#I know that american individualism is a plague but My God I literally am so fucking deeply completely utterly goddamn burnt out

[die-tenebris]

a basic human right to privacy and solitude is just as important as being in community and being able to socialize

[ziptie-bouquet]

Alright. So. The Bioshock Infinite issue.

I haven't completed the game but I doubt it'll do a 180 to completely change its politics at this point. (Long post so I added a cut!)

I went into the game and immediately recognized the "Bioshock tm" lack of subtlety and depth when dealing with serious political issues. It has been plaguing all the games in the series. But still, I had an optimistic mindset. I told myself that even if it lacked nuance, racism is a very important issue to bring awareness to.

Something that bothered me with the shallow takes on chauvinism and racism in this game is that it portrays them as things of the past. It doesn't help that they're so exaggerated. It doesn't have the bite of things you can actually still see today. It's not pervasive, it takes the idea that bigotry is only ever bigotry if it's blatant hatred to the extreme.

I think that, like the two other games, it has a very rich environment and potential. DeWitt's involvement with the Native Americans genocide could have genuinely been an extremely compelling plot point had it not be relegated to some sort of INDIVIDUAL guilt. His native american heritage is just a small detail within the tapes. The pride his old sergent has about killing tribes that he could be a descent of is never fully confronted, and you even get encouraged to treat him with kindness and mercy.

I'm honestly waiting for this to get expanded on, but it's the reason why I was in denial for so long about what had happened with the revolutionaries later in game. He's still a guy who was part of a genocide and has not fully confronted it out loud. He's unreliable and I would not trust his takes on racism.

With that in mind, I make my way to Finkton. As soon as I get there, I start killing every cop I see without even getting told to do so by the game. I think I might have missed a fuck ton of scripted animations and dialogues by doing this. The game very strongly established the people there are slaves, and are constantly under the surveillance of the cops I just killed.

I am hyped as shit as soon as the revolution rolls out, but DeWitt's first comment about how "Fitzroy and Comstock are the same besides the names" worried me at first. No worries, I tell myself, surely the game will be smart about it! Surely it will be about how DeWitt is wrong and Elizabeth is gonna teach him he has internalized racism from genociding indigenous people.

Then both him and Elizabeth make this comment again. The game HAS to give Daisy a completely out of character moment to even make killing the black female revolution leader seem like a sensible thing to do. It HAS to make the revolutionaries you kill almost all white after this to prevent you from seeing the obvious racism of what you're doing (alongside resource minmaxing I imagine). I went from being hopeful this will be a just and nuanced tale about confronting your own biases to seeing the game is going to be the weakest lib shit ever. Genuinely going down the route of "all violence is bad :(". They have the absolute gall to do this after literally breaking time and space to bring a revolutionary back to life because he was a POLITICAL PRISONER and got brutally murdered by white supremacists. (Also its fucking hilarious I can kill cops in the hundreds but when the oppressed minority wants to then its some horrible terrible thing)

I don't know, this was a lot of words to not say a lot but it's 7 am and I'm still in shambles I cannot believe they did this. Did nobody proofread the script?? How did this even get published?? Why is it so critically acclaimed??

I am really hoping it'll do a 180 but god am I doubtful.

( @solsono Je te réponds avec un poste à cause de la limite de caractères + en anglais pour les gens qui passent devant mais merci!)

[oneweekoneband]

In the first cold hours of a new December morning, Taylor Swift once again revealed herself to be the primary antagonist in my hero’s journey. Weary and woebegone as I am, I will not waste strength on any attempt to deny that this latest attack has knocked me off balance, but I believe it is important that I—we, really, the lot of us who have been bloodied pitiably beneath this most brutal show of force—rebound immediately into a defensive posture so that there might be any hope at all for survival. Taylor’s second pandemic album will be released at midnight tonight, so I guess Shakespeare and his little “play” about elder abuse can get fucked after all. The album is called evermore. It was hubris, I can see in retrospect, which led me to tempt my enemy by writing all these words about her on this, the week of her birthday, knowing as I do that Taylor is one of those especially dangerous adults who make a big deal about both birthdays and lucky numbers. Icarus is my name now, covered in melted wax and tumbling to the sea. So as to steel ourselves for these horrors yet to come, I offer now, with not arrogance but the faith of the foolhardy, my best conjecture as to the content of each detestable track. 

willow - Could be about a tree. Could be about a girl. More likely it is both somehow, which is extremely pervy, and not just because that’s part of the plot of the unspeakably cursed The Raven Cycle novels, which I, a full blown adult with, generally speaking, normal brain function, voluntarily read for the first time this summer because some of us, ma’am, used the pandemic for activities that hurt only ourselves, not others. Well, happy holidays, tree fuckers.

