Daily-Dose

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From New Yorker

From Vox

The FAA insists it’s making improvements. Last year, the agency started using a new tool, the Space Data Integrator, that more directly shares data about spacecraft during launches and allows the agency to reopen airspace more quickly. The FAA also says it has successfully reduced the duration of launch-related airspace closures from about four to just over two hours. In some cases, the agency has been able to reduce that time to just 30 minutes.

“An end goal of the FAA efforts is to reduce delays, route deviations, fuel burn, and emissions by commercial airlines and other National Airspace System users as the frequency of commercial space operations increase,” the agency said in a statement.

A graph representing the increasing number of licensed rocket launches in the
 US. Faa.gov

And the frequency of launches is picking up. There were 54 licensed space launches overseen by the FAA last year, but the agency thinks that number could grow in 2022 thanks to the rise in space tourism, growing demand for internet satellites, and upcoming space exploration missions. These launches could also become more common in other parts of the country as new spaceports, which are often built on or near existing airports, ramp up operations. The FAA has already licensed more than a dozen different spaceport locations in the United States, including Spaceport America in New Mexico, where Virgin Galactic launched its first flight last summer, as well as the Colorado Air and Space Port, a space transportation facility located just six miles from the Denver International Airport.

The FAA’s role in the rise of the commercial space industry is becoming increasingly complex. Beyond certifying and licensing launches, the FAA’s responsibilities also include studying the environmental impact of space travel and overseeing new spaceports. The agency will eventually have to monitor space passenger safety, too. This is on top of all the other new types of flying vehicles the FAA will also have to keep its eyes on, like drones, flying air taxis, supersonic jets, and even, possibly, space-faring balloons.

“Where things get contested is more on: How do all of these different types of vehicles fit in the system that the FAA is in charge of?” Ian Petchenik, who directs communications for the aircraft flight-tracking service Flightradar24, told Recode. “Things are going to get much more complicated, and having a way to figure out who has priority, how much space they need, and what the safety margins are, I think, is a much bigger long-term question.”

While we’re still in the early days of the commercial space industry, some have already expressed concern that the agency isn’t headed in the right direction. The Air Line Pilots Association warned back in 2019 that the FAA’s approach could become a “prohibitively expensive method of supporting space operations,” and has urged the agency to continue to cut down on the length of airspace shutdowns during space launches. At least one member of Congress, Rep. Peter DeFazio, is already worried that the FAA is prioritizing commercial spaceflight launches over traditional air travel, which serves significantly more people.

Beyond air flight delays, the burgeoning space travel business has already influenced everything from the reality television we can watch and the types of jobs we can get to international politics and — because of the industry’s potentially enormous carbon footprint — the threat of climate change. Now it looks as though the commercial space industry could also influence the timing of your next trip to Disney World.

I began carrying a stack of books with me from room to room of our rowhouse, shuffling between options with growing desperation, searching for an opening in one of them. “Brain fog” — as if a light mist has temporarily settled on my brow — is too benign a phrase for the suffocating powerlessness of watching your cognition dissolve in real time. Every so often the cloud lifted to allow me a tantalizing moment of clarity. But in the main, for the first time in decades, I was no longer a reader.

This development would be unsettling for anyone. For a professional writer and editor, it was horrifying. The written word was my currency, my passion, my source of confidence. I needed words to make a living. I needed them to make a life.

In the beginning, I assumed that the change was temporary, a holdover from the hormonal stupor of pregnancy. Or maybe it was sleep deprivation — surely the fatigue inherent in raising two small children would impact any parent’s focus. Those were both pieces of the puzzle, but it would be years before I solved it.

Instead, I was lost in my head. If I’d been grappling with a stabbing pain in my abdomen or loss of sight, I would have parked myself in a medical office and refused to budge without a diagnosis and treatment plan. But it wasn’t obvious to me that I had a physical ailment. Maybe I was losing my mind. Maybe I was lazy. Maybe, as one boss suggested during a particularly tense performance review, I just couldn’t hack working and raising small children at the same time. Looking around at all the other parents who held down demanding jobs, I worried that he was right.

One year became two and then slid into more. Terror rose in my throat every time I took on new editing work or writing assignments, knowing there was a decent chance I wouldn’t be able to deliver. I couldn’t tell anyone because I didn’t know what was going on or if it would ever end. I was petrified to say the words out loud, to raise the possibility that I might never work in my field again. With each job, each promise, I needed to believe that this time it would be different.

It never was. I blew through deadlines, ghosted editors, and lost jobs. Shame and depression ganged up on me, and I dropped out of the workforce altogether.


