“The controversy … around Turkey’s membership of the European Union reveals the sharpness of the political and cultural divisions that recruit geography as an alibi. What is immediately obvious from the translation history of Turkey is that attempts at dichotomous definition, at defining Turkey as ‘European’ or ‘Asian’,’ are largely meaningless. Not only the multilingual and multicultural Ottoman Empire but more recently the Turkish nation-state has been a continual crossroads of linguistic, cultural, political, and religious influences transiting through the porous zone of translation.”—Tahir Gürçağlar
I should be writing game reviews, or saying something about why I don’t post very often, but instead I’m just posting ancient shit from my queue because I can’t be arsed.
Someone on Facebook the other day asked (rhetorically) why we can’t just accept cultures for ‘how they are’ instead of associating them with the negative circumstances of unfortunate social situations.
'Culture' can't exist without 'social situations.' You cannot view a person's heritage without also understanding that their culture, their way of life, is a direct adaptation to social interactions with people vastly different from them. To 'accept a culture' apart from its 'negative associations' and 'unfortunate social situations' is like reading a novel with entire swathes of the narrative torn out.
Last week a YouTube reality show about game jams starring several notable independent game developers was being produced with a reported budget of $400,000, but never made it off the ground due to a host of schlocky product placements, poor attempts at forcing drama, draconian contracts, and the indie community ultimately deciding it didn’t need to put up with this s***.
“I was the kind of bone-chilling cold that cannot be remedied by sweaters or heaters.
I was shaking for no reason,
I was a frozen heart and an iced over smile.
But I can feel the tugs of warmth on my heartstrings.
There is sunshine in my throat,
I can feel the heat melting the backs of my teeth.
I am sharp and I am crystal clear and I am free.
I am waiting for the darkness to fall so I can sit outside for the first time in a while and let the wind kiss my cheeks.
Maybe I will write again tonight.
Maybe I will just look at the stars and let their light sear pinpricks into my retinas.
Maybe I will roast my skin until the marrow drips from the hollows of my bones.
Maybe it’s time to stop being so achingly cold.”—Glacial thoughts will kill you from the inside out. (via poppyflowerpoetry)
On a windswept afternoon in mid-December, the writer Orhan Pamuk stood in a leafy square around the corner from Istanbul University, absorbed in a 40-year-old memory. He walked past parked motorcycles, sturdy oaks and a stone fountain, browsing through secondhand books in front of cluttered shops occupying the bottom floors of a quadrangle of pale yellow buildings. Sahaflar Carsisi, Istanbul’s used-book bazaar, has been a magnet for literary types since the Byzantine era.
In the early 1970s, Mr. Pamuk, then an architecture student and aspiring painter with a love for Western literature, would drive from his home across the Golden Horn to shop for Turkish translations of Thomas Mann, André Gide and other European authors. “My father was nice in giving me money, and I would come here on Saturday mornings in his car and fill the trunk with books,” the Nobel Laureate remembered, standing beside a bust of Ybrahim Muteferrika, who printed one of the first books in Turkey — an Arabic-Turkish language dictionary — in 1732.
They had rewritten every sign to convince us we were in Los Angeles, but the climate told me we were still in Florida. You grow up in a place, you learn to read when the weather’s changing by the feel of the breeze on your skin, and in Florida the breeze is damp from both directions, but only salty from one. Only a few of us had been chosen to survive the culling- the rest were deemed broken souls and forced to live half-lives in the pieces of detritus rotting in the street. Some of them were feistier than others, and they had us move them closer to the warehouse where we lived. You could sort of talk to the ones that had managed to keep themselves together- I had a conversation with an abandoned computer with a voice like a shortwave radio before I realised that they weren’t actually in Pasadena, they just thought they were. They were right here with the rest of us, but the dead are easier to convince than the living.
One vintage ad warns women, “Don’t let them call you SKINNY!” while another promises that smoking cigarettes will keep one slender. If the task of morphing their bodies into the current desirable shape isn’t enough of a burden, women are also reminded that they stink.
'Mommy was always so cross because she didn't have the soft silky face of a small baby on hand to wipe her bum.'