champagne problems - Whatever this is, know that I will be considering it a work after Fall Out Boy’s “Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends” and I’ll be right to do so and many people will say as much admiringly and they’ll smile at me with pride and doff their caps as I go.

gold rush - If this song is anything but a loving, comprehensive summation of the children’s novel DEAR AMERICA Seeds of Hope: The Gold Rush Diary of Susanna Fairchild then I’m going to walk directly out of my home and, deadly virus be damned, keep walking until I’ve entered Taylor Swift’s instead, at which point I will begin to scream out a litany of complaints at the very top of my voice, ceasing only when her security team kills me or we fall in love.

tis the damn season - Worst case scenario this is a sad Christmas song (the best kind of Christmas song) and it devastates me in the most degrading way possible. Best case scenario it’s really bad and dumb and I can live without pain.

tolerate it - Many possibilities here. Could be about white-knuckling it through a period of depression, or a breakup. Most obviously, it could be about COVID-19 lockdowns keeping us trapped in our homes, disconnected from loved ones, going slow-brained and strange, bowls piling up, and suddenly so desperate for human interaction that even memories of having drinks with somebody from Hinge who quoted Friends twice in an hour are tantalizing in comparison to the touch-starved dreamstate of staying indoors... But I kinda feel like this is Taylor replying “COPE” from on high to my tweets about how I would rather be boiled alive than have to face the existence of this record.

no body, no crime (feat. Haim) - What would be very good is if this is a homosexual romp about Taylor Swift and the one hot Haim guitar girl with the really gay energy doing a murder together a la “Somethin’ Bad” by Miranda Lambert with Carrie Underwood, but honestly, it is probably another song about Gone Girl.

happiness - Impossible to speak on this since, thanks to Taylor Swift, happiness is something with which I have no familiarity. 

dorothea - Have seen chirping on the odious bird application about how perhaps this song title suggests that Taylor has written a song about Middlemarch, titling it for Dorothea Brooke, but I reject this because it implies that Taylor has read Middlemarch, which is a premise I cannot accept. Whether this refusal is out of self-preservation, being unwilling and in fact unable to face a world where Taylor Swift read and was moved to creation by the novel which was my most essential friend the summer I got dumped by a guy who I still had to work feet away from in a candle factory for another month, and about which Emily Dickinson (Emily Dickinson whose birthday it happens to be today, which isn’t to say that this means anything about anything. I am simply trying to batten down all hatches literally and spiritually in light of having been had once again by this numerology obsessed demon) once wrote "What do I think of Middlemarch? What do I think of glory.” or because I just at my core do not believe that Taylor has read a single book since Gone Girl I couldn’t possibly say.

coney island (feat. The National) : Some ungodly americana ass bullshit that is going to ruin my life. The thought of holy terror shaped like a horse girl Taylor Swift and trickster nymph in the body of a tax accountant Matt Berninger, two individuals I have allowed, separately, to cause me grievous psychic harm, having even the barest amount of one to one contact, even digitally, has made me want to peel all my skin off and put it back on flipped inside out so that I might, when I look in the mirror, see a version of myself which approximates how I feel.

ivy - Another song for the plant lesbians. That’s fine, and I’m happy for that community, but what I want to know, looking at this growing pile of songs named after women, is where, Taylor, is the song about loudmouth queen Inez, legendary gossip and, for my money, the star of folklore?  

cowboy like me - Putting it as mildly as humanly possible, to slit my throat would be less cruel. I am drawing a straight line from me writing illegible sequels to perfect film An American Tail: Fievel Goes West (itself a sequel) in crayon as a toddler, to Paula Cole’s “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” on the radio in my mom’s two door Honda, to me everyday after school in third grade changing into the cowboy costume my godmother bought, to me at fourteen internalizing a sense of righteous indignation that would take years to even begin to outgrow when Crash beat Brokeback Mountain for Best Picture, to the winter I dropped half my classes out of fear and sickness and read paperback westerns on the twenty third floor of the college library for tens of hours at a go, to the profoundly gay episode of Supernatural called “Tombstone” which is, yes, named for the profoundly gay cowboy film Tombstone, to the inspired and revitalizing pause in “Space Cowboy” by Kacey Musgraves where she’s like, “You can have your space........ cowboy”, to Mitski’s Be the Cowboy, to the perfect boygenius cover of certified classic “Cowboy Take Me Away”, to whatever the hell this is going to be.That line is not to make a point at all. It’s just that there is a line and beside it there is me, incapacitated.

long story short - Just like all the other times anyone has ever invoked this phrase in the entire history of human beings expressing themselves with language, it is going to be a huge lie, because this woman never shuts up.

