#Textile Machinery News

[matsmi13]

Devoted to his club forever

I have always been a big fan of the Paris Saint Germain football club. So, when I won a contest for an exclusive behind-the-scenes tour of the Parc des Princes stadium, I was over the moon. A whole day to explore the secret nooks and crannies, meet the players, and maybe even get a first-hand look at the world of professional soccer.

The visit began in the classic way. I discover the dressing rooms, the press room, the benches where so many legends have sat. It's all fascinating, but it's at the end of the tour that things get really interesting.

“For the more passionate like you, we've prepared a never-before-seen immersive experience where you have the opportunity to “live in the skin of a player”. Would you like to try this experience ?” announced the guide with an enigmatic smile.

I accepted immediately, all excited. I thought it was a kind of virtual reality simulation, an interactive experience where I could feel what it's like to play for PSG.

I had no idea what was going on when I was taken to another part of the stadium, an area normally off-limits to the public.

Once inside an ultra-modern room, I was taken aback by the atmosphere. The room is filled with high-tech equipment, complex machinery, and scientists in white coats bustling around various devices.

“Before we start this experiment, we need you to sign a few waivers. It's standard procedure to make sure everything goes smoothly” said the guide. He handed me a stack of documents to sign. The sheets were dense, full of legal and scientific jargon I didn't really understand. But my excitement won out. I told myself it was probably just a formality.

I signed without hesitation, then was ushered into a small booth off to one side.

“ Please enter this cabin. We need you to undress and leave all your belongings here, including any digital devices”. I obeyed, thinking it was to put on some special equipment, maybe even real PSG match gear. But once undressed, one of the scientists took all my stuff and closed the cabin door behind you.

The cabin I was in was simple, with white walls and soft lights. I was starting to feel slightly nervous, but I pushed those thoughts aside. After all, I was here for a unique experience.

But something wasn't right. The cabin began to emit a dull hum, and the walls around you lit up in a strange way. Suddenly, a breath of fresh air escaped, followed by a strange tingling sensation on your skin. The buzzing intensified, and waves passed through your body, leaving you with a sensation of warmth, first slight, then increasingly intense.

I felt strange, as if my body were reacting to something invisible. My skin began to stretch, my limbs lengthened inexplicably. I wanted to move, but I felt frozen in place, unable to control my movements.

My heart was beating faster, but it seemed to be beating outside me, as if my body had become a mere shell. Sensations multiplied as I gradually lost the perception of myself as a human being. My muscles contracted, then relaxed, slowly breaking down, fiber by fiber.

My mind was in total confusion. I didn't understand what was happening to me, but I felt that something irreversible was happening. My thoughts scattered, your identity slowly faded away as your body was transformed into malleable matter.

Once the dissolution was complete, my remaining residues were transformed into fibers. I was stretched, twisted and reassembled into a continuous thread. During this process, I gradually lost my human consciousness, turning into a textile material. I became a material, a textile substance ready to be used and shaped for a new creation.

Once the thread was formed, the machine stopped and the cabin opened. The scientists reappeared, exchanging satisfied glances.

“Let's see the final result” says one of them. He runs his fingers along the wire I've become, while another scientist checks data on a screen. “The transformation is very conclusive. The texture is homogeneous, and the molecular structure is stable. The yarn is very strong, yet light. This is exactly what we needed for the rest of the process”. “We finally have the perfect organic material to make what sir has been waiting for. After several attempts, this person was the right one. And to think that this young supporter didn't even take the time to read the documents he signed. His blind enthusiasm and unthinking devotion have led him to a unique destiny: to become a piece of clothing for his club forever. Send the wire to the factory for assembly. We have to meet the deadline”

I was wound into spools, taken away and transported to a new destination.

I was shipped to a specialized textile mill, woven into a solid, uniform navy-blue fabric, cut into pieces according to a precise pattern and assembled to create the undershirt. The sewing process finalized my transformation into a ready-to-wear garment.

I was carefully packed and sent straight to the Parc des Princes stadium. I arrived in the dressing room, where the kitman in charge of the players' equipment unpacked me and placed me carefully folded in Kylian Mbappe's locker.

The locker room was quiet as we waited for the players to arrive. Not a sound. It took forever. Then the players arrived, including Kylian Mbappe. I felt his hand close over me and inspect me for a moment, his fingers gliding over your surface, before slipping me under his main jersey.

“Hmm, this feels really different” Kylian murmurs as he adjusts the sleeves, testing the sensation against his skin. “It's light, but it's like it's breathing with me” He makes a few movements to check my flexibility. “Not bad at all. It's exactly what I needed. The fabric is soft, but it has this... sturdy feel. I feel like I'm going to be able to move freely without it bothering me”. Kylian continues to test me, raising his arms, bending down, jumping slightly on the spot. “It keeps me dry. Even here, in the changing room, I can feel it regulating the temperature. I don't get that clammy feeling you sometimes get with other undershirts”.

On the pitch, the sensations run wild. Every time Kylian sprints, makes a technical move or changes direction, I'm subjected to compression and stretching forces. The constant pressure and friction are new sensations for me. Every impact has to be absorbed in such a way as to minimize disruption to Kylian.

My fabric, designed to wick away moisture, is in constant interaction with Kylian's sweat. This persistent absorption seems crucial to maintaining his comfort and performance. As an undershirt, my fabric body have to effectively manage this moisture, distributing it throughout my fabric to avoid accumulation that could cause discomfort.

As an undershirt, I have to provide constant support. The cut and seams are made to fit Kylian's body perfectly, offering both support and comfort. Every seam, every insertion must be impeccable to avoid chafing or distortion that could affect his game.

The match is over. Every fibre of my being is saturated with sweat, soaked in Kylian's warmth. I've been worn, I've been useful, I've been... his.

But the happiness was short-lived. In one swift movement, Kylian pulls me off and throws me in his locker, like a worthless object. The air is now freezing. I lay there in the corner of his locker, motionless and useless.

Time passes... or maybe not... because the notion of time is escaping me more and more.

Finally, a hand grabs me. It's that of the person in charge of the equipment. I'm handled and tossed into a dirty clothes bag. I find myself among other clothes, all soaked with sweat, all marked by the effort of the person wearing them. We're crammed together, pressed against each other.

The bag starts moving, carrying me towards the launderette. Each jolt reminds me of my new reality. I'm just another garment to be cleaned, stripped of all traces of life and human warmth.

I'm thrown into a machine without the slightest consideration. The cold water overwhelms me and cleanses me. Every fibre of my body is abused, turned inside out, wrung out. Kylian's sweat is washed away, his musk erased... and with them, that little feeling of belonging disappears. I have become a simple piece of cloth, washed and disinfected, with no soul, no memory.

The spinning compresses me, crushes me. I'm emptied, compressed, reduced to a state of pure fabric, without warmth, without life. Drying... the hot air passes through me, making me lighter, but also emptying me of any trace of what I once was. I'm nothing more than an undershirt, clean, dry... and empty.

