Using brain scans and specific words, boffins have trained a computer to read people’s minds: “F***… IT… Department!”

Tom Mitchell of the Machine Learning Department at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, who helped lead the study said that the work should help researchers discover how and where the brain stores information.

Read more HERE

The pictures don’t say enough, there is blood splattered on the walls, there are holes through the windows and marrow on the floor, they are gruesome, but they are not enough. It is the smell that lingers, that which struck us most upon entering that house, that smell, like meat left for weeks in an unplugged freezer, these were human remains, it is the unmistakable stench of death.

It is oddly quiet in the community, despite the bustling traffic on its exterior, unsupervised children play games on the concrete and I wonder for a moment if this is the right place, then we draw closer. There are easily more than one hundred tiny bullet holes in the tin window on the top floor, but from a distance, on the outside the house looks like any other on its scheme, a two-storey wedged in between other two-stories. Inside it is a slaughterhouse, like something out of a movie I had never wanted to see, and I feel the temperature fall as I step inside out of the stifling Tivoli heat. Complete and total disarray, like a storm had blown through.

Sunday dinner remains seasoned and uncooked on the kitchen sink, and the flies watch as their larvae wriggle to life. There are pictures strewn all over the upstairs floor not far from the front page of The Outlook; even the dresser, the bedroom closet, a Styrofoam box has bullet holes, life has been interrupted here. The bloody, bullet-holed pillow sitting on top of what I assume had once been used as a dining table screams that this was no small effort – had they stripped him here, the one whose blooded, tattered jeans remain?

To the people sipping wine from the assumed safety of their balconies, Sunday, January 13, 2008 would have been another day in Tivoli Gardens – the community is known after all for being Jamaica’s biggest garrison and five people dying there would be neither a surprise nor a concern to one who believes the place to be seething with decadence and crime, but things were quiet here before they came.

Mere meters away from the scene, separated only by a fence is the Edward Seaga Sports Complex and a batch of young boys have gathered in a circle on what looks to me like a basketball court while an older man stands giving instruction. They and others like them in Jamaica’s inner cities must have the strength of lions to be able to remain productive in an environment that does not foster such things as productivity, in a country that believes them to be a failure before giving the chance to succeed.

In Jamaica, we generally have what I call ‘crowd conversations’; everyone speaks at the same time, yet everyone is heard, and for a grassroots community such as this, the crowd is a single entity, a common identity is shared here and most often the mystery becomes clear when you turn a listening ear. But I can only tell you what I saw two days after the shooting. The bullet holes nearly blanket the walls of the house; there is a trail of blood leading from a splash on the wall through to the back of the house where they say the bodies were dragged out and transported to the morgue, smudges behind the fridge that look like they had come from a gripping hand and the stove they had moved to clear the way for their transport is covered in the same.

No matter how we spin this it looks like a massacre; one like too many others in Jamaica’s recent history.

Then the crowd speaks, we are all human and subject to biases, but this is what was heard. There is a woman, sitting out in front of the gate leading to the house, a baby bouncing about in her lap. She tells me she doesn’t like to relive it, then of how he cried that day, and how she begged for both their lives, holding him naked in her arms, crying “He has asthma” and how they had tried to push her in with the rest, in the room upstairs. They did not care the child was there.

The old woman, in the house next door, her sheets are burnt from where the teargas canister fell. Others say the rain fell heavier as the bullets sprayed from the helicopter above. There was one lucky enough to hear her brother die, on the phone. He told her he was cold. They beat her with a piece of board for defending his life and then handcuffed her and took her to the hospital for treatment.

They told me they celebrated, took pictures posing with the bodies, proud of their feat. Many have lost their allegiance to their government, they feel deeper disenfranchised, and I am not the only one worried about retaliation.

On a Thursday Night in the middle of the concrete jungle, the Lions come out to play. Already notorious for its garrison politics, this particular downtown community cements its reputation by adding brute sport to its list of attributes. Unyielding to outside authority, its proud residents are often misunderstood by outsiders who fear what they don’t understand. As a population detached and growing larger each week the anticipation is thick in the air as we witness an incredibly entertaining release.