I would ordinarily turn to books for solace and distraction in a time of crisis. With two teachers for parents, I was born into a family of readers. We unwrapped books on Christmas mornings, but any occasion was an excuse for a new book. They showed up on Easter and Valentine’s Day, birthdays and the first day of school. My sister and I spent long summer afternoons in our backyard reading books from the public library under a tent our mom set up by pinning quilts to the clothesline.

At some point before school began again, the four of us would squeeze into our Plymouth Horizon to drive from Michigan to the New England coast, stopping at the Dartmouth Bookstore in Hanover, New Hampshire, to load up on books. Once we each had a stack from that 140-year-old institution, we continued on to rocky beaches, where we read until everyone had one or two books remaining for the drive home. I looked forward to those trips like other kids dream about Disney World. Devouring my favorite authors, powered by squirt cheese and Faygo grape pop, I could not imagine a more perfect life.

By contrast, this bookless existence was my nightmare. One day I realized that whole shelves in our house were filled with titles I had never read. Having reveled in the experience of reading Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead and Home when they came out, I bought the subsequent books in that series and now grieved the idea that I might never read them. I felt in my bones what author William Styron once wrote about his depression, that it made him fear that “I would never recapture a lucidity that was slipping away from me with terrifying speed.”


In hindsight, it is ridiculous that it took years of desperation and depression before I was finally willing to reconsider my absurd refusal to try audiobooks. I had always dismissed the format, snobbishly categorizing audiobook listeners as somehow a lesser class of book consumers. Audiobooks, my thinking went, were for people too lazy to read. They were a useful service for people who were visually impaired and they could be helpful in entertaining children on road trips. Audiobooks were emphatically not for me.

But as reading didn’t seem to be an option, it was time to get over myself. I purchased an Audible Premium subscription — which allows me one book each month — and tiptoed into the world of what I still anachronistically think of as “books on tape.”

My gateway listens were memoirs — Tara Westover’s Educated, Kiese Laymon’s Heavy, Maggie O’Farrell’s I Am, I Am, I Am — which allowed me to pretend a friend was simply telling me about her life. After a few months, I moved on to Strangers Drowning, Larissa MacFarquhar’s masterful chronicle of obsessive altruism, and felt a sense of accomplishment akin to making my way through several years’ worth of New Yorker back issues.

By the time I spent a weekend enthralled by Irish actor Andrew Scott’s reading of Dubliners — after a lifetime of avoiding James Joyce — I started to wonder why I’d ever spent much time straining my eyes with print.

Audiobooks weren’t just tolerable alternatives to wood-pulp-and-ink tomes. In many ways they actually expanded my enjoyment of books. Rather than listen curled up in an armchair, I could pop in earbuds, walk the mile from our house to Lake Michigan, and spend hours by the water with Colson Whitehead’s The Nickel Boys playing in my ears. There is an emotional heft to hearing Trevor Noah’s memoir in his own voice as he cycles through phrases in Xhosa, Zulu, Tswana, and other tribal languages that I would have lost on the page.

Native-speaking audio readers allowed me to more fully inhabit a writers’ world, making familiar Sri Lankan and Ugandan and Ethiopian names that I would have mangled in my head while reading. (I read the first two Harry Potter books before ever hearing the name “Hermione” and realizing that way I’d been pronouncing it was very different.) Likewise, hearing read aloud Anna Burns’ Milkman, with its experimental style and long, unbroken paragraphs, made the book infinitely more accessible and pleasurable. I loved how the musicality of language often seemed heightened when words were isolated for my ears alone.

Nearly five years after reading disappeared from my life, I was pleased to finally learn that I hadn’t lost my mind. I’d just unknowingly white-knuckled my way through menopause in my mid-40s, not realizing that brain fog and exhaustion can be common symptoms. By the time a doctor actually listened to me and ran a blood panel, there was virtually no estrogen left in my system. I immediately started hormone therapy.

The speed with which my mind cleared was astonishing. I needed more time to get past the fury and resentment of knowing I’d lost years of productivity and inadvertently gaslit myself.


When I felt ready to attempt an actual physical book again, I started with Tayari Jones’ An American Marriage, which sat atop the largest stack of optimistically purchased novels — and read until dawn. Closing the cover that next morning, I exhaled. And picked up another.

Now I’m reading book after book after book, sometimes feeling like Lucy and Ethel trying to keep pace in the chocolate factory. I’d forgotten the combined pleasure and wooziness of a reading hangover that comes from staying up far too late submerged in a book. Most weeks I juggle one book in print and another in audio, so I always have an excuse to leave the house for a long pandemic walk. My family members know to give me audio credits for birthdays. In 2021, I read 67 books, just a few years after I struggled to get to the end of one or two.