Finally, I'm taken out of the machine. I'm folded, put away and placed in a dark closet with the other undershirts. I'm no longer struggling. I'm in the dark, motionless... but this immobility, this waiting, is no longer important. Waiting... that's all clothes do.

The closet is silent. I am among the other clothes, perfectly folded. Time no longer has any meaning for me.

Where am I ? Who am I ? What is my real nature ? I'm... what ? An undershirt ? Yes, an undershirt. But… where do I come from ? What have I become ? The questions float unanswered, in the void. Here in the dark, all I know... is wait. Wait…why ? Why wait ? My role... is... to be a piece of clothing.

My only thoughts are of serving, of being worm. I want the sweat. I need the musk... need to comfort and support my owner. I no longer have conscious thoughts, desires or dreams. My humanity is gone, replaced by the pure essence of a piece of clothing. I no longer feel the emotions and thoughts of a human being.

I am an undershirt, a simple fabric, entirely devoted to serving my master, Kylian Mbappé. When the time comes, when he wear me again, I will be ready. But until that day, I remain here, still, accepting my destiny as clothing.

Thanks to @inanimatetffantasies for his support and advice in writing this story

[aimeedaisies]

The Princess Royal’s Official Engagements in February 2024

01/02 Visited ReBoot (Moray Computer Recycling) in Forres. 🖥️

As Warden, opened the Queen Elizabeth II classrooms at Gordonstoun School. 🏫

Visited Lossie Community Hub at the Warehouse Theatre, in Lossiemouth. 🎭

Unofficial Sir Tim, as Chair of the Board of Trustees, attended the opening ceremony of the Zimingzhong 凝时聚珍: Clockwork Treasures from China's Forbidden City exhibition at the London Science Museum. 🐉🧧🕰️

03/02 With Sir Tim As Patron of the Scottish Rugby Union, attended the Six Nations Rugby Match between Wales and Scotland at Principality Stadium in Cardiff. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏉

05/02 Visited Dressability Clothing Alterations Charity in Swindon, to mark its 25th Anniversary. 👗🪡🧵

As Commandant-in-Chief (Youth) of St John Ambulance, attended the dedication of a new Community Response Unit in Devizes, Wiltshire. 🚑

06/02 Held an Investiture at Windsor Castle. 🎖️

As Patron of the Royal College of Occupational Therapists, attended the launch of Nottingham West Primary Care Network’s Interactive Group Therapy at Plumptre Hall. 🩺

As President of the UK Fashion and Textile Association Limited, visited GH Hurt and Son in Nottingham. 🪡

With Sir Tim As Royal Fellow of the Royal Academy of Engineering, attended the announcement of the winner of The Queen Elizabeth Prize for Engineering at the Science Museum in London. ⚙️🥂

07/02 As Colonel-in-Chief of The Royal Logistic Corps, visited the Defence Explosive Ordnance Disposal, Munitions and Search Training Regiment at St George’s Barracks in Bicester. 💥

As President of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, visited the Commission’s Headquarters in Maidenhead. 🪦

As Patron of Catch22, visited the Commissioned Rehabilitative Services at Community Links in London. 🔗

08/02 As Vice Patron of the British Horse Society, visited Wormwood Scrubs Pony Centre in West London. 🐎

As President of the Royal Yachting Association, attended the Annual Luncheon at Trinity House in London. 🛥️🥪

09/02 In Wales, Princess Anne; 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

As Royal Patron of the National Coastwatch Institution, visited Worms Head Station in Rhossili, followed by a Reception at South Gower Sports Club in Scurlage. 🔎🍾

Visited Newport Medieval Ship. 🚢

Visited Newport Transporter Bridge which is undergoing maintenance. 🌉

10/02 With Sir Tim As Patron of the Scottish Rugby Union, attended the Six Nations Rugby Match between France and Scotland at Murrayfield Stadium in Edinburgh. 🇫🇷🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏉

12/02 As Patron of Swinfen Telemedicine, attended a Meeting at the Royal Society of Medicine. 💊

As Chancellor of the University of Edinburgh, held a Dinner at Buckingham Palace. 🎓

13/02 Held an Investiture at Windsor Castle. 🎖️

As Master of the Corporation of Trinity House, chaired the Quarterly Meeting of the Court at Trinity House. 📆

14/02 As Royal Patron of the National Coastwatch Institution, visited Hengistbury Head Station near Bournemouth. 🌊

As Colonel-in-Chief of the Intelligence Corps, visited I Company at Hamworthy Barracks in Poole. 🕵️‍♀️

15/02 Visited the Ordnance Survey National Mapping Agency in Southampton. 🗺️

With Sir Tim Attended Evensong and the James Caird Society’s Dedication Service followed by a Reception in Westminster Abbey, to mark the 150th Anniversary of the birth of Sir Ernest Shackleton. 🔭🧭🇦🇶

16/02 Visited knife crime community group ‘Off the Streets’ North Northamptonshire in Wellingborough. 🚫🔪

20/02 As President of the UK Fashion and Textile Association, visited Laxtons Limited in Baildon near Bradford. 🧶

As President of the UK Fashion and Textile Association, visited Marton Mills in Otley, West Yorkshire. 🪡

21/02 In Doncaster, South Yorkshire, Princess Anne;

Visited Agemaspark Precision Engineering Company. ⚙️

Visited Haith Group Vegetable Processing Machinery Company. 🥕🥦

As Patron of the Butler Trust, visited HM Prison and Young Offender Institution Doncaster. 🚓👮‍♀️

As Past Master of the Worshipful Company of Carmen, attended a Joint Services Awards Dinner at Painters’ Hall in London. 🍽️

22/01 Visited London South Bank Technical College and Lee Marley Academy. ✏️👷

As Patron of Save the Children UK, visited Mary’s Living and Giving Shop in Wandsworth. 👚

23/02 unofficial Departed Heathrow Airport for Namibia 🇬🇧✈️🇳🇦

24/02 unofficial Arrived at Windhoek Hosea Kutako International Airport in Namibia. ✈️🇳🇦

Representing The King, Princess Anne called upon Mrs Monica Geingos (widow of Dr Hage Geingob). 🖤

Unofficial Sir Tim represented Princess Anne, Patron of the Scottish Rugby Union, at the Six Nations Rugby Match between Scotland and England at Murrayfield Stadium in Edinburgh. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿🏉

25/02 Representing The King, Princess Anne attended the Burial Service for Dr Hage Geingob at Heroes’ Acre. 🕊️

Later attended a State Luncheon given by The President of Namibia at State House. 🍽️

26/02 unofficial Arrived at Heathrow Airport from Namibia. 🇳🇦✈️🇬🇧

With Sir Tim Attended the British Horseracing Authority’s Thoroughbred Industry Employee Awards at Ascot Racecourse. 🐎🏆

27/02 With Sir Tim Attended a Service of Thanksgiving for the late King Constantine II at St George’s Chapel in Windsor Castle with members of 🇬🇧, 🇬🇷, 🇩🇰 and 🇪🇸 royal families.

