children are useless
children are useless
Your Children Will Turn into Doves and Fly Away: On Stardew Valley
Monique Laban
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We have to do so much for you, don’t you see? You play all day while we work so hard.
Can one tell Twain’s story from Jim’s perspective without creating a flimsy, second-hand imitation of Jim’s voice which dooms the experiment from the start?
Each center describes what happens in another center
I’m not a cynic, I’m here
Perhaps, newly attuned to her own insatiable desire to create, she would reach her own form of understanding from the drafts that she would copy out eleven times by hand.
It can’t all be true, or as bad as they make it. But there’s no plumb, exactly, for these things.
Watercolor in dream phoneme I hope this reaches you up like where.
It was not so much a “dreaminess” as a wakefulness, an increasingly desperate one of the more-than-human, the more-than-now, which modern history throttled and tried to deny.
As a midwesterner, my life has been saturated with Alberta’s oil. My first car, a used Ford F-150 with a bench seat stained brown from the plumber who owned it before me, had dual fuel tanks that held over thirty gallons of gasoline. Much of that gas came from Alberta oil.
If we know what we see we’ll know how to act. Or more like deep fake me once, shame on you, deep fake me twice who am I, where, why.
I want to see Camp Dada as a fungal body, one in which we accept that the world will not be saved, and so strive for new ways of sustaining life in the present.
remind me to tell you about the pedestrian bridge arched over the tributary that flows into the cuyahoga river
The war that the WGA is currently fighting—against the gig-ification of their jobs and the abandonment of new workers in the field to low-wage contingency—looks a lot like the war higher ed already lost.
There no longer appears an obvious trade-off between “progress” and its human price; no countervailing benefits accruing to those who might otherwise have to bear the “slow violence” of modern industry.
The Shining lives in my consciousness like no other work of art.
Can one tell Twain’s story from Jim’s perspective without creating a flimsy, second-hand imitation of Jim’s voice which dooms the experiment from the start?
Perhaps, newly attuned to her own insatiable desire to create, she would reach her own form of understanding from the drafts that she would copy out eleven times by hand.
It was not so much a “dreaminess” as a wakefulness, an increasingly desperate one of the more-than-human, the more-than-now, which modern history throttled and tried to deny.
As a midwesterner, my life has been saturated with Alberta’s oil. My first car, a used Ford F-150 with a bench seat stained brown from the plumber who owned it before me, had dual fuel tanks that held over thirty gallons of gasoline. Much of that gas came from Alberta oil.
Ishchenko argues that the burden of the post-Soviet left is debatably its greatest asset: that people remember how it felt to be part of communism’s utopian project, and that before today’s war, a strong plurality of Ukrainians felt ambivalent about, not hostile to, its cause.
The dead lover is the eternal muse, his voice revoked by death, his consent unattainable.
We have to do so much for you, don’t you see? You play all day while we work so hard.
It can’t all be true, or as bad as they make it. But there’s no plumb, exactly, for these things.
Watch Your Language shadows So to Speak, offering what the poems can’t—not explanations of the origins of lyric impulse, but a recreation of the process involved in coaxing it.
The idea that this cultural moment is specific to an era of progressivism, neoliberalism, or late capitalism (a term which always feels a little baselessly optimistic), does not seem accurate. Regular capitalism describes the moment pretty well.
When you grow up alongside a writer and see them change and rearrange and deliver a new object still dripping sweat, that object looks different than if you were merely recovering it from the long march of literature by the no-longer living.
The text is interactive, necessitating the intervention of the reader for categorization of its entropic structures. Genre inflects, demands, and manages expectations anew: it’s a goddamned virus.
Because this issue has been overlooked from a political and cultural and intellectual standpoint, partially because of its association with girls, I wanted to give it a really serious treatment.
The new view of intelligence work is all about creating information, spreading and disrupting narratives. It’s no longer about keeping accurate records or models of the world; it’s about creating a world.
Denying fame, or incarnation as a public figure, does not necessitate abandoning pose.
I find labels like “spiritual but not religious” fall short for me. It’s a label that misses the tension behind this relationship to faith, doubt, and questioning the institution.
And there’s manufactured insecurity, which is the kind of insecurity that facilitates the concentration of power and profit, the kind of insecurity imposed on us by our economic and political system.
To be a poet in the Anthropocene means trying to incorporate the structures we use in poetry or the kinds of imaginative, weirdo thinking we enact into our other modes of coping and relating.
Each center describes what happens in another center
I’m not a cynic, I’m here
Watercolor in dream phoneme I hope this reaches you up like where.
as melt, magnolia, test cricket, and breath
manta, sway, Cairngorms, slow spinning
paper cranes on the mantel hampered
by symbolic nature but why not
be more is it justice to want and want