reaction was, "Hell to the no." I'm all for soft and/or social science fiction stories, but short of a commentary on colonialism, there was little to nothing here that lent this story to any kind of SF label in mind. Rather, and you'll notice this distinction in the genre tab above, I felt this story was clearly fantasy. There's a whimsical quality to the story, to the world-building, that lends itself to magic more than it does to SF, and despite some debates I've seen online, a story about colonialism does not immediately make a story SF. Colonialism might be a common theme in SF, but it is not a staple of the genre.

Then I noticed the author's comments regarding the genre of the story, referring to entomology and how many people don't consider it a hard science, but it is, and the author seems to acknowledge the fact that this story pushes many a genre envelope (really, it's best just to call this sucker speculative fiction and be done with it), I got the impression that she, too, considers it science fiction.

Interesting. Entomology is the study of insects, and certainly, given her world-building, the author has put a great deal of real-world research into her cartographer wasps and anarchist bees (I think I read someone that bees can ACTUALLY be anarchists? Fascinating!). But I resist the label of science fiction in particular. On one hand, one can argue that this is a story heavily based in science, and therefore science fiction, and I'd roll with that rather begrudgingly. On the other hand, I'm not entirely certain that just because a book requires scientific research in order to convey accurate world-building necessarily makes the resulting piece of fiction science fiction. To me, it's more of a matter of keeping things authentic and real, so that one's story isn't so bogged down by bad research it isn't taken seriously.

It can go either way. But this is too fantasy/allegorical/fable-esque for me to roll with the hard SF label. Of course, I know next to nothing about wasps and bees, let alone insects, so who am I say for sure? Maybe this is the greatest piece of hard SF ever… if you're a entomologist.

All of this musing came after the second reading, and I'm grateful for it. I missed the colonialism on my first read-through (yeah, that's how distracted I was), though I did wonder on that first read if the author wasn't perhaps positing a theory as to the disappearance of honeybees? Yet there's a prevailing feeling of, well, I don't want to say hope, but persistence. Because despite everything that happens, ideas never die. They find a way to keep going and infecting others, and on my second read, that's what I walked away with.

It's an utterly creative and interesting story, one well worth discussing. Yet compared to the other Hugo nominees, it failed to inspire any emotional connection. "The Paper Menagerie" hit me in the heart. "The Shadow War" made me laugh. "Movement" engaged my intellect on an active level, the kind that gets me genuinely excited for the material. "Homecoming" tried to engage my heartstrings and my wonder, failed utterly, but it did try. Poor "Cartographer" was a fascinating piece of work, and while it engages my intellect, it doesn't do so on an active level. I'm not inspired to learn more about wasps or bees or anarchy or any of those things, and for my two cents, if a story is going to truly engage me on an intellectual level, it must hook me in a way that makes me see the world through a completely new lens. It must fascinate me, engage me to the point of obsession. This is a personal thing, and it's not the author's fault that "Cartographer" didn't grab me.

Which is why the rating is "It's a Gamble." It's an interesting story that's worth reading, with the most fantastic title out of the nominated bunch, but your mileage may vary, and you may need to read it again just to make sure you didn't miss anything the first time.