28/02 As Patron of the Royal College of Emergency Medicine, attended the Emergency Medicine Trainees' Association Annual Conference at Hilton Newcastle Gateshead. 💉💊

As Royal Patron of the Motor Neurone Disease Association, attended a Rugby League Reception at Leeds Rhinos Rugby Club, in Headingley, Leeds. 🦽🏉

29/02 unofficial Departed from Heathrow Airport for the United Arab Emirates 🇬🇧✈️🇦🇪

Unofficial Sir Tim, as President of Never Such Innocence, attended a 10th anniversary celebration for the charity at Edinburgh Castle. 🏰

Total official engagements for Anne in February: 44

2024 total so far: 85

Total official engagements accompanied by Tim in February: 6

2024 total so far: 23

FYI - due to certain royal family members being off ill/in recovery I won’t be posting everyone’s engagement counts out of respect, I am continuing to count them and release the totals at the end of the year.

[dailyanarchistposts]

I.8.1 Is the Spanish Revolution inapplicable as a model for modern societies?

Quite the reverse. More urban workers took part in the revolution than in the countryside. So while it is true that collectivisation was extensive in rural areas, the revolution also made its mark in urban areas and in industry.

In total, the “regions most affected” by collectivisation “were Catalonia and Aragón, where about 70 per cent of the workforce was involved. The total for the whole of Republican territory was nearly 800,000 on the land and a little more than a million in industry. In Barcelona workers’ committees took over all the services, the oil monopoly, the shipping companies, heavy engineering firms such as Volcano, the Ford motor company, chemical companies, the textile industry and a host of smaller enterprises … Services such as water, gas and electricity were working under new management within hours of the storming of the Atarazanas barracks … a conversion of appropriate factories to war production meant that metallurgical concerns had started to produce armed cars by 22 July … The industrial workers of Catalonia were the most skilled in Spain … One of the most impressive feats of those early days was the resurrection of the public transport system at a time when the streets were still littered and barricaded.” Five days after the fighting had stopped, 700 tramcars rather than the usual 600, all painted in the black-and-red colours of the CNT-FAI, were operating in Barcelona. [Antony Beevor, The Spanish Civil War, pp. 91–2]

About 75% of Spanish industry was concentrated in Catalonia, the stronghold of the anarchist labour movement, and widespread collectivisation of factories took place there. As Sam Dolgoff rightly observed, this “refutes decisively the allegation that anarchist organisational principles are not applicable to industrial areas, and if at all, only in primitive agrarian societies or in isolated experimental communities.” [The Anarchist Collectives, pp. 7–8] According to Augustin Souchy:

“It is no simple matter to collectivise and place on firm foundations an industry employing almost a quarter of a million textile workers in scores of factories scattered in numerous cities. But the Barcelona syndicalist textile union accomplished this feat in a short time. It was a tremendously significant experiment. The dictatorship of the bosses was toppled, and wages, working conditions and production were determined by the workers and their elected delegates. All functionaries had to carry out the instructions of the membership and report back directly to the men on the job and union meetings. The collectivisation of the textile industry shatters once and for all the legend that the workers are incapable of administrating a great and complex corporation.” [Op. Cit., p. 94]

Moreover, Spain in the 1930s was not a backward, peasant country, as is sometimes supposed. Between 1910 and 1930, the industrial working class more than doubled to over 2,500,000. This represented just over 26% of the working population (compared to 16% twenty years previously). In 1930, only 45% of the working population were engaged in agriculture. [Ronald Fraser, The Blood of Spain, p. 38] In Catalonia alone, 200,000 workers were employed in the textile industry and 70,000 in metal-working and machinery manufacturing. This was very different than the situation in Russia at the end of World War I, where the urban working class made up only 10% of the population.

Capitalist social relations had also penetrated the rural economy by the 1930s with agriculture oriented to the world market and approximately 90% of farm land in the hands of the bourgeoisie. [Fraser, Op. Cit., p. 37] So by 1936 agriculture was predominately capitalist, with Spanish agribusiness employing large numbers of labourers who either did not own enough land to support themselves or where landless. The labour movement in the Spanish countryside in the 1930s was precisely based on this large population of rural wage-earners (the socialist UGT land workers union had 451,000 members in 1933, 40% of its total membership, for example). In Russia at the time of the revolution of 1917, agriculture mostly consisted of small farms on which peasant families worked mainly for their own subsistence, bartering or selling their surplus.

Therefore the Spanish Revolution cannot be dismissed as a product a of pre-industrial society. The urban collectivisations occurred predominately in the most heavily industrialised part of Spain and indicate that anarchist ideas are applicable to modern societies Indeed, comforting Marxist myths aside, the CNT organised most of the unionised urban working class and, internally, agricultural workers were a minority of its membership (by 1936, the CNT was making inroads in Madrid, previously a socialist stronghold while the UGT main area of growth in the 1930s was with, ironically, rural workers). The revolution in Spain was the work (mostly) of rural and urban wage labourers (joined with poor peasants) fighting a well developed capitalist system.

In summary, then, the anarchist revolution in Spain has many lessons for revolutionaries in developed capitalist countries and cannot be dismissed as a product of industrial backwardness. The main strength lay of the anarchist movement was in urban areas and, unsurprisingly, the social revolution took place in both the most heavily industrialised areas as well as on the land.

[knithacker]

An exhibition in South Street Seaport fills a former warehouse with fiber art and makes its old machinery, including a 12-foot wheel, part of the show.

[rotworld]

7: Metamorphosis

(previous)

the girl goes home. you visit an old friend.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, ear penetration, terato, mentions of drugging, mentions of child trafficking and child abuse.

.

.

.

The last leg of the journey is always a thing of wonder. You unfold your crumpled, egg-stained map and marvel at the neatness of the reality, the momentary certainty of things. This is the understanding you carved out in a corner of the world. This is how far you’ve come. The Drift is mercurial. It won’t last. These cities will have scattered again, these roads you thought you knew winding in strange, new ways. But for now, for just a moment, you bask in a sense of wearied accomplishment. You are still here, despite everything. 

There were tears this morning. Albie drew a map of his own depicting his family’s corner of Verlinda, landmarks painstakingly rendered in colored pencils scribbles and labeled with shaky letters. A little cottage in the forest, surrounded by trees, bordered by a stream and many smiling animals, is labeled “MY HOUSE.” He wanted to make sure the girl would be able to find her way back someday. She has it on her lap, neatly folded, clutched in her small hands. 

“It’s close,” you tell her. 

She watches the scenery with rapt attention, memorizing every detail. “Close,” she agrees, glancing at you in surprise. “How know?” 

“See the dirt? It’s kind of a reddish color. And that spicy-sweet smell is from the mulberry gardens.” The sign is just over the hill, exactly as you remember it; a metal slab suspended between old wooden posts, bearing elegant lettering and a curling ribbon design. “Welcome to Compass Hill,” it says, and your heart beats faster in recognition, anticipation and dread. “I grew up here,” you add softly. 

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW YOU REMEMBER BY AZURE RAY]

Roads into Compass Hill are long, decorated promenades of flattened cobblestone and stately scenery. Here is the visitor’s center, glass-paneled and flower-filled like a Victorian greenhouse. There is a lakeside sculpture garden with abstract figures and lanterns dotting the winding footpath. In the distance, the city’s crown jewel, a sprawling campus of red brick cathedrals—the head office and processing factory of Compass Hill Textiles.