“A week later, I am transferred here. Three more months go over and my mother dies. No one knew better than you how deeply I loved and honoured her. Her death was terrible to me; but I, once a lord of language, have no words in which to express my anguish and my shame. … She and my father had bequeathed me a name they had made noble and honoured, not merely in literature, art, archaeology, and science, but in the public history of my own country, in its evolution as a nation. I had disgraced that name eternally.”—Lady Jane Wilde
the endpaper maps are the floor layout of the store
in place of the royal family tree there is an organizational chart representing all the employees, managers, and key regional/district managers
this is a rly good idea imo
they go on a quest for a magic spellbook, a copy of the anarchist cookbook an employee left somewhere 40 years ago. other spells include the code for the pa system and the computer administrator’s password.
Remember the 2004 documentary Super Size Me and its blatant lack of a twist ending? Guy eats only highly processed, high-fat McDonald’s food for one month. Guy’s health deteriorates. The end.
Science teacher John Cisna tried out a similar experiment, but saw drastically different results. After eating nothing but McDonald’s for three months, the Iowa man lost 37 pounds and saw his cholesterol level drop significantly, local TV station KCCI reports.
Cisna enlisted his students to help him plan out a 2,000-calorie daily diet plan consisting only of food sold by the fast food giant. They also tried not to exceed recommended allowances of nutrients like carbohydrates, proteins, fat calories and cholesterol.
For breakfast, Cisna typically ate two egg white delights, a bowl of maple oatmeal and 1 percent milk. For lunch, he’d usually opt for a salad. And for dinner he’d order a more traditional value meal, including items like Big Macs, ice creams and sundaes. After Cisna told the owner of the local franchise about the experiment, he was so interested that he agreed to provide all the items free of charge.
During the experiment, Cisna walked for 45 minutes every day, and by the 90th day he reported that he’d lost 37 pounds. He also reported that his cholesterol had dropped from 249 to 170. He said he was able to get healthier simply because he made smart choices.
The problem with something like this is that it doesn’t emphasise so much that this lad ate like shit but carefully planned his meals and exercised a lot to make up for it, so much as it goes ‘holy fuck this guy ate at MacDonald’s and he’s healthy now and so too can you be’
A lot of people don’t realise that weight loss and ‘healthy living’ varies immensely from person to person, and while this guy might’ve had time to work out every day after eating terrible food, that’s not the same reality other people experience, other people who work odd hours and don’t have time to cook, let alone exercise.
“Every intellectual technology, to put it another way, embodies an intellectual ethic, a set of assumptions about how the mind works or should work. The map and the clock shared a similar ethic. Both placed a new stress on measurement and abstraction, on perceiving and defining forms and processes beyond those apparent to the senses.”—Nicholas Carr
without your love i feel fear on the tips of my fingers
i’m still scared every day. i walk a tight rope between telling you to fuck off and get out of my life and pulling you in closer to me every time i hear your voice, like i pull you in so tight the way a seam stiches red thread through jeans, i want you in me so hard that everyone can see it and it’ll never be unstitched. i want you so bad but i’m so innately distrustful of beauty. i love you so much. if i could i’d be creepy and encapsulate the beauty like curators keep the gems of artistic history under glass, sealed in chambers to prevent the entropy of time.
see, maybe that’s my fear. entropy is such a callous whore. i want every moment marbleized. you want to document our lives and i want to carve it in stone. i’ll never be good enough for you. i’ll give everything i have to you. you haven’t seen me yet but i’ll be standing with a bleeding heart filleted like sirloin tips in pieces, like black blood stew cupped in my hands. this has been my heart for decades and here you are and you finally get to have all of it. you’re the only one. you are the only one to collect all of the pieces. do you know what that means? it means i’ve never called anyone perfect before. i am not actually in love with the attention you give me. i’m in fucking love with you.
this is painful. i need to feel you and i need your touch. i don’t even want to be dirty, i just want your hugs. i want to feel the density of your skin against my fingers when i grab you. i want your warmth instead of cold computer eyes. i don’t want to play games.
tears hit me in a new place, now. hurt used to slip to the tip of my fingers before it hit my brain. now it spreads like anaphylactic shock. it starts in the throat. my guts well up in my chest and i can’t breathe without you.
my love is graphic and brutal. if you can’t handle this then tell me now.
when you disconnect from me its not even a thing you can hide anymore. i can tell from the cadence of your voice. when i think of losing you, something inside me deadens. i get chills the way a beautiful recitation of words waves in ripples through your tender skin. i want this. in all of my shitty metaphors i’m just trying to say that i need you more than anything. the way that tree branches grow in fractal rhythm for love of the sun. i need you like photosynthesis needs radiation. i need you to function. i need you to keep the beauty multiplying inside of me so i can share it with the world. i wanna share this world with you.