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A Supercomputing Future

Northern Colorado Business Report
“A Supercomputing Future”
by Kai Staats
December 2011

Today, November 18, was the closing day of SuperComputing 2011, the conference and trade show for high performance computing research, labs, and industry. For this week the Seattle Washington Convention Center hosted representation of the latest, greatest, and fastest computers in the world, an overwhelming array of blinking lights, whirring fans, and massive LCD, plasma, and projection screens demonstrating human brain power applied to the human quest to learn how all things work.

It was my first time attending since 2008, my ninth or tenth show in total, but as I have been away for three years, I experienced a jump in the otherwise, relatively steady evolution of compute power and associated research results.

As in the movie “Minority Report” there are now fully interactive touch screens the size of a wall. Up to four people may interact, moving, panning, zooming, and annotating documents, photos, and film. I was able to not only resize a movie while it played, but with one hand rotate it 360 degrees, the motion never even hesitating. The immersive 3D worlds are faster, smoother, and of course, much higher resolution. Still a bit awkward for data visualization, but the flight simulators are amazing!

The challenge of building supercomputing clusters has in many respects remained the same, the balance between data storage, bandwidth, calculations per second, and visualization an ongoing battle.

As CPUs get faster, they need to be fed data at a higher rate. The interconnect fabric (network) advances, from 10/100 ethernet to gigabit, from Infiniband to 10g-e and beyond. But then the memory bus is saturated and can’t keep up, so the speed and quantity of RAM and cache must increase too.

As CPU frequencies have for the most part stalled, Moore’s law is maintained by adding more cores, two, four, and eight on a single socket. But even this has its limitation as we reach the boundary of how small we are able to manufacture a transistor and how effectively we may move heat without building quantum machines.

We add more processors in the form of GP/GPUs, advanced accelerators which grew out of the graphics card industry. Nvidia is leading the charge. Ah! A new challenge is presented, for now we have 500 cores in a PCI slot and four slots to fill. But with 2000 cores, a million or more across an entire cluster, we find that our programming models no longer hold up for the message passing interface which moves fragments of a computational problem takes more processing power, diminishing returns due to fabric latency, OS jitters, and kernel interrupts not easily be solved.

IBM builds a rack-mount node which takes four people to carry (let alone install). HP and Dell design higher density blades which require water cooling. Cray reinvents the wheel (it’s a very nice wheel). TI brings to market new digital signal processors while the ARM processor makes enters this industry with a many-core architecture, but the OS platform remains infantile, lacking industry support for compilers and management tools.

Tired yet? I have only just begun. Super computing is super confusing and yet somehow it works. The competition is fierce, new companies claiming fastest and best their second year in the industry. Big guys buy up small guys as the small guys continue to innovate, racing to support the most advanced research in the world: bioinformatics, nuclear physics, brain mapping, three dimensional imaging of the earth beneath our feet, climate modeling, quantum interactions at the event horizon of a black hole.

We now understand more of the universe inside, immediately around, and far beyond ourselves than ever before. Our knowledge of how things work is growing at an exponential rate. We now compare the DNA of a newly discovered species with another, from wet lab to sequencing in a matter of hours, and we know how many millions of years separate the two in their evolutionary tree. We model with incredible accuracy the proteins that make up various parts of our body and the function of individual cells in the human brain. We better predict the movement of hurricanes up coast lines while the mathematical prediction of fluctuations on Wall Street continues uninterrupted.

I watched a 3D model of a protein-ligand interaction, the colors ranging from white to blue to red to represent the heat-energy in various parts of the system. It jumped, danced, and moved in apparently intelligent ways, an “arm” of the protein connecting to itself only to break again where the synthetic drug attempted to bond. The model from start to finish was over a minute in length, and yet it happens millions of times a second throughout our bodies. For a moment I felt alive in a way that is difficult to explain, picturing in my mind these molecular interactions inside of me at a scale I cannot fully comprehend.

I want to know how all of this works, all of it! –but even in ten lifetimes it is impossible to gain this understanding for the people who bring these discoveries to life are experts in increasingly narrow fields.

Next year I want to attend the show again, and as I have promised myself too many times before, read the posters, interview the grad students and professors who have traveled across the globe to present their latest findings, for their knowledge is our future, a future modeled in supercomputers.

By |2017-10-21T16:54:57-04:00December 10th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

The Roundabout at the End of Town

This story was originally written for the NPR “Three-Minute Fiction” short story contest.

Downtown was unfamiliar to me as I had only recently acquired my apartment two blocks off Main. The job which brought me here offered a leisurely break to enjoy a walk after a midday meal. I approached one of the two roundabouts which defined the beginning and end of the street just three blocks long.

I stopped at the crosswalk before the roundabout, looked to my left and then forward again. An elderly man sat on a bench in the middle, to his left a bronze statue of a beautiful elderly woman. He was bent forward, his head held in his hands and elbows upon his thighs. As I crossed the two lanes and drew near, I could hear him crying.

Two people to my front had walked by him, looked, but did not stop. I nearly did the same, but could not. It just didn’t feel right. I turned round slowly, the statue of the woman between me and him. I took a deep breath and then reached out to steady myself on the crown of her head. It was warm to the touch despite the cool fall air, the metal so perfectly carved as to give soft texture to her hair. I lowered myself a bit, knees bent, and saw the man’s tears flowing free.

“Excuse me, sir, but are you ok? Is there anything I can do?”

He did not seem to hear me, his head yet held in his hands. I tried again, “Sir. You’re, … you seem so sad. What happened?”

His sobs lessened as he attempted a deep breath. He said nothing but lifted his head from the support of his arms. With his hand he motioned for me to sit upon the bench to his right. Both our gazes fell upon the red brick path at our feet. I waited. A long time passed.

When he found his voice he said, “I have never felt such grief. I have never felt such pain. The loss inside me, I could never live with this again.” He shook his head slowly from side to side.

In that moment my heart sped. I could feel his grief as though it were mine. It was difficult to speak, “May I … may I ask what happened?”

