Twitter. For inane chatter and revolution organization.
Contains graphic violence, found via http://twitter.com/#search?q=Tehran
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4vqWamoQgM&hl=en&fs=1&]
via http://iranelection.posterous.com/
I eat like a pig.
I barely taste food, as soon as a morsel of dinner is on its way down my stomach I’m already shoveling more food into my gaping hole of a mouth. There are no pauses in between, no time to taste ingredients, it’s all just one fluid mechanical process, resulting in hunger fulfillment. To even try and slow down down feels forced, painful, like it’s unnatural not to consume everything in front of me in one huge gulp.
Thinking is the same as eating. I have a thought, and before that thought is over I begin thinking about something tangentially related, and then something else, and on it goes into infinity. Today I was in the shower, trying to focus exclusively on using soap, when suddenly, forcing it’s way into my brain, came the memory of the store keeper who sold it to me in Israel, taking out his calculator and showing me the price in US dollars. And then, before this thought was extinguished I began mentally recording the experience for use in a blog post about overthinking. This post.
Finally I was able to get myself refocused on reality, but it wasn’t long before I was spiraling back out into space. It’s the same sensation as being stuck in the undertow at the beach, forever pummeled by waves. And just as you’re getting your footing, CRASH, you’ve lost all balance and are pulled back under. Read more
First off a confession. I am not a good environmentalist.
I purchased a pillow today. A newly produced pillow which probably came from some pillow producing factory pumping pillow producing sludge into some pillow producing country. Immediately after doing so, I stepped onto the sidewalk and ran into Brad, an advocate for Children International, and the conversation went something like this:
Brad: “Hey, have you considered giving to Children International?”
Me: “Yes but two problems…”
Brad: “Go on…”
Me: “Okay well, for one, I’m really really broke.”
Brad: (Looking down at my shopping bag) “I see you have purchased a pillow.”
Me: (Awkwardly) “Yes. This pillow is necessary for my survival.”
Brad: “…” Read more
For most of my life I I’ve believed I’m brilliant. I guess it never really occurred that you might have to create something brilliant before you’re brilliant. But I always felt I was unique enough that I must be brilliant. And then walking the streets on a saturday night eating chocolate raisins out of a plastic container, it occurred to me: What if I’m just some guy?
I thought how I might act differently, think differently, see things differently. I thought, I have no reason to believe I’m brilliant. There’s no way I could know that now. And maybe you don’t get to tell yourself what you are. Maybe you let yourself show you.
Challenging this self imposed identity felt oddly freeing.
Once you realize that preconceived notions about yourself are actually inhibiting you, its hard not to let go.
Maybe I’ll be free enough to be myself.
My neighbor was a juror on a trial dealing with a really fucked up situation, that I won’t go into here, but lets just say he was the only one who didn’t want to crucify the defendant. So they fought it out for 3 days and eventually he conceded defeat, after getting the charges cut in half. Other than that, there was nothing he could do, the jury is not allowed to discuss sentencing, that’s the judges discretion.
Here’s where the problem begins. Say you’re a juror intent on giving the defendant a fair punishment for his crime. The system works like this: The jury is fair in determining guilt, the judge is fair in determining sentencing. The result is a just punishment proportional to the crime committed. Unless you have mandatory minimums, in which case the whole concept of justice goes out the window.
Now the guilty party is subject to a completely inhuman and uncaring law which can not be bent, or flexed based upon circumstance. The jury is not told if there are mandatory minimums at hand, because sentencing is not supposed to be their concern. But as soon as you say there will be no human discretion in the sentencing process, it becomes absolutely the concern of the jury: They are the only force capable of determining the proportionality of the punishment.
Deceiving the jury as to the Judge’s ability to affect punishment, is a contemptible act, violating the very principle by which American justice stands: Fairness.
With mandatory minimums we’ve decided we will not be fair, and the whole justice process becomes a obfuscated orchistration with no other purpose but to make us feel good while we ignorantly perpetuate a flawed and dangerous sham.
I have just come across the world of art games, a tiny genre hiding among millions of time wasters, brain teasers, and violence simulators. I’ve been waiting for games to transcend the category of entertainment and become something emotional, meaningful. For the first time I’m actually experiencing just that. Here’s what I’ve come across.
Passage is a game which is absurdly simple, in which something extraordinarily complex has been accomplished. You move a pixelated character around a screen, until he gets old and finally dies. It’s minimalist, short, and somehow deeply powerful.
The first time you play it you spend half the game bored, exploring, trying to find something interesting, and then at some point you realize your character is aging. It’s interesting to experience the impact an aging avatar has on the player. Most games are structure around an endlessly repeating game play mechanic, but if a character ages, decays, then eventually he must die. Still, the first time playing this game there is an expectation that something will happen, there must be some purpose, some goal at hand. Prepare to feel disappointment. In the beginning you find a girlfriend who, if you approach her, will follow you for the rest of the game. That’s it. Your characters grow old, you explore the territory, and eventually, she dies, and then you die. Pretty anticlimactic the first time around.