marjorie - After all that Taylor has put me through over the years, she should have at least named one of these wretched things “ellen” after my dead Sagittarian grandmother, whose birthday is tomorrow, December 11th, which is again, the release date of Taylor Swift’s second album in sixth months, but it’s probably for the best that she didn’t because you simpletons would immediately think it was an homage to George Bush’s friend Dory the fish, and therefore gay, regardless of the actual text of the song, and it’d be the “betty” massacre all over again. That being said, this is almost assuredly another horny song about some mid-century white lady. Only days ago Taylor was telling Entertainment Weekly that she’s been watching a lot of movies in quarantine, and while she didn’t name 1958’s Marjorie Morningstar starring Natalie Wood, I wouldn’t put it past her.

closure - God, I hope this one is another Kaylor classic so we can all act like complete raving lunatics online from the confines of our own plague quarters for a few days. It’s been a hard year.

evermore (feat. Bon Iver) - I’ll be catatonic by this point. Who cares?

right where you left me - Yes, in hell.

it’s time to go - Yes, TO HELL.

[frankcmcclanahaniii]

BALM FOR UNBELIEVERS

CORONAVIRUS, CONFIRMATION BIAS AND MASON BEES: BALM FOR UNBELIEVERS This spring, just before the most restrictive social distancing measures were imposed, I was invited by an old friend (who is a doctor) to join him in a long walk. In accordance with the rules at that time we took two cars (to avoid contact) and I followed him. For the first time I noticed his license plate which read “John 9 1-3”. As we walked separated a safe distance we talked about coronavirus and its effect on the world. It was a beautiful day. When I returned home I printed out a copy of John 9 1-7 because that is what came up when I googled John 9 1-3. Like most Americans my age, I was raised a Christian, but many years ago I became a doubter and skeptic. In my youth my biblical knowledge came from the King James Version so that is what I googled. Here is the text: 9 And as Jesus passed by, he saw a man which was blind from his birth. 2 And his disciples asked him, saying, Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind? 3 Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him. 4 I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work. 5 As long as I am in the world, I am the light of the world. 6 When he had thus spoken, he spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and he anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay, 7 And said unto him, Go, wash in the pool of Siloam, (which is by interpretation, Sent.) He went his way therefore, and washed, and came seeing. I was troubled by this text. In particular I was troubled by the notion that a man might be born blind “…that the works of God should be made manifest in him.” But in the context of the rest of the passage, since Jesus worked the miracle that made him see, I thought that perhaps the miracle he worked was the “manifestation” intended. But that also led to more troubles, because neither Jesus nor God cures all ailments, which conditions God permits if not causes (if the text is taken literally, “that the works of God should be made manifest in [them].”) So, I did what I often do from habit when faced with a conundrum, and condensed it into a sonnet. Here is the sonnet: JOHN 9 1-7 When asked about a man born blind Jesus replied it was no sin Of anyone had stricken him But rather God’s revealed design. He spat on clay and bade him find The fount of faith where sight begins The man did so and saw wherein We learn the power of faith and mind. As now coronavirus kills The knowledge sin is not to blame Seems pale placebo all the same; And if these deaths are not His will The virus spreads and kills without Awareness what we think about. I sent this sonnet to my friend. He did not like it. My friend is something of a modern saint, and so, too kind to be harshly critical, but also highly educated, a voracious reader, and steeped in biblical knowledge far deeper than my own, who said simply “I do not think you have fully appreciated the passage.” He noted that my sonnet went beyond the verses borne by his license plate, and he also pointed out that at the time John was written, it was common knowledge that if something bad happened, like a child born blind, it was automatically assumed that the defect was punishment for some sin, by some person. So, he suggested that I think about the first three verses and perhaps I would gain a deeper understanding of the rest. I then consulted my wife, who like my friend has a much deeper understanding of the Bible. I told her about the license plate and showed her the copy of John 9 1-7 that I had printed and asked her what the license plate means. She said immediately “It’s not your fault.” She explained it was a perfect license plate for our mutual friend, who treats cancer patients, many of whom believe that their cancer is their fault. I asked her about “…but that the works of God should be made manifest in him…” and she said that was unsettling, but that perhaps in a different version of the Bible, a different phrase might be substituted. She looked it up in a few more recent versions, but said that it was not fundamentally different. We both then concluded that perhaps the phrase was merely introductory to the miracle that Jesus performed, in the sense that the man’s blindness occurred as the occasion for Jesus to restore his sight. This small illumination led me to rethink the sonnet. So, I revised it as follows: JOHN 9 1-7 When asked about a man born blind Jesus replied it was no sin By anyone had stricken him But rather God’s revealed design. He spat on clay and bade him find The fount of faith where sight begins The man did so and saw wherein We learn the