Modern medicine restored my concentration and banished the brain fog, but audiobooks were the first crucial phase of a regimen to regain my confidence and sense of identity. I pray that my ability to read is back for good, but whatever happens, I know that I need never again give up on books. (I am, however, switching over to Libro.fm, an audiobook service that supports local bookstores instead of the global Amazon megatron complex.)

These days, when I find myself lost in a book, it’s not because my brain is stuck or throwing up obstacles. I’m happily lost in a world of words and images and I do not need rescuing.

Amy Sullivan is a Chicago-based journalist who covers religion, politics, and culture.

It doesn’t, to me, feel like a shift. My goal is always to try and do a lot of good. And that almost always means that you have some domain in which you’re working, and to try and do a lot of good in that domain.

When I was in Kenya, I was really trying to help the kids in this school and the women at this maternity clinic. It’s not to the exclusion of everyone else, it’s just, this is my job now. When I was in India, I was trying to help rural children access health programs, get nutritional fortification, starvation re-feeding, vaccination, etc. In my mind, these people are my constituents, and I’m all in.

Now I’m in Oregon and I’m home. There’s a lot to be said for being home. I have this opportunity to help the people here and help them realize the things they care about — their children and their grandchildren’s futures — and to help the economy here, but not just here. This spills over, this is going to help all over the US, this can have great effects globally. It doesn’t feel like a tension. It feels like a continuation of the goal the whole time and the approach the whole time.

Dylan Matthews

Sam Bankman-Fried’s PAC has spent over $10 million on this race, which is more than any independent group has spent in any other congressional primary. Your critics have more or less accused him of trying to buy the race for you. I wanted to give you a chance to respond to that and give your interpretation of his involvement.

Carrick Flynn

First, I’ve never met him, I’ve never talked to him. I don’t have any information that anyone else doesn’t have. I actually don’t have any information that’s not public with, I guess, one exception, which is information I think other people think they have, which is they think I’m involved in crypto or something. That is not the case. I’m not a crypto person. I don’t know very much about it. I’ve never looked at regulations for it. I don’t think it’s a priority.

Left with that information, my take is speculative, but what I will say is it seems to me like Sam Bankman- Fried is someone who legitimately wants to prevent pandemics from happening again. I am on board. I love that, great goal. Let’s do it. I see why he would want to support me for that, since I’ve made this my first priority and I’ve got a history in this. He’s also supported other candidates and sitting congresspersons who have good pandemic prevention policies, with less money, but I can see why he’d want to give more to the person with more background in it.

Also, the race is pretty close. I’m probably winning, but not by a lot. So he might want to invest more funding in it.

In terms of the problems with campaign finance generally, I didn’t know it in great detail. I actually didn’t know how a PAC worked, and I didn’t know what was going on when suddenly there are people making ads about me. I got into the campaign without knowing how it worked.

It doesn’t look good. You go up to it close and you’re not like, “Oh this system works!” You’re like, “Oh, this is deeply flawed.” And there’s other ways [the system] is flawed as well. Individuals can self-fund. That’s a problem because it pushes poor people like myself out of the race. (That’s another myth. I made $40,000 last year. I am not the rich candidate, and I gave a lot of that away to charity.) We have things where there’s a local party machine that anoints a successor and then they have this apparatus around them. None of these things are good.

If I’m elected, I have every intention to get behind campaign finance reform. I would definitely jump on any bill like that. I am happy that within this bad system, everything that’s been said about me by myself, and by others advocating on behalf of me, has been true and has been positive. There’s been no attacks on anybody. It’s entirely been, “Here’s the policy positions, and here are the real priorities.”

As far as special interest groups go, I don’t like that as an institution. But possibly the best one I could imagine was one for “no more pandemics.”

Dylan Matthews

For the record, what are your views on crypto regulation? Do you have views on crypto regulation at all? That’s the other frequent accusation, that you’re a stalking horse for Bankman-Fried to get his preferred regulations through.

Carrick Flynn

Yeah, I hear that too. I don’t know enough about crypto to know enough about the regulations. After I got accused of this stuff, I started to go back and try and read about it. It was dense, I didn’t really care. If I’m a congressperson and this comes up, I will put my nose to the grindstone, I will learn this topic and I will actually figure out how to vote. I am not doing that on spec. I don’t want to spend my time on this, I don’t think this is that important.

As a heuristic, I would decide the way you should decide on normal financial regulations. Are you going to be ripping off working-class and middle-class people? Is this something that allows for a lot of exploitation? If it is, you have to regulate it and otherwise, you know, sure. You need financial markets. That’s about it. But in terms of what that actually means in crypto, I have no idea.

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