Yeah, there’s that. But we’ve had this ongoing meltdown in Fukushima (geiger counter on hand can account for that even though the govt won’t) that is killing the entire fucking northern Pacific. Fuck this other shit. Just let those jackasses blow themselves up and fix Fukushima.
When my husband [Carl Sagan] died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me — it still sometimes happens — and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again.
Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don’t ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous — not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful.
The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don’t think I’ll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful.
LETTER FROM THE BORDER: NEW CRISIS IS THE OLD CRISIS
“Let’s talk about it later,” Lucero says as she bounces a six-year-old girl on her knee. Lucero slept in an open cot in the parking lot tent last night. I originally came to McAllen to report on the relief efforts here. But they were short volunteers and Spanish speakers, so I am volunteering alongside Lucero. We don’t talk about our jobs. Neither one of us is here in our “professional” capacity. I’m not interviewing anybody, she is not doing intake. We are folding and feeding. Sometimes when the women get a little demanding, or ask us to bring them a different pair of jeans, maybe ones a little more fashionable, Lucero deflects with a preternatural grace that I fall short of. The women love her. I cling to her all weekend.