The crowd that surrounds is jovial, boisterous and dense and since we’re late it takes great effort to penetrate this barrier. It’s a privilege to stand close; everybody wants to see what’s going on. It’s ‘Thursday Night at the Fights’- street brawling in its most organized form; a makeshift ring constructed of two ropes held in place by feeble pieces of wood, lodged not too securely in the ground and a couple of nearby lampposts.

There’s no pretense here. No one bothers about things as trivial as mouthguards or doctors or even a bell. Many are dressed in rags and bear a slight resemblance to guttersnipes. To others, these are the dregs of society. Anyone brave enough (or drunk enough) to step inside must be prepared to take a beating; the crowd doesn’t react well to boring fights. So when two boys calling themselves ‘Tall Man’ and ‘Tupac’, (neither looking a day over twelve) knock fists to start their fight, little Tupac stares up at the other with a lust for blood in his eyes.

Their style of fighting is a combination of traditional boxing and raw street-fighting. Fists are flung without mercy, covered with nothing more than thin bag-training gloves, each blow connecting with a reverberating thud as the commentator echoes “Boop!-Bap!-Boop!” provoking the crowd to roars of laughter. But this only whets their appetite, they want blood.

Though the tall one has the advantage of height he is reluctant to use it, and the smaller is angrier with each blow he receives, eyes bloodshot and filled with tears he lunges at the other.

Dizzy from the impact and only about five minutes into the fight Tall Man asks for water. It’s all he can ask for, all he can get. If he falls there’s no doctor by the ringside or any cars that could transport him to one. Many taxi’s aren’t caught here this close to midnight.

More cackles from the pack as they tease the boy for his weakness and during these water breaks, the DJ plays some tunes to keep the crowd bubbly.

True enough to the crowd’s judgment, the boy punks out after about two more rounds, retreating, in shame to the crowd amidst shouts of disappointment, he will have to answer to whomever forced him in there.

The mob grows restless, they’re hungry for another. In jumps a heavy-set female. She is missing a tooth or two. Apparently she has been here before; it’s a weekly tradition here, and people will gladly take a punch or two, as long as they can prove themselves the more merciless by the end of the fight.

The man on the mic sips his beer and calls for a contender. She is viciously intimidating, this beast of a woman, and although the crowd wants blood, none seem too willing to spill their own, until a pretty adolescent with nothing but skin on her bones steps into the ring. Though she is reputed to be quite an agitator the crowd objects with shouts of “murder!”

She is already wearing her gloves, her face is fixed with a stare that means that she is serious, and it is with a great amount of persuasion that she eventually yields to the wishes of the crowd. It is they who rule this arena. Easily, the girl would have shattered under the weight of the whale’s blow.

Out steps another, equally as intimidating as the one who awaits her; her arms covered in scars and her face bleached to its second layer of skin, there is an sinister grin across her face and the crowd screams in excitement, as she dares her opponent to cross her.

This promises to be a fun fight.

They strike each other with intense force and speed, and the pack must move with them, ducking out of the way because of their proximity to the ring, and when one person shifts, another slides into his space if it means having a better view, and when the crowd shifts again, one squeezes in friends. But in this crowd we are all one and we lean on each other for support, it is one big rollercoaster ride we all enjoy.

The contender smiles though the blows to her face have turned it purple and she is blinded by the hair extensions that keep falling over her face and she is being beaten as a consequence.

We are distracted for a moment as a fight breaks out in the middle of the crowd. Someone falls to the ground collapsing under the force of a punch, but no one really cares. If they wanted an audience they would step into the ring. There’s not much respect for those not brave enough to display their skill in front of the crowd.

Such distractions only last for only a moment.

A little boy has managed to sneak to the front while we are distracted and he is blocking the others from where he is standing. “Go roun’!” shouts an older youth whom he must obey. In this community everyone is everyone’s parent.

Without further delay it’s time for the real rumble. Lu, the reigning King of the ring looks to be about 6 feet tall and 300 pounds heavy. It is he we have come to see. The Dancehall music blares from the speakers as he teases the crowd by pretending to charge at people he could easily knock unconscious and we’re anxious to see him fight someone ominously known only as “Strength.”

After maybe fifteen minutes of the charade the crowd grows restless, the music cannot fool us any longer, we want to see him fight and we’re realizing that a worthy contender has yet to challenge him, Lu disappears with promises to return, but the music can hold us no longer.

The crowd disperses like ants escaping rain, the streets are empty. It’s as though noone was ever here; and seven days seems much too long to wait for another Thursday Night at the Fights.