Two cars drove around the circle, one in each direction. A cloud moved to cover the sun. The wind blew lightly and then stalled again. I looked at my watch without lifting my arm, not wanting to press him for time.

He sat upright and then slowly turned his head. Our eyes met, his dark, nearly hollow inside.

Finally he said, “I have taken many risks in my life. I have challenged death more than one time. But the greatest reward I was ever given was experiencing a love that transcends time.”

He grabbed my hand with an agility and strength that surprised me, holding me tight. He breathed more than he said, “If you are ever given opportunity to feel this way,” his eyes penetrating mine, “stop at nothing to love this deep.”

He turned to face the statue of the woman, his left arm holding her in a familiar embrace. The warmth of his hand around mine was lost and when I looked up carved metal now defined his face. I pushed away from him and nearly fell to the ground. Tears were replaced with a smile on the left of two statues, side by side, on the bench in the middle of the roundabout at the end of town.

© Kai Staats 2011

By |2011-11-17T11:35:15-04:00November 17th, 2011|The Written|0 Comments

Homeless in Seattle

It feels like just yesterday that I attended the SuperComputing trade show and conference in Austin, Texas, 2008. That week I met Luciano, a man without a home for whom I provided a hotel for two nights in order that he could get off the streets. I flew back to Austin two months later to capture his story on film. I spent two nights on the streets with Luciano and his friends, his life unfolding for the camera.

While walking from my hotel to the convention center yesterday afternoon, a tall (much taller than me) man approached from my left side, I assumed homeless by his tattered apparel and streetwise stride, hunched, favoring one side a little more than the other.

He shouted while coming across the street, “Hey! Hold up man.” A bit winded, he moved faster to close in, “Hey, God bless you man,” pausing while he caught up, “Man, you some kinda business guy! Look at you, you look like the mayor of Seattle!” referring to my new pleated pants, dress shoes, and Puma jacket (which passes for business casual on a good day).

I laughed, “Thank you. But no, I am not much of a business guy, at least not like that,” I responded.

“Hey, I ain’t want’n to bother you or noth’n, but it’s been a hard week and I was just wonder’n if you could help me get a bite to eat?”

“I won’t give you any money, but I will gladly buy you dinner.”

“Really? Hey, that sounds great.” He was walking along side me then.

“Where do you want to eat?”

“Hey man, I don’t want to change your plans. So, where you head’d?”

“To the convention center. You know where it’s at?”

“Oh yes sir, just up this here hill. I’ll take you there and right next door is a Subway shop.”

“Sounds great. I’ll buy you a sandwich.”

He reached out and shook my hand, “My name is Myron.”

“I am Kai.”

“Kai? What kind of name is that?”

“A short one,” I smiled.

“Man, I like you. You’re all right.”

“Thank you. I like you too.” As I said this, and we neared the business district, I could feel eyes watching, people trying to understand the relationship between this man and me. I made a point of making eye contact with him as we walked and allowing our shoulders to bump every now and again as though we were best friends. I did not want, in any way, for him to feel ashamed or unclean.

Myron pointed to his shoes and said, “You know, if I take off these shoes, my socks would just plain fall apart. There ain’t much left to even call them socks. Know what I mean?”

“Yes, I had a pair of socks that were like that.”

“Well, if you can spare some change, maybe I could buy a new pair of socks.”

“Socks. Not drugs. Right?

“Yeah man, I promise. Socks.”

He refused the twenty and so I gave him ten dollars in cash. We talked about where he lived and how we moved through the world. He was polite, funny, and a great conversationalist. We arrived in front of the convention center and I remembered being there before for the 2005 or 2006 SuperComputing tradeshow.

We walked up to the Subway shop, it’s outdoor counter facing the street. Myron looked at the options and at the request of the sandwich artist, ordered a foot-long meatball sub. He asked if it was ok to get a drink, chips, and a cookie. I said he could get whatever he wanted.

While we waited for the sandwich to be made, interrupted by the usual questions for type of bread, cheese, veggies, and sauce, the conversation unfolded something like this.

“Ain’t you gonna get something Kai?”

“No, there will be food at the trade show in just about an hour.”

“You want a bite of mine?”

“Thanks man, but I am vegetarian. For twenty three years.”

“Twenty three– What? Twenty three years without eat’n meat!? Maaaan, you is crazy. No one can live like that! I am SO sorry for YOU!”

I laughed out loud, the woman at the counter turning to smile at us both, “Well, I seem to be do’n ok.”

“No man, that just ain’t healthy.”

“I ran forty two miles last week and do one hundred sit-ups every day!”

Myron just shook his head, looked at his worn, cracked fingers and long nails. Under his breath, “Twenty three years … you know what, I bet when you let one go,” and at that he bent forward to make it clear what he was referring to, “I bet it don’t stink at all!”

I laughed so hard I nearly fell over. He bent over and stood up a few times, just to get the most of the humor. Then he took a step forward and leaned on the counter, “Fellas. See this guy over here,” pointing at me, “he ain’t eat’n no meat for twenty three years! You think that’s ok? And when he farts, man, it don’t smell!”

The younger of the two said, “Yeah man, it’s ok.” The other just laughed.

Myron turned back to me, just as the sandwich was nearly done, “Kai. You mind if I say a prayer for you?”

“No, not at all.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and bowed his head, his shoulders still resting at a height taller than all of me combined. “Lord, thank you for bringing me to this man. I know now I’m gonna make it one more day. Amen.”

We exchanged a few hand-jive maneuvers, something I love about my many encounters with the homeless in so many cities. Each has a special ending, a flutter, a set of wings, a wiggle, or an explosion of fingers, some just ending in fist bumps. We walked back down the street along the front of the convention center. Dozens of geeks, some I recognized from over a decade of attending this family reunion walked past and through the glass doors.

“I don’t live too far away, just down there on First and Cedar.”

“First and Cedar,” I repeated.

“Yeah. So, you know, keep an eye out for me, ok? My place ain’t so fancy. It’s low income housing.”

“But you have a place of your own. That’s doing ok. You’re better off than some.” He nodded. I continued, “You know, I’ve been living out of my car and a tent for over a month.” I looked up to see what he might say.