“This used to be an awful place,” you say. “Someone might tell you the story later. Not to scare you, but because you should know. People would bring children of the road here because the company would pay them for it.”

You slow as you drive past the textiles building. They’ve kept it maintained, you notice, maybe to avoid suspicion. The lawn is trimmed, the hedges bordering the path up to the front steps neatly manicured. There’s a water fountain with an angel perched on top. The plaque set into the stone commemorates an ancient patriarch of the Dewitt family, a name emblazoned all over town. It was the Dewitts who built the mill, after all, a dynasty of textile magnates made wealthy by the harvest and refinement of exquisite silks. 

You point to the factory. “I used to live there. It looks nice from outside, but most of the space is for machinery. Rows and rows of rattling, whirring things that took up whole rooms. The kids who couldn’t weave slept in the cramped, overheated basement, right under all the noise. Eventually, we’d get our license and start delivering silk.” The girl studies the building with a small frown. “It’s different now,” you assure her. “The factory’s closed. Nobody has to sleep on a concrete floor anymore.”

There’s a gate just beyond the factory. Curling wrought iron arches form symmetrical shapes where they meet, an insectoid body with large, sweeping wings. You can hear something just faintly; a buzzing hum. A faraway melody. The gates pull apart with a loud metallic clattering, welcoming you inside. In your rearview mirror, you see a large shape on the roof of the old textile factory. It crouches, spreads its wings, and flits away. The girl sits up sharply, startled and curious. 

“Probably went to tell everyone we’re here,” you say.

“Everyone?” she asks. Something catches her eye and she turns back towards the window, her eyes widening.

“Everyone. You’re home.” 

Beyond the gate is the true, new Compass Hill, built on the bones of the old. Structures are soft and rounded rather than angular, wispy, cloud-like material woven across the city skyline. Gossamer threads sparkle in dazzling neon shades and subdued earth tones alike. The schoolhouse is a powdery blue dome with rocks and flowers woven around the entrance, while the open air marketplace is adorned with rippling canopy shades and decorative arches. Everything is silk as only Compass Hill knows it, exquisite color and unbelievably versatile texture. 

But the girl isn’t looking at the buildings. She’s looking at the people. Peering through honeycomb windows and ambling into the street, a crowd gathers, curiously chittering, all around your car. You stop in the middle of the road to let them see her, and for her to see them. Scaled skin and shimmering carapaces, wings and claws and softly clicking mandibles, bristle-thin hairs and thick, curly manes. The people of Compass Hill are as varied as the silk they spin. A child with slender vespid wings and gangly, striped arms comes right up to the window and the girl stares back at her with tears filling her four eyes. 

“Home!” she wails. “Home! Home!” You unlock the door and she tumbles into the waiting arms of family she has only dreamed of. A woman, pale pink and violet with a mantis’ tapered abdomen and sharp, hooked fingers, gently works the knots from the girl’s hair. The hum rises, louder now, a gentle, rolling melody of a thousand voices harmonizing. It’s the Song, welcoming you both. When you step out of the car, you’re swarmed with gentle touches and fond nuzzling. 

“You’re back.”  There’s a pleased purring beside your ear as four soft, lightly furred arms encircle you from behind. You recognize her quiet, higher-pitched notes before you see her. Chiffon is one of the oldest weavers in Compass Hill, her great wings as thick and heavy as a blanket. She slips in front of you, taking each of your hands in hers, the other two free to cup your face. Her four eyes arch in worry. “Where have you been? And where are you going?” 

“I’ll have to show you my map. It’s been a long trip,” you say. Chiffon chitters with laughter, a sound echoed all the way down the street as she passes the joke through the Song. “And I don’t know where I’m going yet. I was in a hurry to get here before the next shift.” 

“Your hand…” She’s gentle with it, fingers worrying the skin all around your bandages. “I’ll have a look at this later. You’ll stay the night. Rest. He’ll be so happy to see you.” Your smile wanes. Chiffon squeezes your hands, reassuring but also pleading. “Please,” she sings softer. “Please go see him.”

You hear a delighted warble, the melody rising. The girl looks startled, clutching a wad of fresh, glistening silk in her hand, small string still connected to her mouth. The color is like a sunrise, a blue ombre glinting with strands of gold. One of the old weavers bends down and shows her how to braid it, tying off the ends so it doesn’t fray. “That’s hopesilk,” he says, pausing his singing so she can understand him. “Very strong, and very pretty. Someone believes in you very much.” 

You wipe at your eyes and nod at Chiffon. The crowd parts for the two of you as a slow, undulating note enters the Song, a bittersweet melody. They’ve missed you. They wish you’d stay. 

The Dewitt estate is at the very edge of town. Similar grand manors and luxurious homes dot the hills but the others are old, fallen into disrepair. The fences have crumbled, the stately brickwork has eroded, and mulberry branches snake out of the broken windows. They are Verlinda’s by right but remain, dilapidated and unoccupied, out of respect for the children of Compass Hill and everything they have endured.

It is only the Dewitt estate, all the way at the top of the hill, that is still maintained. Someone cuts the grass and trims the hedges. Someone fixes the roof when it leaks. Someone leaves food at the door. As you get closer, you hear a piercing scream from somewhere inside. “How is he?” you ask. 

Chiffon feels your worry. She chirps a Song of one, fluttering and bird-like. “He’s…better, I think. He spends less and less time here.” She stops when you reach the front porch of the manor. Her wings are drooping, the larger ones folded around her like a shawl. “But he’s still…well. It’s rather shocking inside.” 

You march up the steps before you can lose your nerve. There’s another scream—fearful, but also furious. You thought it was just mindless shrieking before but now you can make out words, “wretched” and “ungrateful” and “horrible, abominable thing.” The door is cracked open. The foyer is a mess of broken glass and overturned furniture, old blood stains crusted into the carpet and stuck to the wallpaper. A silver platter has been flung against the wall, shattering a plate and splattering mashed potatoes and a chunk of cooked meat. 

There is a man standing in the middle of the foyer, chest heaving and red in the face, screaming at something in the corner. You recognize Mr. Dewitt. He looks more sickly than you recall, sweat shining on his gaunt face. You’ve caught him in the middle of a tirade not unlike the ones you remember from childhood. He was always short-tempered, liable to fly into a rage at the slightest inconvenience. “I want to see my son! You can’t keep him from me! Just you wait, just you wait until they hear about this down at the factory!”

He whirls around at the sound of your footsteps and his wide, bloodshot eyes brighten. “Oh! Oh, it’s you!” he calls, grinning deliriously. His eyes are hazy and he’s not quite looking at you. He wobbles forward, looking inebriated. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I need to get a message down to the factory. Good practice for a courier, hm? Some incompetent let one of the weavers cocoon itself and now we’re stuck with this.” He gestures to the corner, the thing looming there silently. “It’s making demands. Can you tell them to send someone?” 