WTF?: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Hertzfeldt

Years ago she had deluded herself into believing she had once been a woman of great stature, great worth; a side-effect of the struggle, a pretty veil for all that was currently visible to her…the remains of a body that biology had once doomed feminine, and a empty crack-pipe which reminded her that she now had work to do.

It is early yet. Just enough time to grab a quick wash in the gully down below. Funny, her filth never seemed to bother her clientele, themselves not much cleaner. She is optimistic afterward, the evening cool. She stretches her arms and inhales the smog, and it does not bother her, lungs already polluted by her habits. She lights a cigarette and searches for the spot she’ll claim her own tonight.

There is turf-war among the independents so she is prepared for blood, prepared to bleed, suffering is her earning and this is nothing new. She bends the corner now and pauses to assess her competition, bringing few things to the table herself; she was vastly overweight and could barely fit into the clothes she wore, tattered as they were, and she did not know that she was beautiful. This corner will not be hers tonight. She searches for another.

People grimace as she walks pass them on the street. Children, point and snicker. Some old men whistle. The old men usually do; the old men are her regulars and one hands her a beer as down payment and asks where she’ll be…he’ll check the spots, he’ll find her, get his due. They all laugh and drink to that, she lifts her own bottle to her lips, and nods in appreciation before continuing her search. She needed something stronger but it would have to do. She would have to sip at it for a while, the night ahead looked to be long.

As she walks along a Nissan Sunny pulls up alongside. Geoffrey, she knows him well, more than she desires, though she had long ago removed any association of pleasure with sex. She did not need to desire him. He just needed to pay enough. No one paid well. Geoffrey is middle-aged and has “a thing for the plump and juicy”, he would only pay $1000, but would only last about 5 minutes, so she didn’t really mind.

“Waa gwaan fatty? Jump in nuh? Yu a gwaan like yu shy…”

Without a word, she takes a swig of her beer and gets in the car. He drives a short distance to an old junk yard and tells her to get around the back. They both squeeze in, he pants and sweats on top of her for an agonizing 5 minutes, their odors mixing to create the feeling of nausea, before giving her his payment and leaving her there to finish her beer. It wasn’t strong enough, but Geoffrey had just provided her the means to find something stronger.

There is a crack cocaine house at 35 Sutton Street, Central Kingston, defiantly close to the Central Police Station. This is the closest to a feeling of home, of family that she has found in the years she can remember and she tells herself that this is why she returns. The usual people are here but tonight, as with the night before, there are more. The children are here too.

She makes her payment and tries again like before to reach that place, that celestial place where she felt she had seen, had felt God. The night of that first hit. Before she knows it, she’s out of tries, out of funds, out on the streets again.

This is how she keeps going, the walk she walks. She does not feel then she realizes she’s walked a distance and feels thirsty, dizzy, hot and cold. She stops, she could use a shot of rum. In front of a store window, she does not recognise herself and stands gazing into her eyes until he asks her…

“How much?”

This one’s new, has an accent, stinks of rum, came out of nowhere. He’s a little jittery, keeps looking around, afraid someone will see him – she knows the type, ‘The Sinnerman’.

“What yu want, that depends?”

“How about we get in the car, and we negotiate in there?”

She knew of the dangers of these strange encounters, but never hesitated getting into a car before this one, it had a familiarity that was threatening. The hesitation was brief, the hunger was great.

The car sputters, but eventually starts and she notices something glistening in the pocket of her door, he reaches over her and removes from it a very sharp sword. She is only slightly frightened.

“I like to be tied-up, and I want you to cut me”.

Now she’s frightened, yet not surprised, she knows the type, but found them disturbing nonetheless.

“I’ll pay you ten grand”.

She laughs, hysterically, in disbelief. Imagining what she could buy with ten grand, she looks over and realizes he is serious. She gains her composure.

“Ten gran’ soun’ alright to me.”

Now he laughs hysterically and then jerks the car to a halt. She fumbles with the door handle and his hands tighten around her neck…

“Ten gran bitch! You want ten gran’ a my money whore!”

Choking, she grasps at his hands, angry at herself and this man for messing with her money. He doesn’t know there’s a razor blade in her hair, and before he does he is dead. His pockets are empty except for $200, and she is far away from her den.