But the second time around, if you’re still interested in playing, there is room for experimentation. Now that you know that nothing is going to happen, you can make your own goals, play the game without expectation, and that’s where things get interesting.
The third or forth time I was messing with the game, I decided I was going to go exploring, so I ditched the girl and went off, seeing how far I could explore the more cavernous region of the map. Then I decided it was getting late in my life, and I returned to the beginning to find the girl. I had to hurry, I was very old. When I finally made it back as an old man, the girl was gone, instead there was just a simple gravestone, and after a few seconds of surprise on my part, my character died of old age. Never have I felt such a massive emotional impact from a game before. And no film is capable of presenting such a personal experience. There were no prerendered cut scenes or preconceived dialogue. It all happened in that moment.
I want to see more games like this. Now I’m not sure if everyone can have as personal experience play a game like this, maybe I was just lucky. But there is something here.
Game makers have long tried to create a film like experience through video games, and to them I have these words: Stop.
Stop creating cut scenes. Stop sandwiching story in between slices of action. Stop trying to develop characters, construct multiple endings, multiple choice dialogue. The medium of games is different than the medium of film. We need to back up, and create something with fresh eyes.
Linear game play turns into story time interspersed with interactive gun battles.
Sandbox games tend to be no better, and no amount of clothes, house, car customization can make up for the fact that you’re essentially playing in someone else’s shoes, buy someone else’s rules.
Art games tend to be unique, pretty, clever, or some combination there of, but usually settle for amusing us rather than impacting us deeply.
I’m not interested in game design, playability, or game play mechanics. Someone make a game that’s meaningful, that changes us.
Games should be personal experiences, where game play isn’t seperate from the story,, instead, gameplay is the story. How we play must tell us something about how we are.
The harsh fumes of toxins and ash filled my nostrils, saturating the inner cartilage and hair with the intolerable stench of things lost forever. I sat on the curb while the firefighters ran up to the flames with hoses, aged and dirty, dragging through puddles of gasoline and waste water left behind by yesterday’s storm. Watching the flames lick up the plume of water pummeling out from the nozzles, I was suddenly drawn into the memory of a high school science class.
On the board the word “Energy” was circled.
“So you see, nothing can be created, or destroyed” The professor had gray hair and he pointed at the board with a piece of chalk, tapping it to make his point.
My classmates were chatting amongst themselves, and in my memory only I was paying attention. It seemed to be just me and his words in the room. While I was sucked up in the memory, I imagined what it would be like to be sitting in that very room on that very day, hearing the exact same words, but in the context of now, of the fire lapping at the flames, consuming everything.
I raised my hand, “If nothing is created or destroyed, then where exactly has all my stuff gone?”
Sure, plastic and wood might combust into smoke, but what about the other things? Where do memories go? Do they evaporate into the air and spread themselves along the surface of the world? Do they leak into our dreams when we sleep? Are they responsible for the ozone corroding?
If no energy is created or destroyed, then what is created when hope is snuffed out? When dreams are burnt?
I watched the flames collapse the roof in on its self, and it occurred to me no question should be answered in the same breath it’s asked.
It was Friday at around 8:30 when I suddenly realized that I was done with this city.
“FUCK PHILLY! FUCK the assholes spitting all over the SIDEWALKS! FUCK the speeding taxis trying to KILL me! FUCK the parking authority handing out tickets to everyone who stays still for 20 seconds! FUCK the negative, rude, arrogant, ignorant dickheads that seem to swarm this city like the FUCKING RATS in Rittenhouse Square!!! FUCK. EVERYTHING!!!!!”
I had a good reason. It came to me like an epiphany, one that had been sitting on a slow burner, suddenly rising to a boil with a single intolerable degree. I had been walking down the street, and a guy came up to me and asked, “Could I have 12 cents?” Nothing unusual here. Happens every day in Philadelphia. Only this time, I decided to try something different. I looked the guy in the eye, and said, “Hmm.. lemmie see if I have anything..” And I searched my pockets.
Now people ask me for change every single day of my life, and I can’t pin point exactly why in this moment I’d decide to give change that I know isn’t going to make this guy’s life any better. But here I am, out of the kindness of the moment, digging around in my pocket, seeing if I can help this guy out and then.. nothing.
“Sorry man, I don’t have anything…” I pull my hands out of my pockets, give an apologetic shrug and start walking. But this guy is looking at me, trying to stare deep into me eyes, as if to say, “You were going to give me something, where is it?” I return the look, put my hands to the sides, and repeat, “Sorry I don’t have anything..”
The man turns away looking pissed off, as if I’d just robbed him of something, and I as I step away, I can’t help myself. Teeth bared, all my muscles contract at once, and I jump up and down on the side walk, a ridiculous caricature of a guy who has had enough.