You hesitate just a second too long and he’s screaming again, berating you, calling you a stupid, useless road-mongrel. The thing in the corner lunges forward then, faster than you can see it move. There’s a rush of air and a flash of movement. It lands heavily on top of the man, slamming his head into the floor. It’s your friend, the boy who grew up in this awful place with you. Older now, much bigger, casting a wide shadow with his wings outstretched. You see him tangle his claws in the man’s thinning hair, yanking his head higher. You see him lean in, proboscis unfurling. 

“Hello,” he sings. Four eyes peer at you beneath stark white fringe. In adulthood, the silver ones have also turned deep, inky black. “Hello again. I was just thinking of you.”

His proboscis plunges forward like a needle and there’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood as it pierces Dewitt’s ear. He shakes and flails uncontrollably, mouth stretched open in a horrified, silent scream, but your friend holds him still; one hand on his head, one on his shoulder, the others easily keeping him pinned beneath the weight of his enormous body. Your friend, the Singer of Compass Hill, vibrates with a welcoming melody, his wings flapping in contentment. His proboscis goes taut and there’s a sick, slurping sound, another gush of blood dribbling down Dewitt’s face and neck.

“Why…is he…?” You swallow your revulsion. The Singer tilts his head slightly, the change in angle churning and squishing wetly against something in Dewitt’s head. The vibration of the song drones just louder than the gurgling screams Dewitt makes.

“He’s drugged. Not certain where or when he is. It’s the same thing he used to give me and all the others.” The Singer’s primary eyes are focused on feeding, but the smaller secondary ones rotate, fixed on you. “You don’t feel bad for him, do you?”

“I’m worried about you.” 

The Singer drops Dewitt, proboscis yanking loose with a wet, ripping sound and slithering back into his mouth. He came out of his cocoon differently than all the others. No one else has emerged quite so large. His frilled antenna scrape the high ceiling, his legs bend strangely, and he has six long arms. A ring of thick, white fur circles his neck and drapes over his shoulders. There’s similar patches of fuzz all the way down his body, thinning out across his belly and limbs. His fingers are long and dexterous, warm when they reach out and graze your cheek. 

His eyes have changed the least. There are mandibles on either side of his jaw, pearl-white and flexible, a proboscis curled up inside his mouth, but you’ll always recognize his eyes, no matter the color. 

“Is he dead?” you say quietly, staring at the body lying limp and face-down on the carpet. 

“No. I won’t let him die yet.” The Singer takes your hand in three of his. He turns it over, letting out a low hum in concern at the sight of bandages, the missing finger. “I’ll keep him here, just like I was kept. Except he has the luxury of a house when all I had was that cramped cell in the mountage wing of the factory, a bedroom shaped like a coffin. I’ll use him as he used me, without remorse. He can die when I have nothing to gain from him anymore.” 

You tug on his arm, pulling him down to kneel in front of you, and embrace him. The Singer rests his chin and mandibles on your shoulders. His hands all knead the front of your shirt, just like when he was a boy. “I came here to complete a delivery,” you admit. “It’s a child. This is her home.” 

The Singer hums appreciatively, nuzzling against your neck. “Yes. Good. I heard the Song. She’ll be safe here. She’ll decide what to do with her own silk. No one will keep her from cocooning and growing up.” His proboscis darts out, tasting the sweat on your throat. “Hope…savory. She grazed on this. You fed her well. There’s more hope here, as much as she could ever want.”

You rub his mandibles and he purrs. “You can have some, if you want. Hope, and whatever else I have.” You feel the vibration of the Song gone slow and deep with interest. He flicks one of his mandibles against your lips, tempted. “You have to eat something other than grudges,” you say gently. 

“I can’t stomach much else. But…” He crouches further, pulling you into his lap. You’re settled on one of his thighs, half-turned away from him. He brushes your hair out of the way and caresses the shell of your ear, stroking the lobe with his thumb. “I’ll go very slow. Very gentle. It’s been a long time.” 

Now that you’re actually here, clutching the fur on his upper chest, your stomach is flipping nervously. He’s right, it has been a long time. You haven’t fed him since you were both younger, shortly after the change came—he, young and clumsy and still figuring out his new, enormous body, and you, just old enough to drive the Drift. One more time, you’d agreed, before you left town. He couldn’t make silk anymore but it didn’t matter. He just needed to remember how you tasted.

“Hold onto me,” he sings gently. “It’s alright. Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me.” You don’t want to pull on his fur but he pushes your hands more firmly against his chest, encouraging you to dig your fingers in. He clutches your shoulders, your waist, your hips—his grip firm but not bruising. He tries to relax you. He nuzzles against you, splays his mandibles and leaves little kisses along your chin and cheek. His proboscis darts out and flicks against your lips, teasing. He trails higher, following the curve of your jaw. 

Your breath hitches when he reaches your ear. He kisses it. His proboscis traces the shell, explores its shallow dips and grooves. Slowly, he lick his way closer to the hole and you let out an involuntary shiver. His hands squeeze all at once in reassurance and hold you still.

“Will you give me something sweet? Something light and airy?” One of the hands on your hip moves inward. Long, graceful fingers slip into your pants and settle on your heated sex. He traces one fingertip slowly up and down, faint and featherlight. Your hips chase the friction. That’s the moment he’s waiting for. You feel his proboscis, cold and smooth, slip easily into your ear canal. 

True to his word, he’s slow and gentle. The penetration is a gradual slide, navigating impossibly small spaces to lap at something not entirely physical, nestled at the intersection of thought, feeling and memory. You feel it like the wet slide of a tongue against some place sensitive and you stiffen, eyes rolling back in your head. It’s too much—too much something. Not quite pain or pleasure, not quite anything you can name. But it’s too much. Explosive heat and sandpaper on your nerves, an avalanche of overstimulation. 

The hand between your legs barely moves. It’s just two fingers, slender and nimble, rubbing so, so slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Your underwear is damp with your own want and he collects it on his fingertips, uses it to lubricate his steady rhythm. He strokes you right to the edge of madness, crooning softly. You feel the Song behind your eyes, in your brain. You feel all the love it carries.

Your hips jolt and your flinch violently in his grasp. You gasp, or maybe you scream. Your throat is raw when you drift back down into awareness, feeling his proboscis snaking back out and exit with a faint, wet pop. Soothing liquid dribbles out of your ear in his wake, something to numb soreness. You sag against him and catch your breath. He trills, smoothing his palms up and down your body. The hand between your legs comes out of your clothes glistening and sticky.

“What was it?” you asked. Your words are slurred, your tongue still clumsy. “Wh—what’d you taste?” 

He wipes the excess fluid from your chin, pressing one last kiss to your ear. It’s starting to tingle. “Nostalgia. Exhaustion. Hope. And…” He pauses, turning your face towards him. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

He lets you avoid the subject and bury your face in his fur. He Sings, swaying gently. You shut your eyes and left your mind drift. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving. Maybe you can deliver silk, just like the old days—but this silk will be better than Dewitt’s ever was. Made by children who are happy, woven by adults who care about them. Tomorrow, you and the girl will have to say your goodbyes, and you know she’ll ask you about home because she’s kind. And you will smile and lie or maybe say nothing at all, happy for her but stinging with agonizing envy. 