But there’s a bar a little down the street and she could use a shot of rum.

Often she thought of leaving him, many men had made offers, rich men who did not care she had a child, she grew weary of the hunger pains, and her son was ill. They could hardly afford to feed and medicate him, yet her husband continued to drink like they could. He rationalised it; the only means of relief, he had trouble with anxiety, but she knew better, and she resented the lie.

They were lucky, they had managed thus far to live off the land but these days the crops had grown weaker, the rain had not come in weeks and they could not harvest enough. Then there were the women, these random whores would show up at their gate claiming Barry had fathered their bastard children and demanding child support, whenever this had happened Barry (always spotting them before they did him), would hide out in the shed until they got sick of screaming obscenities at the gate.

There were about four different women and he swore to her they all lied but of course she didn’t believe him. he was lucky they couldn’t afford a paternity test, that is all except for Sandra who had successfully taken him to court. He was now required by law to give her thirty grand a month, but she was kind enough to only take ten, she had been wise enough to find herself a rich man. It could only be love that kept her here, she had no other explanation, as much as she hated it, she loved this drunken idiot.

Now, she could hear someone banging on their gate, the child stirred, but did not wake, and she gently eased herself out of bed to peek through the window; there was a man outside, he was well-dressed and did not seem at all threatening, there were no pamphlets in his hands, he did not seem to be a Jehovah’s witness, she decided there was no harm in finding out what he wanted.

His name was Philip Service and he spoke perfect English. Well-mannered, he was charming and attractive. He wanted to speak with Barry, though she was his wife, he preferred that he was there before they discussed the matter. She offered him a seat on their sofa, there was very little furniture in their one-room board shack; the bed, they all slept on was joined by a rocking chair she had inherited from her grandmother, there was no dining table, no refrigerator, and anything they ate was cooked on the coal stove around the back, they never had leftovers. The sofa, she was most proud of was the best gift her husband had given her, he had not bought her a ring.

It seemed for a moment Barry was in a coma, but after a minute or two she managed to wake him, he was miserable and immediately complained that she had disturbed his peace. Once he gained his composure, he realised they were not alone, he cursed under his breathe, recognizing the man sitting before them, Margaret did not know it yet, but he had come for their sofa. That is, unless he could somehow come up with the sixty thousand dollars he had owed, which was now two years overdue.

The bailiff had come four times before, twice Barry had managed to talk his way out of repossession, promising to pay “by next month.” Twice he had hidden-out in the shed, now, it seemed his luck had run out, and it did not help that in his current state he had felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to his head, he could not think of anymore excuses.

“Mr. Watson, I have come for your sofa”, and at this moment Margaret snapped her head in Mr. Service’s direction, confusion written in her expression, then probingly back at her husband.

“That’s right, Mrs. Watson, I don’t believe your husband told you, he has not yet paid for this piece of furniture, he has managed to evade us thus far, but I am not leaving here today without my due.”

Barry avoided her eyes; he was frightened and ashamed, looking rather into those of the man before him. “Jus gimmie a minute man, mi have di money fi yu, mi haffi go inna di town fi it though, don’t move, soon come back,” as quickly as he spat those words he was out the door, leaving Margaret too stunned to respond.

He felt the heat melting his brain, and he imagined the sun was Margaret as he pedaled his bicycle into town, he had no idea where he was going, or where this money would come from, but he couldn’t let him take it, he did not see her forgiving him if he allowed that to happen.

It was then he saw Tunkie pedaling like lightening in the opposite direction. Tunkie was his no good friend; always gambled away his money, always had some get rich scheme that until now Barry had not considered investing in, but he was desperate.
“Tunkaay!” he had been pedaling so fast he had barely seen him, a cloud of dirt rose as he jerked to a halt, sweat dripping like a faucet down his face.

Tunkie was not limited by such things as morality and easily, even proudly admitted he had just snapped a gold chain from the neck of an old lady as she walked home from church. Barry had never thought of stealing, and just now it came as an epiphany, a grand solution to his problem. Tunkie had a suggestion; there was an ATM in front of Mr. Lee’s supermarket, “it mus have a lot of money, people hardly use it”.

Barry would have to do it alone, he would not risk going back that way today, they might be looking for him, but he would loan him his ratchet on the promise of his returning his “prized possession”. Nervously, Barry took the knife, and Tunkie sped off, again on his course.