He stopped walking. I thought he might be offended, “You put’n me on?!”

“No. I’m being honest. I left my home in Colorado two months ago and have been living a pretty simple life since. Like you said, low income housing. Now, I am a carpenter in a mountain village not far from here. I’m not say’n my life is like yours, but you know, we share something in common. A simple life.”

Myron smiled.

“I’ll look for you Myron. Maybe we can have lunch together later this week.”

“Yeah. Yea man, that’d be nice. See ya around.”

“I hope so. First and Cedar, right?”

He nodded and waved, opening the Subway shop bag.

I turned to enter the convention center.

The first person I saw, at the top of the three step landing was Steve Poole, the infamous “bomb boy” from Los Alamos who once invoked a perfectly timed, one finger salute from a Sr. Manager of Business Development for Motorola for interrupting a PowerPoint presentation with an accusatory question. “Is that– is that an Intel laptop you are using!?”

But he was more commonly known for his introduction to his work when one visited the Los Alamos booth at SuperComputing, “Bombs. We make bombs. Better bombs. Bigger bombs … F-r-i-e-n-d-l-i-e-r bombs,” his crazy white hair giving him the appearance of a modern day Einstein. He’s likely just as smart.

“Steve! How are you?” extending my hand.

Grinning, “Kai, it’s been a few years.”

“Yeah, needed a vacation from this place. Hey, I emailed you a few weeks ago, but it bounced. You still at Oak Ridge?”

“Yeah, that email doesn’t always work. You know, I just work here and there now.”

“You got a new email?”

“Yes.”

“Uh. Mind if I have it?”

“Yes,” smiling as only Steve can.

“Got it. Never mind. I’ll look for you on the show floor,” smiling back.

Two hours later, I got a call from Luciano, the man in Austin whose story I captured on film two years ago. He was returning my call to his sister a few days earlier. He is doing well. He is in rehab, has a girlfriend, email, and even a Facebook account. He sounded really good and asked when I was coming back to Austin to visit. I told him I hoped it would be soon.

The transition from Holden to Seattle, from stoking fires at midnight to SuperComputing 2011 was a stark contrast, but the unfolding of this day was exactly what I had asked for.

I was home, even in the big city, for at least a few days.

By |2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00November 15th, 2011|From the Road|0 Comments

Welcome to Holden Village

This is where I now live and work as a carpenter and videographer. No roads to the outside world, access by boat up Lake Chelan. No television, phones, or radio. Isolated in some respects, but so fully engaged in many, many more. This short film captures a few days of village life in this mountain retreat center in the Washington Cascades. The film touches upon three aspects of Holden: Living, Community, and Renewal–calling upon vivid images of laughter, dance, food, work, play, and prayer to present Holden in the light of its mountain splendor.

This marks the completion of my first film project, from acquisition to final edit, in fifteen years.

By |2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00November 9th, 2011|Film & Video, From the Road|0 Comments

Taking out the Trash

Northern Colorado Business Report
“Taking out the Trash”
By Kai Staats
4 November 2011

As Moore’s law has seen the regular doubling of processor power every two to three years, the cost of storage, both local and on-line, has declined at a steady, rapid pace, giving rise to a tremendous capacity for capturing our digital lives in words, photos, video, and sound.

What has accompanied, even compelled the need for this massive increase in storage space is in part the amount of data we generate. High resolution photos have surpassed print film while lossless audio now carries the quality of the live performance. What’s more, the human tendency to horde everything digital has been compounded by advanced searches which tend to lead to the abandonment of organization.

Many years ago, when Google first introduced Gmail, a battle ensued at my former company, my engineers believed the answer to all their email woes had finally been granted–a single repository coupled with a Google powered search.

However, month after month I witnessed a gradual degradation of response to both internal and customer email. I investigated, and at times, had to intervene.

“I sent an email last week, but have not yet received a response,” became a common theme.

“Are you sure you sent it to me?” was a common reply.

“Yes. Quite certain. Should I forward a copy to you?”

“No, no. Hold on, let me search … oh, here it is. Well, I didn’t see that one ’cause I have more than two thousand email in my Inbox and a few hundred unread,” stated with a grin and a sense of pride, as though the goal of the game was to accumulate the most unread emails.

“That seems like a problem. How about using labels and filters?” I asked.

“Why?! Look, with Gmail I just search and find any thread at any point in time,” and a quick demonstration ensued.

“But you didn’t see my email until just now, and the customer has been waiting for a reply.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, and then recognition of the problem at hand “Right.”

I knew the fight was not about Gmail vs Yahoo! or Kmail vs Apple’s Mail app. This was about implementing a system of organization that was well planned, scalable, and flexible over time.

I defended the use of folders and automated filters which delivered email to unique, associated Inboxes. He was not alone, most of my staff replaced even a minimal sense of organization with Gmail’s paradigm, despite the decrease in response time, and worse, lost communications.

In response, I initiated a competition: my more than twelve thousand email comprising the summary of ten years of communications, archived in the logic of several hundred nested folders against just a few thousand email and Gmail’s search put to good use. The goal? Find a particular email on an exact date sent to a known client about a non-ambiguous subject, granting at least three parameters by which one could search.

Challenge after challenge, I won every time. None of my employees could beat me in accuracy nor timing of information retrieval. Three, at most four mouse clicks and I could locate any email to any customer in just a few seconds.

Yes, I spent thirty minutes every now and again re-organizing my email directory structure to accommodate an increased load, or to gain a greater level of efficiency when I realized that re-sorting directories by one parameter was more effective than by another. But the time I spent in organization was more than compensated by the hours saved in daily operations and what’s more, I gained a strong visual component, a sense of ownership of my data.

What I experienced then, and to this day I believe holds true, is that the most important of all factors in an age of information overload is forming good habits of data organization and of equal importance, taking out the trash. To keep everything, all the time, independent of the number of folders, is to fail to process data on a regular basis, thereby failing to assign value across the board.