“You could stay,” goes the Song, every time you hear it. “Make this home.”

You don’t answer. You never do. The Singer holds you while he still has the chance.

(next)

[kheelcenter]

Mother Jones marches against Child Labor

On this day in 1903 Mary Harris, more commonly known as “Mother Jones”, organized a children’s march in Philadelphia to focus public attention and demand action to stop textile mill owners from employing children to work long hours with dangerous machinery that had mutilated so many.

Three weeks later she led another march to New York City to encourage President Theodore Roosevelt to improve conditions for the child laborers. The National Child Labor Committee was formed the next year.

Photographer unknown. Image 6000-044pb10f08a from Kheel Center’s UNITE Photographs collection.

[dwellordream]

“In the majority of immigrant families and for many working-class families of native-born Americans, the standard middle-class pattern, in which an entire family lived on the income of one man, was completely unachievable. The wages paid to a semi-skilled working man in 1909, for example--between $12 and $15 a week--were simply not enough to sustain a family. In large cities, rent often took between a quarter and a third of the family income and frequently did not include heat or fuel for the stove. Food, purchased daily to avoid spoilage, was relatively expensive. A chicken cost 25 cents, and potatoes were 2 cents a pound. Pennies for the newspaper, nickels for carfare, loaves of bread, and cups of coffee added up fast. Many families had bought their furniture on the installment plan, and many belonged to unions or mutual benefit societies. These payments and dues had to be met monthly.

Working class families adopted a variety of strategies to expand their incomes. In African-American families, where education was prized as a way out of poverty and second-class citizenship, children and teenagers remained in school while their mothers sought work as field hands, domestics, or laundresses. In Northern mill towns, where entire families worked at the textile mill, parents made childcare arrangements with neighbors and relatives for the youngest children so that mothers could work for a share of the family income.

…By far the largest employment sector for young American women, both black and white, was domestic service. In 1900, one-third of all wage-earning women--nearly 2 million of them--worked either as servants in private homes or as waitresses in hotels and restaurants. The great majority of household servants in the North, Midwest, and West were white immigrant women or their daughters, though native-born white women continued to work as domestic servants in country towns and villages. In the south, white middle-class families almost exclusively employed black women as maids, nurses, cooks, and laundresses.

Because the weekly wages of domestic services were comparable to those of factory hands, and room and board were free, domestic service gave immigrant women a chance to save money. Among Irish servants it was common to send money back to relatives in Ireland or to pay ship’s passage for parents and siblings who wanted to immigrate to America. Women from other immigrant groups--Germans, Scandinavians, and Slaves, for example--went into domestic service because they spoke little or no English and were unqualified for many other jobs. For some new arrivals domestic service provided a chance to learn a little English and become familiar with American culture.

…The advent of new machinery and new workforce efficiency techniques, called scientific management, contributed to the “deskilling” of labor, either by eliminating tasks formerly done by hand or by breaking the tasks down into ever-smaller segments. In many factories, for example, no worker completed a whole garment or shoe by himself, and no one needed more than a day’s training to learn the simple, repetitive work. With all these changes in the technology and management of the factory, some men did lose jobs to less-skilled women, who would accept cruelly low wages in order to help their families survive. When working men blamed women for taking their jobs or depressing their wages, they failed to see that it was not the fault of women who needed to work, but the fault of an industrial system organized solely for profit.

Few industrial jobs held any possibility of advancement, and it was not until after World War I that women became job foremen or floor managers to any appreciable extent. Many jobs, like candy making and bookbinding, were subject to seasonal rushes and slack times; women garment makers often found they worked for a 14-hour stretch for three days and then had no work--and no pay--for the rest of the week. Work hours grew shorter, and by 1920, the 54-hour week had become the legal standard in New York and a number of other states.

…For a few years in the 1880s, before it collapsed under its own size and increasing competition from the new American Federation of Labor (AFL), the Knights of Labor had successfully organized hundreds of thousands of skilled and unskilled workers, both men and women, black and white. The AFL, meanwhile, concentrated its energies on organizing unions for skilled male craftsmen. The AFL was not interested in industrial unionism--the organizing of masses of unskilled workers, such as miners or mill workers, by industry rather than by specialized craft. Many Americans, including the AFL leadership, felt that industrial unionism was under the control of revolutionary socialists. They were deeply suspicious of the socialist Industrial Workers of the World, or Wobblies, who were successfully organizing miners and mill workers in the opening years of the 20th century.

The AFL, unlike the Wobblies, ignored African Americans for many years. And, though it did charter a number of women’s local unions between 1890 and 1920, it was heavily biased against women workers. The AFL leadership believed that women should be at home and not in the workplace, and feared that women’s willingness to accept low wages constituted a threat to male jobs and wage levels. The AFL would be very slow to realize that encouraging divisions between men and women workers only retarded the progress of labor unionism as a whole, for women were in the workplace to stay.

..Before 1917, white-collar work was almost exclusively reserved for native-born white women. Immigrants, even second-generation daughters of immigrants who spoke with an accent or had noticeably “foreign” or Jewish names, usually found it impossible to get sales or office jobs. Black women knew that discriminatory hiring practices in both the North and the South made it useless for them even to apply to white-collar office or clerical work in any but black-owned businesses. Increasingly, and mostly in the South, black women were hired to teach black children. By 1910, 22,547 of the nation’s 29,772 black teachers were female.

Similarly, black women entered nursing in growing numbers around 1900, after the founding of a number of black nursing schools in the 1890s. Black nurses worked in the black community and as private nurses; they were denied jobs in white hospitals and in the Army Nurse Corps and the Red Cross. Excluded from membership in the American Nurses Association, they formed their own group in 1908--the National Association of Colored Graduate Nurses.

White women who worked in offices occupied an increasing number of specialized positions as typists, stenographers, shipping and receiving clerks, bookkeepers, cashiers, accountants, or office-machine workers. Their jobs had come with the growth of business and industry and technological advances in business machinery. At the same time that the demand for office staff skyrocketed, the spread of public school education, especially high school training, meant that a growing supply of women was available for office work. By 1915, approximately 50 percent of all office workers, and nearly 85 percent of all typists and stenographers, were women.”

