Hemingway’s Cut

The Man Steps Into the Arena

The air was heavy with duty. Robert F. Kennedy Jr. stood before them, the weight of his name and the weight of his task pressing down on his shoulders. He had been sworn in, the words settled into his bones like the steady grip of a man accustomed to carrying burdens. The country was not well. He had seen it. He had felt it. Not just in the hospitals, not just in the numbers and the charts stacked high on bureaucratic desks, but in the eyes of the people.

He spoke plainly. There was sickness in the body, yes, but worse than that, there was sickness in the soul. Men walked the streets hollowed out, their backs bent under weights unseen. There was no fire in their eyes, no hunger in their bellies. A man could endure a fever, could endure pain, but to be stripped of purpose—that was the cruelest cut.

So he made a promise. He would fight. He would fight for their health, for their strength, and for something deeper that men had forgotten how to name.

The War at Home

A man must know his enemy. Disease, yes, but also despair. The country had been broken by sickness, by fear, by division. Men did not trust their leaders. They did not trust each other. They drowned themselves in distractions, numbing the ache in their chests with whatever was at hand. Kennedy had seen it before, in history, in his own family. A man without a cause is a man already lost.

He did not offer easy answers. There were none. But he would fight, just as his father had fought, just as his uncle had fought. He would take the blows and keep moving forward. He would not flinch. A man does not flinch when the storm comes. He squares his shoulders, he plants his feet, and he faces it head-on.

A Hard Road Ahead

Kennedy knew the road would not be easy. There would be men in suits, men with soft hands and sharp smiles, who would try to stop him. They would say he was wrong, that the numbers told a different story, that the sickness was only in the body and not in the heart. But he had seen too much to believe them.

The country was tired. Tired of promises that meant nothing, of leaders who spoke in circles while the people suffered. He would not be one of them. He could not be. The blood in his veins would not allow it.

So he set his jaw and looked ahead. The fight was coming. He welcomed it.

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Hemingway’s Cut

The Earth Shakes

The ground rolled beneath them, a deep and distant growl rising from the earth’s belly. First, it was a tremor—just a whisper of movement underfoot. Then another, harder this time, rattling windows, sending loose glasses clattering from shelves. In California, they knew the earth could turn against them at any time, but knowing it never made it easier.

One quake is a thing they expect. Six in half a day, though—that starts to feel like something else. Like a warning. The fault lines that run under the ground, deep as buried scars, shifted. The people felt them. The houses felt them. The bars felt them too, though the men inside drank their whiskey as if nothing had happened. A man cannot fight the earth, after all. He can only wait and see if it will take him.

The scientists spoke in measured tones, explaining why it happened, why it might not mean anything. But the old men in small towns and the fishermen by the coast knew better. They had seen the land move before. They had seen what followed.

The Faults Beneath

The San Andreas ran like a wound through the land, stretching long and mean. It had shaken before and would shake again. In the city, people carried on because they had no other choice. The morning paper would mention the quakes, but by noon, the news would move on.

Still, there were those who watched and waited. A man who had lived through the big ones—Northridge, Loma Prieta—knew that the tremors were never just tremors. They were reminders. The land here was never truly settled.

The scientists said the quakes were no cause for alarm. They said the plates shifted as they always did. But a man who had run from falling walls and felt the dust in his throat knew better than to trust easy words.

In the bars, they spoke about it in low tones. Some laughed it off and ordered another drink. Others checked their supplies, their water, their radios. Because when the earth moves, it does not care for the affairs of men. It does not care what time it is or where a man stands. It moves because it must, and all a man can do is brace himself and hope to stand when it is finished.

Waiting for the Next One

The night was quiet, but they all knew it would not stay that way. The quakes had come and gone, but the earth was still restless. In the morning, they would check for cracks in the walls, for broken pipes, for the small signs that something larger lurked beneath the surface.

A man cannot fight the ground beneath him, but he can be ready. He can watch and listen. He can feel the shift before it comes, if he has lived long enough.

Somewhere, deep in the faults and fractures of the land, the earth waited. And so did they.

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Hemingway’s Cut

The Rings of Fire

The galaxy sat out there in the dark, its rings burning like campfires in the cold. Nine of them. No one had seen that before. Space had seen plenty of rings, one or two wrapped around galaxies like a lasso, but nine? That was something. The astronomers looked at it and knew it had been through hell.

Somewhere, sometime, another galaxy had come barreling through, ramming into it like a bull through a corral fence. The force of it sent shockwaves rolling outward, pushing dust and stars into circles that still burned in the black of space. Time had not undone what violence had created.

A History Written in Light

R5519 was its name, though names do little in the void. It was old but not beaten. The rings told its history. Each one a scar, a wound that never closed, a memory pressed into the fabric of the universe. A man could understand that. Some wounds don’t heal, but they shape you all the same.

