self-portrait.
There is an aesthetic crisis in writing, which is this: how do we write emotionally of scenes involving computers? How do we make concrete, or at least reconstructable in the minds of our readers, the terrible, true passions that cross telephony lines? Right now my field must tackle describing a world where falling in love, going to war and filling out tax forms looks the same; it looks like typing.
State power is readily captured and used by the powerful. It is strange to build normative theories on the implicit prediction that, if only state power is expanded, it will probably be used to redress and mitigate rather than entrench and aggravate the inequalities that have developed in the market and society.
Eventually he got sick from swimming in a river infested with monkey feces and came home.
Me, you, and George Saunders.
self-portrait.
Another high school friend died last week, suddenly, of a stroke, and I found out about it (again) on FB. And I let other friends know over FB and we remembered our friend while we looked through the photos she’d posted. I guess it just doesn’t matter how conflicted I am about Mark Zuckerburg and his policies. Whether I like it or not FB is becoming the town square and water cooler and photo album for my far flung friends and family.
I’m sorry to hear that but, as someone who recently left Facebook for a variety of reasons, I think it does matter. I’m no more comfortable with Facebook as a shared obituary page than I am with Facebook as a paltry substitute for an online public space.
(via evoke)
A wall in Paris.