- Karen Manners Smith, “Women at Work.” in New Paths to Power: American Women, 1890-1920

[transmutationisms]

do you have any recommended readings on the fallacy of the ‘industrial revolution’ as a historical turning point?

so, i wouldn't say that the industrial revolution is a "fallacy" or that the term never describes a real historical change. it's generally accepted that the textile industry in northern britain did experience notable structural and technological change over the course of the 18th century, and that by the turn of the 19th century a combination of social, economic, colonial, and technological factors had allowed for the appearance of a new industrial-capitalist class in this context. this is not an unimportant economic development.

however, there are a few major issues that routinely crop up in secondary literature on this 'industrial revolution', and are especially pernicious in literature published in the late 19th and early-to-mid 20th centuries.

first, the wider application of a model of economic change derived from this specific episode in history. within shifting frameworks of state protection and global economic competition, cloth merchants in a few counties in the british north were able to change their business practices, including by investing in certain machinery. this was simply not universally true, though. it was not true for all industries in north britain, let alone industries in other countries, even other european powers. narratives of the IR that present this model of industrialisation as some universal process that all economic sectors in all contexts are bound to experience (or else perish) are trying to use as a totalising model what was actually a highly contingent and specific historical episode.

second, the techno-determinist bent of a lot of IR literature. technology in itself does not make social change; in the case of the textile machines in question here, many of the technologies existed well before the period we identify as the 'industrial revolution', but could not become widely used until a number of other social and conditions changed. for example, you might need certain technicians to maintain machines and operate them; you need someone to manufacture the machines themselves; many of the machines we associate with the IR required a shift toward a production model resembling more the factory floor than the individual weaver or seamstress working out of their own domestic space. a technology existing is not synonymous with, or causal of, its widespread adoption; machines on their own do not explain or cause mechanisation.

third, the role of british nationalism and neoliberal agendas in much of the IR historiography. this led to a great deal of literature presenting the IR as a triumph of 'liberal democracy' over 'state regulation', with corresponding valorisation of britain's supposedly weak state (not true; economic liberalism has always involved quite a bit of state protection), culture of 'individual liberty' (lmao), and enlightened institutions of democracy and scientific objectivity (& the techno-determinist narrative plays in here, obviously). this view was especially spearheaded by von mises and hayek in the 20th century.

fourth, the model of global economic change as emanating from britain (on more expansive models, also from the us and parts of europe) and spreading to the rest of the world in a unidirectional way that completely ignores and obscures colonial dynamics and workers' resistance in favour of a simple narrative of techno-economic progress and stadial history. relatedly, the fact that even in the northern british counties where the IR proper really can be said to have occurred, the events we now see as part of a smooth overarching narrative were experienced at the time as random, disconnected happenstance dependent on, again, a dizzying array of social and cultural factors as well as the decisions of communities, workers, and merchants.

some people do eschew the term "industrial revolution" altogether, generally citing some combination of the above issues. others use it in a temporally and locally restricted sense, or with heavy caveats; some continue to use it in ways that perpetuate one or more of the problems i've outlined here. generally it is agreed upon that industrialisation matters, as a historical process, and has occurred with particularly rapidity and specific characteristics since the mid-to-late 18th century. what's at stake is more the idea of a 'revolution': whose, when, where, how, and with what consequences.

anyway:

the industrial revolution: the state, knowledge and global trade, by william j ashworth

africans and the industrial revolution in england: a study in international trade and economic development, by joseph e inikori

fossil capital: the rise of steam power and the roots of global warming, by andreas malm

technology in the industrial revolution, by barbara hahn

reconceptualizing the industrial revolution, ed. jeff horn, leonard n rosenband, & merritt roe smith

heroes of invention: technology, liberalism, and british identity, 1750–1914, by christine macleod

[oswaldwwfwf]

Textile Manufacturing Companies | Oswal Group

In the bustling industrial landscape of Ludhiana, where the clang of machinery and the hum of ambition merge, one name stands out as a beacon of excellence: The Oswal Group of Companies. Founded on a vision to redefine the textile industry in Ludhiana, Oswal Group’s journey from inception to industry leader is nothing short of inspiring.

The Genesis: The Oswal Group’s foray into the textile industry dates back to the 1960s when the visionary entrepreneur, Late Shri Rattan Chand Oswal, laid the foundation stone of what would become a textile empire. With a keen eye for opportunities and a steadfast commitment to quality, Oswal ventured into yarn production, setting the stage for the group’s meteoric rise.

Excelling in Ludhiana’s Textile Hub: Ludhiana boasts a rich heritage in textiles. In such a competitive landscape, Oswal Group didn’t just survive; it thrived. Through strategic investments in state-of-the-art technology, a relentless focus on innovation, and nurturing a skilled workforce, the Oswal Group carved a niche for itself.

The group’s vertical integration, from spinning mills to garment manufacturing, enabled streamlined operations and superior quality control. This holistic approach not only ensured consistency in product standards but also bolstered Oswal’s reputation as a reliable textile partner globally.

Moreover, Oswal Group’s commitment to sustainability has been commendable. Embracing eco-friendly practices, optimizing resource utilization, and adhering to stringent environmental regulations have not only reduced the ecological footprint but also enhanced brand credibility.

Evolution in the Textile Industry: As the textile industry in Ludhiana evolves in the digital age, Oswal Group is poised to embrace the winds of change. Embracing automation, leveraging data analytics for predictive maintenance, and integrating IoT (Internet of Things) for smart manufacturing are avenues the group can explore to enhance efficiency and productivity further.

Furthermore, investing in research and development to explore alternative fibers and sustainable manufacturing processes can bolster Oswal Group’s competitive edge. With growing consumer consciousness towards ethical sourcing and eco-friendly products, tapping into this market segment can unlock new growth avenues.

Moreover, expanding the group’s global footprint through strategic alliances and partnerships can diversify market exposure and mitigate risks associated with geographical dependencies. Collaborating with international brands for co-branded collections or joint ventures can not only enhance brand visibility but also facilitate knowledge exchange and technological advancements.

Additionally, nurturing talent through skill development programs and fostering a culture of innovation can fuel Oswal Group’s evolution. Encouraging intrapreneurship and empowering employees to think beyond conventional boundaries can lead to breakthroughs in product design, manufacturing processes, and business models.

In the tapestry of Ludhiana’s textile industry, Oswal Group’s story shines as a testament to perseverance, innovation, and resilience. From humble beginnings to scaling new heights of success, the group has not only excelled but also redefined the textile industry’s standards.

As Oswal Group embarks on the next phase of its journey, the roadmap is clear: embrace technology, foster sustainability, and nurture talent. By staying true to its core values while adapting to emerging trends, Oswal Group is poised to not just survive but thrive in the dynamic landscape of the textile industry. With each thread woven with precision and passion, the Oswal legacy continues to inspire generations, shaping the future of Ludhiana’s textile industry and beyond.

[spidertalia]

Alrighty, meet my girl Pennsylvania !!!

Her human name is Rebecca Ida Franklin, and she's physically 23. She's the 13th oldest state, and celebrates her birthday on December 12th.

Rebecca has an interesting personality. She's hardworking, intelligent, calm, industrious, observant, patient, down-to-earth, level headed, loyal and slightly curt at times, though usually unintentionally. She's typically no-nonsense and serious when it comes down to it, and she's a very hard worker. She's good about getting stuff done and does dislike laziness, but she's not one to berate others for it. Some more fun facts about her:

She's 5'10 or 178 cm in height. She's one of the tallest female states, only being shorter than Alaska and California.

She has roughly type 1C hair

She's Delaware's little sister, though ironically she's a full six inches taller than him.

Outside of the Indigenous languages in her state, she speaks English, Spanish, Dutch, German, Hebrew and Pennsylvania Dutch fluently. She speaks Swedish quite well, and speaks some Cantonese, Mandarin, French and Yiddish.