No matter where we store things, in a closet, a file drawer, or on-line, the process of managing objects and data is the same:

  1. Organize – Create a system of organization which accommodates scalable growth
    and rapid, painless retrieval.
  2. Prioritize – Assign dates, names, and/or project titles.
  3. Discard – Establish value to the data that remains.

Most methods for teaching data organization seldom discuss deletion. But the process of determining what to throw out is the same as determining what to keep, establishing a mental image that is as effective as any advanced search function.

The next time Gmail responds, “Who needs to delete when you have so much storage?!” consider the clarity of mind you will have gained through managing your data.

By |2017-10-21T16:54:25-04:00November 9th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

The God of the Moment

A Holden Village prayer service

They were called by candle, they were called by flame.
They came together, they came to pray.
A flicker of light, a glimmer of hope.
They moved to be touched by the hands of their friends.

But someone else was here too, even if for just a short while.
Called by candle, called by flame,
the God of the moment, this night she came.

Inspired by the music, she danced in the light.
Moved by the passion, she became the flame.
She sat atop candle tips, and looked into their eyes.
Some moved her to laughter, while others, she felt their pain.
The God of the moment, was pleased she came.

Hang on to that moment, hang on to the light.
Remember the dancing flames that illuminated this night.
That was the God of the moment, just passing through.
That was the God of the moment, looking at you.

By |2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00October 30th, 2011|The Written|0 Comments

Specialization in Userland

Northern Colorado Business Report
“Living with Specialization in Userland”
By Kai Staats
7 October 2011

I crossed the U.S. / Canada border on I-5 listening to NPR’s Car Talk, Ray and Tom invoking laughter in the most stoic of listeners, as they always do. A woman called in to ask advice before she traded her beloved 1985 Volkswagon Vanagon for a Subaru Forester. She was understandably reluctant to give up the many years of stories, adventures, and dreams their family had shared driving across the land.

The woman asked about the engine and whether or not her husband could tinker with a new Subaru, doing most of the maintenance himself. Ray and Tom agreed that modern cars do not lend themselves to home mechanics as they have for all the prior years. The stuff under the hood is unfamiliar now, designed to be maintained by trained, industry specialists.

Two hours later I drove into Squamish, British Columbia, the rain washing my windshield clean of more than one thousand five hundred miles since I left home. I walked into the Adventure Center on Canadian HW99 at the edge of town. The young man behind the counter and his manager were discussing the power outage which has disabled all but one VOIP phone and computer terminal.

Neither of them was willing to experiment, fearing they might make it worse. They were waiting for the next day, Monday, when they could call support and talk to an expert.

Last week I stayed with a family friend, a professional photographer, writer, and naturalist with more than thirty years in the field. His life moves through his laptop and cell phone as he is seldom home for more than a few days at a time, and yet, the full capacity for electronic organization and collaboration unrealized.
I assisted him and his wife with switching from Yahoo! to Gmail, synchronizing Google Calendars to their Android phones, configuring email for their Internet domain, expanding their home wireless network with two Apple Airport Extreme adapters, establishing a central repository for sharing files, and connecting their home stereo system to streaming Internet radio.

I transferred user data from an old laptop to one brand new, doubled the capacity of the old laptop, reinstalled Mac OSX, and transferred user data again. They were thrilled, one of their daughters commenting over the phone, “Welcome to the twenty-first century!”

To be honest, I just followed the directions presented to me on-screen, doing little more than what I was told each step of the way. For as much of the effort as they had time, I engaged them in the process. But from their point of view, I am a specialist with many years expertise. Yet compared to code developers and engineers, I am just a layperson, an advanced user in user land. The many levels run deep.

It is not the doing that was the true barrier, for they can point and click as easily as anyone. The challenge is knowing where to start. Apple has not shipped with a printed manual for many years, believing their operating system is so simple anyone can just figure it out. I watched too many people struggle to know this is far from true. Searching Apple’s website is nearly useless and Google yields overwhelming results. You must know what you are looking for before you even begin the search.

Just a few days ago I stayed with a friend a few blocks from the Puget Sound. Their wi-fi went down some time ago. A friend had attempted to swap routers but to no avail for they had lost the passwords and did not know how to reset them. I explained that on the back or bottom of every router is a small button which when pressed with the tip of a ballpoint pen will reset the unit when you plug it in. The factory password will likely be “guest” or “admin” depending upon the brand.

Certainly, there are individuals in each generation willing to explore, to push their boundaries and dive into the depths of what an operating system or applications can do. But how many people have this comfort? I spent three full days upgrading my friends’ digital life, but how many working professionals have this kind of time? What’s more, If you do not know what you are missing, why would you ask for more?

We live in a world of special knowledge applied to special things. Specialization is job security at one level, and yet part of the reason we have so many unemployed.

Personally, I do not see technology as making things easier, for we are only introducing more complexity to our lives, always trying to do more. Placing a record on a turntable requires physical care, but not expertise. Connecting a digital audio archive to a wireless network and home theater requires a specialist. What’s more, the ability for one generation to teach the next is lost, for anything learned is useless in just a few years.
We have no choice but to pick and choose what we will maintain as our expertise, and to have the courage to ask for assistance for everything else. Maybe this brings us together again, or maybe it keeps us apart. What are your thoughts?

By |2017-10-21T16:52:57-04:00October 8th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments

The Story of Achim

Preface
One morning in early September I awoke from a most powerful dream, the kind that I want to dive back into but can never quite get there again. I dreamed of a woman from Israeli whose name was Achim. I have never remembered the name of a fictional person in a dream, and yet, it was very clear to me when I awoke. Achim. Our connection was strong, even when we first met. Together, we could see into the future in an attempt to cure humanity of a horrible plague.

The emotions of the dream stayed with me, allowing me to hold the story until I found inspiration to write. Just a few days ago in Squamish, B.C., I met an Israeli woman at the farmers market. We talked for more than an hour beneath an awning to avoid the intermittent rains. Before we parted I asked, “Does ‘ahg-hem’ mean anything in Hebrew?” She responded, “Yes, it means ‘brothers’.” This was significant to the dream, as you will read …

The Diner

“I am your eyes to the future,” she said, “Take my hand and you will see.”