He felt his heart beat in his stomach as he approached the store and was there before he realized he had absolutely no idea how to rob an ATM, but he thought for sure Mr. Lee must have a key or something to get inside, and if he didn’t, he most definitely knew how to open the cash register. Stealthily he entered the store, and was surprised to see it was filled with people, he would have to find a way to get to the man without raising suspicion. Deciding he would pretend to buy something he picked up an apple and headed for the cashier, it was then he was intercepted by Natalie, who was glad to have finally caught him off guard, a little girl stood beside her, gripping the tail of her skirt.

“A ketch yu now!” she said as she poked him in the back of his head, she pulled the little girl in front of her, “Simone, this is yu Daddy.”

The black man flushed red as he gazed into the eyes of the child, eyes mirroring his own, “Daddy!” she screamed as she hugged his knees, he could not deny it any longer, nor could he find it in his heart to follow through with his plan. He lifted her into his arms and made excuses for not being there, as well as promises to be there from now on. Shamed, defeated and penniless he left the store and sweated profusely as he rode home, what would Margaret think of his impotence?

The bailiff was not there when he returned, nor was his sofa, nor was the rocking chair, nor were his wife and child. One word was written on a sheet of paper placed on top of his pillow “Goodbye”.

It seemed the bailiff had left with more than his due.

Why hadn’t she listened to her mother? She should have been at home, her brother had been sick. But she loved the way the wind blew through her hair as she gripped his waist on the back of his motorcycle, and she resented the way her mother ordered her around.

Why should she? She knew these people well, came here all the time, they were cool people, they treated her like she belonged, always offered her a Guinness, always shared their weed. Tonight they wanted to make it official, make her one of them.

“Ya man da same bwai de wa did dis yu d’odda day, we have im up de fi deal wid di case.”

She had heard them say, those other girls, that he’d beaten them before, but he’d never beaten her, not before now, she did not want to shoot anyone, could not really hold a grudge, never wanted to ‘prove’ anything. So, she fell and he pounced on top of her, and the others had come in to haul him off her. Her neck was sore, eyes were blurry, but she could see a window, and it was big enough to climb through.

But he had seen, when she turned to look back, underneath the light-post, by the corner, he had seen, and he had come after her, it was her fault, she had not started off running.

Her asthma had not troubled her in years, she had forgotten the affliction, disoriented, she willed her legs to continue. She should have paid more attention to the roads they’d sped upon so often, her head in the clouds, she did not remember ever seeing a Police Station around, and in the darkness of the night she was blind anyway.

Her mother had told her stories of the Blackheart Man, he came in the dark to eat the hearts of capricious children, you could not see him, he was black as night, she did not fear him then.

At this moment, that organ tested its capacity, her veins in her arms pulsated as a sharp pang invaded the left side of her chest, she gripped her breast but kept on running. He had slowed his pace, but he was still coming, she knew what she had done, knew what lay ahead, he would not stop coming and she was getting tired, he knew that she was weak, lazy.

The only thing distinguishable in the distance, the only thing familiar was the cemetery that held the bones of her father, a place she had never visited. Now, she had to cross the swamp to get to it, it was dark, and the lights around it flickered frequently, on and off, and they stayed off much longer.

It was damp and repugnant, the moment she realized she’d lost a shoe, the swamp reeked of garbage and decay and she squirmed as something scurried across her bare foot. It was then she yelped and fell again, there she felt that longing to surrender, then she heard the confirmation, that the gun was loaded. With resistance, she pulled herself over the hump that separated the swamp from the graves, her clothes weighed heavy and the lights were off again.

She cut her hands on the barbed-wire that imprisoned her sanctuary, the blood trickled down her fingers and she wiped them on the tombstone of ‘Mary Gray 1975-1987’ and thought the colours blended well against its white surface, she may have known her once.

She could not see him, but she could hear his feet crunch the leaves that blanketed the ground, she lightened her steps to soften her sound. Remorse, shame, she felt for the first time, she could not find the one she searched for, the night was ominous, she had not been here before.

She heard him quicken as the lights flickered on, she looked to her right and it was barely visible, the name so worn it seemed he had been here longer than was true. She shed a tear as he gripped her hair, the lights went out as the sky ignited for a split-second, with a loud clap.