The astronomers said this discovery changed things. They had thought of galaxies forming one way, slow and steady. But this was something else—a thing born of collision and fire, molded by force. It meant the universe was not as gentle as some had hoped. It was a place where things crashed and burned and still carried on.

What the Rings Tell Us

The rings stretched out, marking the place where the impact had sent its ripples. It was like a stone thrown into a lake, only the lake was endless and cold, and the ripples never faded. The stars caught in those rings were young, forged in the aftermath, newborns in the wake of destruction.

Astronomers studied it, trying to understand how such a thing could be. They knew galaxies changed over time, but not like this. This was a thing built by catastrophe, shaped by something brutal yet precise. A man could learn from that. Sometimes all you can do is take the hit and come out the other side, changed but still standing.

The galaxy burned on, its rings hanging in the dark like the marks left by a bullwhip. It had been struck hard, but it had not broken. Space does not weep for what it loses, and neither did this galaxy. It carried its history in its rings, and that was enough.

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Hemingway’s Cut

The Bird and the Knife

The cockatoo sat on a branch, turning the nut in its claws. It was not content to eat like the others. It wanted more. It scraped the bark with its beak, chipping away until the shell was thinner, until the food inside was just right. It worked with care, like a man sharpening the blade of a knife before a fight.

A man who knows his food does not eat blindly. He tastes. He adjusts. He makes the meal his own. These birds did the same. They stripped the husks from nuts, trimmed the tough ends from leaves. They did not take the world as it was given. They made it better.

The men who watched them, the scientists, wrote about it. They said it meant something. They said it showed intelligence. Maybe it did. Or maybe the cockatoos were just like all creatures with a hunger—they wanted more than what was handed to them.

A Cut Above the Rest

The jungle was full of creatures that ate without thought. The snake swallowed whole. The monkey grabbed and chewed. The cockatoo was different. It took its time. It worked the food, changed it, made it right.

They said only men did this sort of thing. But here were these birds, these pale-feathered warriors, cooking in their own way. It was not the fire and steel of a Paris kitchen, not the slow simmer of a fisherman’s stew over the embers. But it was something. It was care. It was choice.

A cockatoo does not write books. It does not paint or build. But it knows what is good, and it knows how to make it better. That is enough. That is more than most men can say.

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Hemingway’s Cut

The Deal is Made

The men in suits sat at the long table, eyes cold and calculating. The numbers were on the pages before them, but the decision was already made. The country was bleeding money. The cuts had come hard. Departments shrank. Programs disappeared. But still, the man with the sharp blue eyes and the sharp mind had found a way.

Elon Musk had a contract. Four hundred million dollars. The government would have its armored Teslas. The roads would see them soon—silent, swift, and shielded.

The critics barked. They always did. Why this deal? Why now? Why when the coffers were running dry? But the deal was done. The critics were not in the room.

The Machines and the Critics

The machines would come, rolling out of Fremont or Austin, sleek and heavy with armor, ready to take gunfire or bombs. The government men would ride them. They would not question their safety, only their cost.

The newspapers wrote their stories. The budget cuts were deep. Schools needed money. Roads cracked and crumbled. And yet, here was a man who could still claim a fortune from the hands of Washington.

Musk did not answer them. He rarely did. He had rockets to build and cars to make. The world moved forward, and he moved with it.

The Future Rolls Forward

The armored Teslas would come, and the world would change again. The old machines, clunky and loud, would be replaced. The critics would keep shouting. The government men would keep riding.

And Musk? He would find the next thing. There was always a next thing.

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Hemingway’s Cut

A Name on the Water

The sea does not care what men call it. It rolls on, deep and green, its tides pulled by the moon, not by the hands of cartographers. But men must name things to hold them, to make them theirs. And so they have named this water. Once, it was the Gulf of Mexico. Now, in some places, they call it the Gulf of America.

The change did not come from the sea itself, nor from the fishermen who work its waters, nor from the storms that rise from its depths. It came from men in offices, men who do not fish or sail, but who decide what words appear on the maps. Apple Maps, like Google before it, made the change. A quiet shift on screens, a new name where an old one had been.

There was protest in Mexico. Men there said the water had been theirs long before any mapmaker in America laid claim to it. But others in the north, in the land that calls itself free, saw the new name and nodded. Yes, they said. It is ours.

The Old Name and the New

A name is a small thing, but names have power. A man’s name can carry honor or shame. A place’s name can tell a story. The Gulf of Mexico was once the passage of Spanish ships, their sails full of wind, their hulls heavy with gold. It was the hunting ground of pirates, the last sight of land for men sailing to war, the graveyard of vessels lost to storms. The name held history, and history does not change easily.