I entered the 5-n-diner as I had dozens of times before, its interior scarcely changed since the middle of the twentieth century when the silver shell café had been moved to its current location from some other place long ago forgotten, maybe just down the street, or maybe across town.

The wait staff had changed often in recent months, as the quantity of patrons had continually reduced. The plague unchecked had taken more lives than anyone could have imagined, nearly five billion all told.

Some left town, heading to smaller, less populated areas believing they may be safer there despite the statistics which demonstrated no variation of infection rates between population centers or the country side. Some returned home to spend time with family before they were taken too. Others simply didn’t come to work, unable to call in or to ask for time off. Too many passed alone, the onset of the final hours quick to take what it owned–the hope of every person the plague touched. Even those who were carriers without signs did not know for how long they would yet live.

The riots had long ago subsided in those early years when fear drove the masses to react. Now, only small pockets of outbreak occurred in reaction to the media when yet another cure was announced which ultimately failed. In some respects, life carried on, day after day as routine the best cure for the unknown.

The seats were each patched in several places, the stiff vinyl edges caught the pant legs of unwary patrons. The old Formica table tops glistened only from those corners which seldom received contact by a coffee cup or cleaning rag.

I would have sat at my usual spot, my own sense of routine necessary to me, a sense of safety in an unsafe world. But that day another patron was already occupying my space. My space. The words echoed in my mind as I realized how odd they sounded. Ownership no longer carried the same value. If your future is no longer governed by things in your control, then ownership of land, a house, a particular booth at a local café means less. Just the same, I found myself staring at the man wanting to ask him to move. He became uncomfortable, looked repeatedly over his shoulder and then back to me, concerned perhaps that he had done something wrong.

I broke my stare, apologized with a half smile, and moved to a booth on the other side of the isle. I lifted the menu into my hands, determined to try something new instead of the same cup of soup and salty crackers every day.

The waitress walked to the edge of my booth, but I took notice only of her shoes in the periphery of my vision. She stood for a moment, waiting. I remained focused on the menu. When she spoke, my chest heaved, her voice deeply familiar like a song my father had sung to me while I was in my mother’s womb. I nearly dropped the menu and looked up.

I knew her, not in this form, but as a woman who had visited me in my dreams a few times since my work to find a cure for the plague had begun. Take my hand and you will see. Her skin was dark, golden brown, her hair black and long. She smiled but said nothing, she didn’t even take my order. She just turned and walked away, returning in a few minutes with my cup of soup and a small ceramic plate which held a dozen salty crackers, most of them broken.

She extended her hand and said, “I am Achim.”

I don’t know why but I did not respond. I wanted to reach to hold her hand but was afraid I would never let go. She reached into her apron to hand me a soup spoon. Our hands touched and I instantly became dizzy, the spoon clattered to the floor.

Embarrassed, I responded, “Ack- Ackhem?”

She retrieved the first spoon from the floor and placed another on the table next to the soup bowl. She laughed in a world in which the sound of laughter had nearly been lost. Half the patrons in the café turned to look, some annoyed by her unusual outbreak, not unlike clapping in church. She didn’t notice and continued to smile.

“Not quite,” leaning closer until the mysterious space between her breasts hovered in front of my eyes, “Ahh-gh-heem” the back of her throat lightly engaged to give grace to pronunciation which I could not duplicate. She was playing with me, I could tell, holding her position there, smiling.

I smiled back but did not try again. Instead, I asked “What does it mean?”

“Brothers.” And then she stood up and leaned instead on the opposite side of the booth.

“That’s, … that’s odd. I mean,” feeling foolish for my approach, “… well, you were named ‘Brothers’. Why?”

She smiled again, “Our family is very close. When our mother died,” she momentarily lost her smile, “my brothers and father were spared. My father is yet grieving and has not spoken for many years. I took the name to let my brothers know I am here, for them …” her smile returned, “until the end.”

I did not leave the café that day. I did not return to the lab. I remained in the booth, reviewing notes from my research, drinking and eating what Achim brought to me. When she had time, she sat with me and asked about my work. But it didn’t feel as though we were meeting for the first time, rather just catching up.

That night we walked back to my apartment on the upper side of downtown, avoiding the elevated trains and the underground. I reached for her hand a few times but she withdrew. She held my elbow and wrapped her arms around my waist, but she never let her hands come into contact with mine.

The Apartment
Two days later she moved in. She didn’t ask and I did not protest when she showed up at my door, her belongings carried to my front porch by the taxi cab driver. We didn’t talk about it. It just worked. Our lives merged easily, as though we had never lived apart. The plague had taken the joy of conversation away from all but children who talk to themselves in their make believe world. For us, conversation was not needed to convey most of what we shared, cooking, long walks, and making love.

But after a few weeks of our living together, I found the courage to ask why she would not allow my hand to come into contact with hers. We were several blocks from home, her arm woven through mine as I had come to accept as the norm.

She stopped walking, turning me to face her. Her eyes held mine. I was paralyzed by an intensity she had not yet conveyed, “Are you certain you are ready?”

“For what?”

“To see the future.” She held out her left hand, pulled back her sleeve, and waited.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. Take my hand.”

Suddenly, I was afraid as I no longer recognized the woman in front of me. She had gained a strength of conviction I did not understand. What had she been hiding from me?

I removed my right hand from my jacket pocket, hesitated, and then placed it in hers.

“Ok?”

“Wait.”

She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

At first I felt dizzy and had to step my right foot to the side to stabilize myself. Then my head was flooded with images of people I knew, my co-workers, Achim, friends I had not seen for many years. I saw people falling to the street, collapsing under their own weight. I saw others embracing, smiling for the first time in years. I saw a ceremony in which I was granted an award for the work I conducted in the lab.

I quickly pulled my hand back from hers, shaking, and looked up, “What just happened? What was that?”

“A potential future.”

“Whose future?”

“Yours. Mine. Ours. Everyone,” She paused, “the human race.”

“I don’t understand. What? How?”

“It’s just something I was born with, a gift I discovered when I was young.”