power of faith on mind. Now as coronavirus kills The faithless and the faithful too Perhaps the light of God shines through The sacrificial deeds some will Perform, laying down their lives to be If not the light, the way to see. I sent this revision to my friend, who, in his saintly way, said it was still not quite right. He suggested that I remember Dr. Rieux from Camus’ The Plague, and also look up Anne Bradstreet and another (to me) obscure theologian who had written about the purpose of suffering in life. I tend to balk at suggestions of this sort because, as a contrarian and an unbeliever, I have taught myself to be content with infinity rather than eternity. In place of the eternal continuation of a finite human life in some imagined afterlife, I accept that I and all human beings are finite and will never be infinite. Infinity, like the God who can do all things, is beyond all finite creatures, and inherently unlike them. I do not believe that any of us will ever be infinite because if we were, we would ourselves be some sort of god, but no longer human. As it happens, I have written another sonnet on this subject although not directly related. Here it is: TONE DEAF If I were God, I would not need The love of all or any men Nor would I crave their reverence No more than other men like me Demand obedience from bees Or daily prayers from hills of ants Nor ponder proper punishments Of beetles for their blasphemies. My prophets, though, might well mistake The messages they thought they heard; Just as the brilliant mockingbird Must improvise the sounds we make There might be countless disconnects In what I meant and they detect. As I thought about this, I realized that both my friend and I, like all humans, are susceptible to confirmation bias that governs more than we either consciously recognize, our ability to process information. His confirmation bias is to impose the axioms of his deep and abiding faith on his very considerable powers of reasoning. And mine is to doubt with the same axiomatic force. And as I thought about it, I realized that neither bias is right or wrong, true or false; they are just different perspectives on the same human problem, which is to find a satisfactory model for extracting meaning and happiness from the time we are allotted. I would like to digress now to two kinds of bees, honey bees and mason bees. Honey bees are social creatures, whose world is the hive. Each hive has one queen and countless workers, rather like human societies typically have a leader and followers. Honey bee hives are all genetically the same, and recognize each other as the same, just as they recognize the difference of any honey bees that are not from their hive. They will defend the hive against other bees or any other predator, but their main activity is to gather pollen to produce honey which sustains the hive in winter. Mason bees, by contrast, are solitary. Each female mason bee gathers pollen to sustain the larvae that grow from the eggs she deposits in tubes or crevices. When enough pollen has been deposited to sustain one larva, she lays one egg and seals it up with mud. She repeats this process five times, and then moves to another tube or crevice. She continues doing so until she dies. I do not know how mason bees distribute males and females in their tubes, but the male bees seem to hatch first, so that they can fertilize the first female mason bees that hatch. Mason bees are early pollinators. They hatch before most honey bees are active and so pollinate the earliest blooming fruits and flowers. The mason bees die around the time the honey bees are most active. Between them (and with the help of bumblebees) they ensure that all blossoms are pollinated and the territories they occupy are fruitful. These two bees are also analogous to my friend, who is communitarian, extraverted and a believer, and me, who is contrarian, introverted and a doubter. My friend is deeply interested in such questions as the purpose of human suffering and how a just and equitable society might be designed. I am deeply interested in individual freedom and how the power of the majority or the collective might be restrained. We overlap, of course, and in fact agree on many matters. You could make labels to characterize our different perspectives, and the labels you chose would reflect your own confirmation biases, probably favorable to one, and derogatory to the other. But you could label my friend a honey bee, and me a mason bee, and the designation would not be particularly biased at all. Both types of bees coexist in harmony, without conflict, just like my friend and myself. Both types of bees are useful, and probably necessary, or they would not be here, as they have been for eons longer than there have been humans. I believe the same is true of my friend and myself, who have both been successful, productive citizens who have each made contributions to our society. I have not intentionally done anything I am aware of to bring grief or suffering to any other person and I am absolutely confident that my friend has not either. I am no doubt guilty of indifference, and my friend may be too, but not that I know of. My point is simply that neither of our different perspectives, nor the confirmation biases that inhere in them, have made us deserving of favorable or derogatory labels. So, to bring it all back to the second sonnet, it is a compromise. I do not want to change it to unravel the divine purpose in human suffering as my friend might, because it would be a honey bee sonnet written by a mason bee. He persuaded me to change the sestet from a cynical commentary on a God whose existence I doubt to an observation that any person who encounters any stranger stricken or in need, can help, as some will help, both believers and doubters. That is a logos even a mason bee can believe. © 2020 frankcmcclanahaniii