“I”
“FUCKING”
“HATE”
“THIS”
“CITY!!!!”
On the last jump I look up and swing my fists like I’m starting a fight with the moon. The moon doesn’t react. I shake it off and walk home.
Maybe the reason for all of this is my recent trip to San Francisco, a city which makes Philadelphia looks like some barren prototype. Some kind of defunct testing ground, that has gone on long past it’s intended useage. A cell culture stored away inside a tiny glass cylinder, which grew mold, and now continues on, replicating endlessly, alone and unwatched. Since I’ve come back, I’ve been unable to see Philly the same way I once saw it: As a refuge from the tiny boring state of Connecticut where I was born. Now, I seek a new refuge.
I’m tempted to soften the language, to write a dozen different disclaimers to prevent backlash, but nah, I’ve lived here 9 years, for once in my life I’ll allow myself to have an opinion.
So I had this weekend to stew over these thoughts, over my escape plan. I plot out logistics endlessly, maybe I should try for a job in San Francisco? Wait no, must travel before I go there. What about the Peace Corps? Fuck that, I can’t live in a hut for 2 years. Maybe I should goto Jordan and teach English to Muslim people. Ahhh, there’s too many options GAHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!
Then I realized, that I’m going to do none of these things. Every single solution that I have for getting out of Philadelphia is worthless. I’ve lived here for 9 years, part of this city is inside of me. When that attempted cop killer fled the scene and jumped in the Schuylkill, I joined the mob of curious bystanders. When the convenience store down my street was robbed by a crazy drugged out dude, I was in on the manhunt. When the Phillies won the world series, I was there toe to toe with cops videotaping the breakdown. I can’t leave like this. This city is sick, but maybe I am too. Traveling around, I’m just beginning to recognize the symptoms.
I can’t leave this city, I’ve got to get discharged like from a hospital, with a clean bill of health. I need to heal. And in the process, maybe I’ll change something.
Tonight I went out to the grocery store, and just as I reached the corner of my block, I realized I forgot my grocery bag (I’m green like that), and simultaneously a woman decided to ask me for change. Again, I smiled, and decide to check for change, and.. again.. I found none. Her face scrunched up, “Are you going in the store?” Pointing at the Old Nelson’s, “Nah, I’ve gotta get something, sorry!”
I started walking back into my house, when I heard her mumble, “…he was goin to the store… lied right to my face.”
I stopped. Took a breath, turned around, and very calmly and with as much understanding as I could manage said, “No I didn’t. I’m going to the supermarket.”
And then I stepped inside…
Suddenly, I felt great.
I figured it out! Philadelphia isn’t going to be fixed all by myself. But I can help. Some people will change, some are difficult and stubborn. But still, I can help!
This woman clearly thought I was being an asshole to her, and given the odd timing of her request, it probably did look like I was trying to avoid her by going back for my bag. Plus she’s probably encountered hundreds of rude non-responsive people in the city. She’s probably already made up her mind. But that doesn’t matter. I can do what I can do. Even if it’s the tiniest thing, such as making the extra effort to protest her suspicions. If enough people do that, she’ll be changed. Or maybe not. But in any case, my humanity remains intact.
This city may be covered in shit, but if that’s true, then I will be the best shit filter I can be. And it might only change the temperature a fraction of a degree, but maybe it’ll be the fraction of a degree that causes the whole thing to boil over.
FUCK disempowerment! FUCK apathy! And FUCK GIVING UP!!!
No matter what comes my way, no matter how ugly or intollerable, I resolve to act like a human being.
Philadelphia, I am going to wash you clean.
Hang on. Just a little bit longer.
He had to finish his masterpiece. A messy black mark across pure white cement, with the porous grains of rock breathing in the goo, sucking it up. Right then large fingers encircled his arms, and he was caught. 2 officers with blue caps dragging his torso back from the wall, back from the sidewalk, back to the police van, away from his half finished work, scrawled awkwardly, as if it knew it went unfinished. As if it knew what came next.
Noooo!!! he yelled to no one, outstretched arms dropping the spray can which clunked on the street and skittered across the asphalt, falling off into the infinity of a nearby gutter. the business owner grunted in amusement Then he grinned. He grinned proudly and broadly. And with a worn paintbrush and a half empty bucket of paint, he began painting over the black blemish on his wall, covering it with an equally out of place blemish of fresh paint. This was the victory he had been looking forward to for months. He closed his eyes and breathed in the paint smell, tuned the brush handle over in his fingers. The vandal had been enemies, each day painting over each others work. But now the battle was over. His grin grew wider as he lathered the paint over every black brush stroke, every curve of each letter.
Nevermind that weeks from this moment he would find himself in a dark room, unable to sleep, depressed and suicidal, clinging on the last thread of a life void of all meaning. Right now all he felt was the tingling of victory He just wanted to hang on to it.
Just a little bit longer…