“You can see the future?”

“No, not really. I can only experience its emotion. I believe I am a conduit to those who can see. But there are very few. I have met a few others, ” she raised her head again, “and you, who can see what I feel.”

“You mean, I just saw, … saw the future?”

“Yes. It is rare, the connection we share. I have been searching for you for many years.”

Tears filled my eyes, my chest heaved again for I was very scared.

“You lied to me! You, … do you even love me? Or, or am I just part of some experiment?” I was nearly yelling, fear and pain taking over me.

Achim countered, defensive at first, “Yes.” She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again, whispering, “I love you dearly. That is very real for me. B- … but, we have something we need to do together, something even greater than the love we share.”

I took a few steps back, feeling as though my world was suddenly spinning too fast. I could neither remaining standing in one place nor run away. Achim took my elbow again, turned me about to face the direction from where we had come, and we walked toward home. We talked nearly the entire way, saying more than we had for the whole time we had lived together. When the implication of what we discussed became clear, I realized that she needed me to see what she felt, and I needed her to learn which path I should take in my research at the genetics lab.

That night we sat on the floor, wrapped in blankets as the first of what would be many winter storms settled in. We stayed up all night, holding hands, learning to explore together. I verbalized what I saw in my head as she directed the emotion of the future into me. We were exhausted and fell to sleep as the sun rose behind the thickness of low clouds burdened with snow. I called in sick to the lab the next morning in order to stay at home with Achim.

We learned, over time, that we were not seeing a predetermined future, but a potential of what could unfold given all the avenues. Minuscule changes each step of the way gave birth to myriad futures, some of which ended with the extermination of the human race in a matter of months, others in years. The difference between the two extremes grew from subtle nuances in what we did now and in the next few weeks.

I grew afraid to return to the lab, to push in any direction at all. I felt paralyzed by the overwhelming weight of each direction I could take. Too many options to remember, too many to manage in our heads. To compensate, we incorporated my laptop to record the sessions, using interactive diagrams to capture the complex array of future trees. When the calls came in from the lab, concern for my extended absence, I stated I was working from home. I was making progress but needed more time. Achim was fired from the café.

When seldom left our neighborhood, food delivered two or three times a day. We went for walks in the fresh snow, watched movies, took hot baths, and made love when we realized we were not making progress. Yet, there was a sense of limited time that grew in our hearts and heads. The future was approaching the present too quickly.

Sometimes Achim grew frustrated with me as my lack of focus would cause her emotions to spiral out of control. She would curl into the pillows and weep until the strength of what she experienced had passed. Gradually we learned, together, to pause and jump between fragments of her emotions by way of the images in my head. Together, we formed a vehicle which traveled through time, a union more powerful than any I had ever imagined.

Finally, after nearly three weeks, we envisioned a future in which the human race survived. We then went back to the present, fine-tuning the variables of my experiments and the deployment strategy in order to bring the survival rate to a maximum. However, no matter what paths we took, what choices we made, the cure saved most, but not all, for it killed many of those who were carriers that did not show signs.

It was a conundrum that we could not find a way through. We tried, day after day, night after night, to find a solution in which everyone yet alive survived. It seemed impossible.

Toward the end of a late night session both of us seated on the floor. I had just pressed record on the laptop, closed my eyes, and held Achim’s hands. A few seconds later, when the images began to flow, Achim threw back my hands and screamed, “No! Not them! Please, not them!”

“What happened Achim?”

“I, I could see them, my brothers, ” she looked at the floor, “They will die.”

“I thought you only felt emotion? What do you mean you could see them? Are you certain?”

She was standing then, pacing the room, tears falling from her eyes, “My father, he can’t take more loss. Oh no, he will die also. Why? It’s not fair!”

“How do you know it was them? I didn’t see this? Maybe you were mistaken!”

She raised her voice at me for the first time since we had met, “BECAUSE I KNOW!”

She ran to the living room, to the hallway and then outside into the snow without a jacket or proper shoes. I saw her run down the sidewalk from my second story bay window, her footprints receiving fresh white flakes. I quickly put on my boots, coat, and hat and ran after her, my feel sliding with each footfall. I nearly lost my balance a few times but managed to catch her at the end of the block.

“Please, Achim, come back. It’s too cold out here.” I gave her my coat and held her, wrapping my arms around her torso and head. Achim wept, her body shaking. She lost the strength in her legs and I kept her from falling.

“Please, let’s go home.” And we did.

The Lab
I returned to the lab the next day but was reluctant to go without Achim, fearful of her being alone. I asked if she would come with me, and she did. For the next month we were inseparable, our combined work giving way to incredible progress in my research. I was able to make breakthrough discoveries, learning how the virus disrupted cellular respiration; how it caused the sudden collapse of several major organs at once.

My co-workers were concerned by Achim’s presence at first, but when the speed at which the lab made progress was realized, no one said a word. The world was like that then, we just accepted things for how they were. Achim sat by my side, holding my hand so that I could see if newly developed strains of antigens were the ones that would take us down the best path, each as clear to me as though it were presented on my computer screen. The lab hired two new technicians to keep up with the volume of virtual models I produced, giving them form in the wet lab where they were tested against artificially grown human organs.

Achim was still affected by the vision of her brothers’ deaths, but she never talked about it and I never asked. Inside, I held hope that we would find another way, a different path. It had been four months since Achim first moved in with me. We had worked together in the lab for more than three. She was as much a part of me as I was of her and our work together. The lab had come to accept her as one of them. No one asked what part she played, they only knew that with her at my side, were getting closer to a cure each day.

The lead lab technician came into the lab one late February evening. “We’ve got it,” he said with tears in his eyes, “We’ve got a solid candidate for the cure. It blocks the pathogen’s primary disruptive function and …”

I didn’t hear the rest as Achim stood and ran from the room.

I looked at him and then after her, jumped up and followed her out of my office and down the hall. I caught up with her and grabbed her arm, spinning her around more aggressively than I had intended.

“What?! What’s wrong?”

“My brothers. Now they will die.”