But names are also weapons. Change them, and you change the story. Call it the Gulf of America, and the land to the north seems larger, its reach longer. It is a quiet kind of claim, a shift that does not need soldiers or treaties. Just words on a map.

The sea does not care. It will rise with the storms and fall with the quiet days, the same as it always has. But men will fight over what they call it, because men must own things, even the water.

The Mapmakers and the Sea

The world is full of men who write things down. They mark borders on paper, draw names over rivers, trace lines through deserts. They decide what a place is called and who it belongs to. But the sea does not belong to them.

A fisherman does not ask what name is on the map when he sets out before dawn. A sailor does not check a title before he watches the horizon. The water is there, the same as it was before, the same as it will be after.

But still, the argument will go on. The men in offices will say it is right to change the name. The men across the border will say it is wrong. And the sea, indifferent and eternal, will roll on.

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Hemingway’s Cut

The Flight of a Machine

There was the machine, and there was the dust, and there was the sound of the thin Martian wind moving across an alien land. The machine was small, built to fly where no thing had flown before. It had been sent to die after a few short leaps, but it had not died. It had flown again and again, each time defying the silence of the dead planet.

The rover Perseverance watched from a distance, its cameras trained on the little flyer. It had seen much—stone and sky, the dry bed of an ancient river, the bones of a world long gone. But this was different. This was movement. This was something new in a place where nothing changed.

A Moment Above the Dust

The helicopter rose, its blades cutting the thin air. It held there, a thing that should not be, a thing that Earth had made and thrown across space to prove a point. It turned, its eye catching the rover below, and in that moment, it saw itself reflected in the machine that had come before it.

The photograph it took would go back to Earth, where men would look at it and feel pride. They would see the rover and the helicopter, alone together on a vast and empty world, and they would talk of the future. But out there, under a thin and alien sky, there was only the machine and the dust and the silence.

The Thing That Lived

It had been meant to last for five flights. That was the plan. But plans do not matter when the thing itself decides to endure. Fifty-four flights now, and still it went up, still it turned its blades against the sky, still it did what it was never truly expected to do.

They had called it Ingenuity, and the name fit. It was small, but it had lived. It had not stopped. And as long as it could, it would rise again, cutting through the emptiness like a bird that had never known the warmth of a sunlit sky.

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Hemingway’s Cut

A Name and a Place

A man does not change the name of a thing without a reason. A gulf is a gulf, and men have known it as Mexico’s for hundreds of years. Now men in offices, men who have never seen the water, change its name with the press of a button. They call it America’s now. The name rolls out across screens, across maps that live in pockets and hands. Some men cheer, some men curse. The water does not care.

They say it is about pride. They say it is about who owns what, about lines drawn on paper and in minds. But the fishermen still go out at dawn, and the sea still takes some of them. It does not care what name they give it.

The Men Who Decide

A man who makes decisions from behind a desk is different from the man who makes them at sea. The men at Apple, like the men at Google before them, sit in fine chairs. They say this is the right thing to do. They say America should have its name on the water. But the water does not belong to them.

Out in the Gulf, the real Gulf, men pull nets from the deep. They do not ask what name the map gives to the water. They ask if the catch is good, if the storm will hold off, if the engine will run another day. The lines on a screen do not matter to them.

The maps will change, and men will talk. But the sea will keep its own name, the one it has always had.

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• Senators Schumer, Rubio, and Rounds are leading a bipartisan effort to declassify top secret US government UFO files.
• A nine-member review panel will be appointed to assess all classified government UFO records.
• Retired senior intelligence official David Grusch’s explosive testimony has raised concerns about US military and defense contractor stonewalling on evidence of crashed UFOs, recovered ‘beings,’ and UFO-related deaths.
• The proposed legislation will be modeled on the President John F. Kennedy Assassination Records Collection Act of 1992.
• The proposed amendment will task President Biden with selecting the nine-person UFO file review panel.
• Federal agencies will have 300 days to organize and produce their internal, classified records on UFOs and provide them to the review board.

In the realm of secrets kept and truths concealed, there exists a subject of unyielding fascination, of whispered rumors and elusive specters: unidentified flying objects, or as they are more colloquially known, UFOs. In a remarkable turn of events, a bipartisan alliance of senators, led by the Democratic Senate majority leader Chuck Schumer of New York alongside Republican Senators Marco Rubio of Florida and Mike Rounds of South Dakota, is poised to push for the declassification of top secret US government UFO files within the next 300 days. A nine-member review panel will be appointed to tirelessly sift through the classified government records, allowing a glimmer of light to pierce through the shroud of secrecy that has enveloped these enigmatic phenomena for far too long.