“No, it doesn’t have to be that way,” I tried to pull her close but she pushed me away, “We can keep looking to the future. We can find a path that leads to different end. We have learned so much together.”

“No, it cannot be that way. You know this to be true. If this is the cure, the real cure, the one that saves the humans that remain, then you must deploy it immediately. You cannot risk thousands more dying every day to try to find a potential future in which my brothers and others in the minority live,” she paused to look at her hands which she took from mine and pushed them into her pockets, “I will not allow you.”

The government regulatory agency was quick to process the solution we devised. It would be only a matter of weeks before the anti-viral agent would be deployed world-wide, to every human yet alive. We could not risk the potential of a carrier playing host to a dormant or resistant strain which might mutate after delivery, forcing us back to the lab for another few months, even years.

The End
Achim invited her twin brothers and father to come live with us for what time they had remaining. Those were wonderful, long days filled with laughter, joy, and play. Achim never let on to what she knew about them, that they would die from the same vaccine which would save the majority of the human race. It was not their fault they carried a genetic trait which would we would only later isolate–they would die from the same cure which saved the rest of humanity.

The vaccine was deployed and worked as intended, the pathogen which had reduced the population of our species by nearly eighty percent in less than ten years had been brought to its end. Achim’s brothers were dead. Her father died shortly thereafter, the strain of so much loss too much for him to bear. Achim was alone, all family but me gone.

I left the lab for the public’s attention to my work was international and polarized in a way I had never conceived for I was heralded both as a hero and a murderer. Achim and I moved to a small, seaside town in which we shared no prior memories, starting again in a life which was new. For the longest time, for what must have been more than a year, we did not hold hands. I didn’t ask and she did not offer, the fear of what she might feel and I might see too much for either of us to bear.

When later that year she gave birth to our two boys, she reached out and for the first time since we had developed the cure, held my hand, saying, “It’s ok now, the future is no longer mine. We are free.”

Achim’s story then became the story of our twins.

© Kai Staats 2011

By |2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00October 8th, 2011|Dreams|1 Comment

Running Away from Home

One.
My first attempt at running away from home was in my mid-teens. I had just acquired my first backpack, camp stove, and sleeping bag, second-hand for sixty dollars from a man in Columbus, Nebraska where my family then lived.

The very first time I put it on I remember the sensation of autonomy, of having everything I needed to live resting on my back. It was as freeing and invigorating as taking my first road trip to Prescott and Flagstaff a number of years later, once we had moved to Phoenix.

I do not recall if I was upset with my parents (or if they were upset with me), but I do recall putting everything I needed for a few days into my Coleman external frame pack. I believe I wore camouflage sweatpants, a large red hoodie, and hi-top shoes.

My intent was just to walk north, out of town and into the country side, returning in a few days … or never. I walked from downtown Columbus a few blocks past the high school, zig-zagging north and west through residential neighborhoods, north and west until I hit the road which passed the man-made lake whose bottom was thick with brown algae ooze that squeezed between swimmer’s toes. The Columbus High track team called the loop bounded by this road on the west and one that ran along the hill top to the north the “Big Beer Can”, some half dozen or eight miles in all, if I recall correctly.

I walked along the road into the afternoon. Cars passed in both directions, passenger faces pressed to the windows wondering who I was and where I was going. Nebraska was simply not the place where a teenage boy was likely to be seen walking with a backpack, bound for farmers’ fields. It was likely to cause a stir. I recall the weight of the stares, part of me wanting to turn back for fear I would be recognized and my parents called by a concerned neighbor. But inside, a confidence grew which set me in motion a lifetime of exploration of the world, more often than not, alone.

I didn’t even stay overnight, let alone vanish for a few days, my upbringing invoking too much guilt for sleeping on private land, the fear not of being caught but of bringing shame on the same family which I had left just hours earlier. I walked back home that same day. It didn’t matter that I didn’t leave for good for I had not failed. Instead I gained confidence that I would be ok no matter where I went, no matter how I traveled. A backpack was all I needed and everything would be ok. I began to dream of traveling to places I had never been.

Two.
The second time I ran away from home was in 2004. I had worked for two years straight, never a day in which I did not check email or log on to the Internet. I had nearly died inside, the joy of entrepreneurship gone. I had no option but to leave or I was likely to lose all of me. I asked my office manager and friend Amanda if I could just be gone for a while. She encouraged me. I drove to Mexico where I spent two weeks with a friend and then flew to Cuba without cell phone, laptop, or credit card. I lived with a host family who provided food, friendship, and a sharp machete which I used to cut trails to the caves and cliffs. It was one of the most memorable times in my life, to just be a climber, each day shared with other climbers who owned next to nothing but made time to smile, sing, and dance. I made life-long friends whom I missed so dearly that I returned a month later for another two weeks. That was an incredible, rejuvenating journey which will some day invoke a full telling … but again, I came home.

Howe Sound

Three.
A little more than two weeks ago I ran away from home again. This time for good. My house is on the market, thirteen years of love, labor, and vision for how a one hundred year old house could be made energy efficient now a gift to the next owner.

In seventeen years the longest I remained in Colorado was, I believe, no more than ninety days. Now that I am free I think of nothing but finding a place to settle down, a safe space to just stop for a while and be. Despite my car packed to the roof with books, clothing, camera, climbing, biking and camping gear, the backpack is nearly empty, the intangibles all but let go. It was the breath of ghosts which blew me away, north and west again, this time across state and country lines.

Reading by Lantern

One thousand five hundred miles later I arrived in Squamish at 10:30 am on a Sunday morning. Beneath the campground sign was another written in marker on cardboard, “FREE 6 MAN TENT. WET BUT IN GOOD CONDITION!” I set it up and moved in, my nylon condominium in the forest of British Columbia. As with the first time I drove through Canada en route to Denali National Park for a ten day solo back packing trip in the early nineties, I have been met by sincerely warm, genuine smiles and desire to know how I am doing.

This town of just fifteen thousand offers the diversity of a city with ten or twenty times its population. Sixty percent of its residents are under the age of forty, a completely new Squamish than two decades ago when the saw and pulp mills provided the majority of the jobs. I see the same people two, sometimes three times a day: yoga class in the morning, the cafe in the afternoon, and the brewery at night.