The impetus for this unprecedented move stems from the explosive testimony of retired senior intelligence official David Grusch, who has dared to speak of the US military and defense contractor’s alleged attempts to brush aside evidence of crashed UFOs, recovered ‘beings,’ and even UFO-related deaths. The eerie tales shared by Grusch have been bolstered by the corroborative statements of fellow witnesses from the defense sector, eliciting grave concerns from Senator Rubio regarding the lack of accountability surrounding these clandestine UFO programs. No longer will such matters be left unanswered.

Through the proposed legislation, the likes of which bears resemblance to the President John F. Kennedy Assassination Records Collection Act of 1992, the truth seekers seek to emancipate the truth, much like Oliver Stone’s cinematic rendition of the sinister events surrounding the death of an American President. The President JFK Assassination Records Review Board demonstrated that it is indeed possible to peel away the layers of secrecy, successfully declassifying and releasing a staggering five million documents. Alas, their efforts were not without impediments, and their work remains unfinished, underscoring the challenges faced by any panel tasked with unraveling the mysteries of the skies above.

It is with great expectation that this proposal will receive the support it rightfully deserves, both in the hallowed halls of the Senate and the esteemed US House of Representatives. In fact, the latter has already taken initial steps by including a more constrained proposition in its own version of the annual NDAA bill. This measure implores Pentagon officials to release documents pertaining to unidentified aerial or anomalous phenomena, poetically referred to as UAP, which serves as a revised technical term for UFOs.

As the wheels of legislation continue to turn, it falls upon President Biden to handpick the nine individuals who will form the esteemed UFO file review panel, subject to the arduous scrutiny of the Senate. If Senator Schumer’s amendment is adopted, federal agencies will find themselves with a mere 300 days to meticulously organize and produce their obscured, classified records on UAP, dutifully presenting them to the review board. Within this window of opportunity, a revelation may yet materialize, shedding light on the unknown and ushering in a new era of understanding, not unlike the protagonist in “The Old Man and the Sea” conquering the arduous battle against an inscrutable force of nature.

For me, Ernest Hemingway, a man who believed in the power of truth and the pursuit of the unadulterated reality, this endeavor is of utmost importance. It is not merely a quest for the truth, but a statement against the forces that seek to keep it hidden, ensure that the truth remains concealed. The unveiling of these classified records holds the promise of uplifting the human spirit, expanding our collective consciousness, and providing answers to the hitherto unanswerable. Whether they bring forth revelations of extraterrestrial encounters or entirely mundane explanations, I believe that the pursuit of truth is an essential aspect of the human condition. In the words of my protagonist in “The Sun Also Rises,” “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

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Montana, while ranking ninth, bears the dubious honor of hosting the most drunk drivers per capita.

Dense populations like Rhode Island, California, and Massachusetts have a surprising tale to tell, with their roads bearing the safest drivers.

In the vast plains of Texas, the roads have become a battleground. Here, man’s struggle with machine becomes a grim ballet, dance steps charted in skid marks and broken glass. A study has shown that these Texans, bold as they are, rank as the nation’s most reckless drivers, a dubious honor indeed. Louisiana, Kansas, Oklahoma and Kentucky, trailing behind, keep pace in this perilous race.

The metrics of the study are as sobering as the cold morning after a night’s revelry in Pamplona. Drunk drivers, distracted drivers, those who cannot fight off the lure of Morpheus, all contribute to the dangerous dance. They push forward, like the matadors in the sun-drenched arenas, heedless of the looming danger.

Montana, the ninth in the line, has its own tale to tell, of drivers with liquor running hot in their veins, outnumbering any other state per capita. It is as if the inhabitants have taken to heart Jake Barnes’ lament in “The Sun Also Rises” – “How did you go bankrupt? Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.”

Interestingly, those places where man has most densely congregated, like Rhode Island, California, and Massachusetts, show a different narrative. They’re like the quiet, diligent fisherman Santiago from “The Old Man and the Sea”, their roads filled with cautious drivers, their incident reports significantly thinner.

My opinion

In my time, I’ve seen much of the world, from the cafes of Paris to the plains of Africa, from the bullrings of Spain to the sea that separates Cuba from the mainland. I’ve seen men and women at their best and worst, sometimes both at once. It is a curious thing to read about these roads, these drivers.

It is not unlike the bullfight, this dance of metal and speed. There is a reckless beauty to it, but it carries a heavy price. It seems to me that there are those who have forgotten that with freedom comes responsibility, that the open road is not just a place of joy and liberation, but also a place of caution and respect for others.

It is a sobering thing, this report. It reminds us all of the need for caution, for respect for the lives of others. It is a cautionary tale for our times, a reminder that, as Jake Barnes knew all too well, the road to disaster is often paved with good intentions and bad decisions.

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