Jakub Climbing Kai Climbing Meadow Shannon Falls Stairs

I have yet to go a day without hearing three or four languages spoken or met people from any one of a dozen countries. I have climbed with visitors from Norway, Mexico, Czech Republic, Alaska (which truly should be a country of its own), and enjoyed breakfast and dinner at the camp ground with people from all over Canada. This morning I spoke with a man in his late seventies who could trace his family heritage 350 years to some of the first Dutch settlers in South Africa, his sense of pride conveyed in his proud stand and hazel eyes–not of the travesty of conflict his people inflicted, but of the steadfast heritage in one place that he does represent.

Squamish Marina

I met the Vice Commodore of the marina and gained from the experience of the Squamish Yacht Club, my interest expressed in purchasing a boat on which to live, to sail the world. A little more than fifteen thousand people and yet there are three yoga studios, a weekly farmers’ market and community organic farm; a music school, Indian, Chinese, and Japanese restaurants in addition to the usual McDonalds and Wendys. The Home Depot, Walmart, five-plex movie theater, several sporting goods stores, and three large groceries cater to the home of the 2010 Winter Olympics Whistler just up the hill.

An ocean harbor, estuary hikes, world class mountain biking, bouldering, massive multi-pitch granite routes, and water sports within a walk of downtown. Snow capped peaks are visible from the community rec center hot tub, the indoor pool offering a diving board, ladder swing, climbing contraption suspended from the ceiling, and an arsenal of foam boats for kids to wrestle with and overtake. What more could you ask for? It feels like it could be home, some day.

For now, I am both running away from and at the same time seeking home.
But this time the place I seek is a space inside of me.

By |2017-04-10T11:17:42-04:00October 4th, 2011|From the Road|1 Comment

Looking Up

Northern Colorado Business Report
“Astronomy keeps amateurs, pros looking up”
By Kai Staats
9 September 2011

When I was in my final year of high school and first two years of college I presided over the Phoenix Astronomical Society. In those years I was privileged to meet Eugene Shoemaker and David Levy, co-discoverers of the Shoemaker-Levy comet which later plunged into the atmosphere of Jupiter.

Now more than twenty years later, Gene has passed away, his ashes scattered on the surface of the moon while David and I had long ago lost contact. This summer, I dove headfirst into a documentary film project about astronomers and astrophysicists, my desire to capture their motivation to ask where did we come from, and why? A passion for knowledge expressed through looking up.

The second day of August I joined David, his wife Wendee, and three dozen amateur astronomers at the annual Adirondack Astronomy Retreat, hosted by SUNY in the mountains of upstate New York. It was a long overdue reunion with David and a wonderful learning experience for me, having been away from amateur astronomy for far too long.

In the process of working on my film and my return to astronomy, I came to appreciate two aspects which are both compelling and complimentary to each other. Astronomy, more than any other science, offers an accessible, functional bridge between amateurs and professionals, a gateway for the next generation to be compelled to learn.

Amateur astronomy enables anyone with some experience, patience, and a little luck to happen upon an event in the night sky which aids the professional community. While professional astronomers have at their disposal more advanced telescopes, the amount of time they have with them is limited by a long cue of researchers around the world. Furthermore, professional astronomers and professors often visit local astronomy club meetings to share their latest findings, young astronomers, as I once was, are inspired by direct interaction with professional scientists.

The sheer number of amateur astronomers world-wide is astounding, literally thousands of scopes peering into the sky every night. This makes for a world-wide network of data collection devices, some manually operated, some automated through computer driven tracking systems. What’s more, the opportunity for a budding astronomer to capture his or her first photograph of a colorful nebulae or the bands and moons of Jupiter is literally at their fingertips.

For the years I have been away from astronomy the industry has changed. Certainly, motor drives and tracking systems were in use, but we found our way around the night sky using hand held maps, large, many-page star charts printed in black and white. Now, micro-computers, stepper motors, and laptops attached by USB cables enable anyone with curiosity to engage in the oldest science of humankind.

As with the discussion around GPS versus topographical maps, one can argue that to know only how to use GPS units in the wilderness is a tremendous risk, for the batteries may die, or the lost in a creek. With aviation too, pilots are trained in the original, non-electronic means of navigation before working with on-board GPS and radar guidance.

There is part of me that says the same should be true with astronomy, learn it the hard way so that it becomes ingrained and a part of you. But when I consider the excitement of a child viewing the rings of Saturn for the first time, their mouth and eyes open wide, “Wow! Did you see that? Come look!” There is no right or wrong way to open the door to a lifelong passion for learning.

If in our instant gratification world a child can be turned on to the sciences, then by any means possible, point, click, and be thrilled. If they stick with it long enough, they will eventually know their way around the night sky and be able to tell their friends, “Right there, see that fuzzy thing? It’s a galaxy that if we could see it with our naked eye would be six times larger than the moon!”

While I am now just a bit over forty, I was a kid again for those three nights, staying awake ’till 4:30 AM, barely making it to breakfast hours after dawn. I was the recipient of patient assistance for astronomers are a generous lot, each generation offering something to the next. I spent an entire night taking my first photographs of Jupiter and M27, the Dumbbell nebulae, my new Canon 60D DSLR attached directly to a 13” Meade scope. Ah! The clarity, the color—it was amazing!

Even without assistance, someone new to astronomy can attach a USB cable to a relatively inexpensive telescope, train it on the North Star, and see on-screen a map of what lies overhead while the scope automagically moves to any object chosen by the mouse. Photographs can be logged, archived, and correlated to the map, an interactive show-n-tell.

With astronomy, every night is an adventure, an exploration of some one hundred billion stars, nebulae, and gaseous birthing chambers for the next generation of solar engines, pulsars, super novae, and black holes. The mind has no choice but to open when one looks through a telescope, to look up and ask, “Why?”

By |2017-10-21T16:51:35-04:00September 10th, 2011|Humans & Technology, NCBR|0 Comments
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