She's religiously Jewish.

She played the biggest role in the American Industrial Revolution, providing a lot in the way of steel, iron ore and textiles. As such, she has a deep love and skill for mechanics, engineering, construction, technology and anything of the sort. She can repair cars, remodel homes, fix broken wiring, design vehicles and many other things. It's a skill she's kept to this day.

She loves dogs, and exclusively owns Great Danes and German Shepherds.

She will actively complain about literally any type of weather. Outside of the weather, however, she hates complaining and will avoid doing so.

She's overall the 13th oldest state, but among the 13 colonies, she's the 10th oldest. She was physically 15 during the American Revolution, and stole two houses from England during it.

She's generally pretty respectful and keeps to herself. She always minds her own business, and dislikes getting wrapped up in other peoples drama or problems; however, she's always willing to lend a hand with anything mechanical.

She's the go-to car mechanic for many of the states, and Alfred himself.

She gets along well with Germany, Netherlands and Sweden, but she will argue with England pretty much on sight. She's friends with a few of the other states, such as Virginia and Rhode Island.

She argues a lot with New Jersey, though he starts most of it.

She doesn't necessarily dislike high-tech things, and will use super high-tech things if they make her life easier. However, she is generally wary of new technology and prefers to use her old, tried and true methods.

She does use technology and such quite often, but she does like doing things without technology when she can.

Like many of the other 13 colony states, she remains quite close to Alfred. She actually hosted his first official birthday party, and continues to often host his birthday parties.

She's one of the physically stronger states, thanks to her hobby of working with heavy machinery.

She's surprisingly very into snacking and junk food.

Her accent actually tends to switch depending on where she is. If she's staying in Philadelphia she tends to take on a Philadelphian accent, but outside of the city her accent leans towards Appalachian.

She had long hair up until the Industrial Revolution, when she cut it short to avoid any accidents.

She has at least one scar- a burn mark on her shoulder from the burning of Pennsylvania Hall.

Her likes include: Mechanics, hunting, hershey's chocolate, dogs, beer, cheesesteaks, chocolate, Wawa, Sheetz, tastykakes, ham, scrapple, molasses, shoofly pie, chicken pot pie, being outdoors, fixing things, cars, the outdoors, german food, snacks, swimming, reading, libraries, movie theaters, ferris wheels, tinkering, machinery, inventing

Her dislikes include: The weather, humidity, England, drama

This is all I have right, now, but I will be posting more about her later. If I have anyone from Pennsylvania here, please feel free to leave suggestions for her !

[duncebento]

For alternatives to silk what about the literal millions of tons of discarded clothes and textiles and cloth (a large percentage of which are basically brand new) that are going to rot away and emit pollution unless they are used and recycled properly. What about that. I think it's reasonable to not think that we have to continuously consume and exploit and expand so people have clothes. Because we have the huge piles of the waste from that that are going to turn into rotting shit as proof that that doesn't work. "Humans are part of nature" how do you think silkworms are obtained? Do you think most of silk is produced out in the wild? And what about the energy and resources you need to process and transport it? To keep steady tempuratures for silk prpduction and the actual machinery to process it and transport it? The people who are used to process it and make it into products? Many of whom are not payed enough to live and are forced into the industry? Do you think that most of that silk ends up getting recycled or reused?

So yea I think there are alternatives to new silk and endless production of it and there should be more of them

hiiiiiii so u didnt read my post somehow even thouvh it was one humorous sentence so that’s weird.

anyway since u asked i volunteer at a textile recycling plant. (the reason it exists is because it’s a requirement for companies w textile waste according to new york law. if there is no decent edifice for textile recycling, which in most places there isn’t, then it won’t get recycled. the building of such factories is a legislative issue i’d say)

but mainly umm silk is silk. the substitute for silk is viscose, which is made of wood but massively pollutes the water used to produce it. the substitute for silk is not the “calabasas” graphic print cotton poly elastane tee that someone cheugy wanted to wear for 3 weeks before forgetting about and eventually discarding. also that shirt can’t be recycled. because it has elastane in it. if u think people at large should direct all of their desire for clothing into the products of recycled and reused clothing that had already been thrown away in would genuinely like to ask u how u think that system would look. but only if u have a good answer

ummmm anyway the rest of your response no actually pretty much the whole response is directed at words that i never said. except for “humans are a part of nature,” which was a response to the OP’s idea that the concept of ANIMAL DOMESTICATION was the root of the problems with silk (and by extension wool etc) production. and i think that animal domestication by human beings is a “natural” technology that could and did subsist without destroying the earth and abusing it’s creatures. diocane

[the-trinket-witch]

Pomefiore Steampunk AU Introduction

Premise | Yuu | Heartslabyul | Savanaclaw | Octavinelle | Scarabia | Pomefiore | Ignihyde | Diasomnia

Technology is one of many exports that Nightraven offers as an ever growing city. Many come to the city to catch up on or possibly set the newest fashion trends. Of course, they would have to get in line behind the Prince of Poison and his entourage. These three hold the spotlight that has put them on most every cover of paper, catalog or magazine. And looking fashionable is not simply confined to textiles, if the budding charity ‘On the Other Hand’ has anything to say about it. (Charity name and concept courtesy of @squidwen )

Vil Schoenheit

The aforementioned ‘Prince of Poison’, Vil had grown up in an alchemist’s household. While life of the Sciences was not his preferred route of career, he still has retained the teachings of his family. His finesse with both potions, poisons and petticoats had drawn the eye of a certain Divus Crewel. Crewel took the young Vil under his tutelage, and thrust him into the world of design. Vil’s multifaceted talent had allowed him to rub elbows with other such rising stars in Nightraven, one of which being a young Niege LaBlanche. While in separate fields of influence, Vil in fashion and Niege in the young ‘Motion Picture’ industry, the two found themselves in assumedly healthy competition for prominence. 

Vil would contest any notion of friendship; rivalry maybe. But however their relationship was pronounced, he had found himself shoving Niege out of the path of, and himself under, a carriage that required surgery and subsequent prosthetic legs. Vil, never being one to wallow in self-pity and with a new perspective on accessibility, focussed his sights on creating a charity organization to provide better access to prosthetics. Such a move only provided further stardom. All along his exploits have been two men at his side both as support and assistance. One Rook Hunt and protege Epel Felmier.

Rook Hunt

A man of multiple talents, his dexterity in expertise has found him being pulled to multiple avenues of work. From relentless hunter and trapper, to language tutor, to answering love-related editorials, he’s accomplished quite a bit. So it’s with his accomplishments that caught Vil’s eye, and Vil’s pride in his new limbs that equally captivated Rook. His employment alongside Vil has him running errands, scheduling appointments, and coordinating outfits. But with stardom comes the need to continue the line of work, to find someone who can appeal to more than your own wheelhouse, and so came the time to find such a character. Enter:

Epel Felmier

A young man having been raised on a small farm near Harveston. His family’s influence is small, only really extending to those they supply apples to. Like any man from a small town, the city held an allure of potential and fame. But like anyone first setting foot out to seek their fortune, Epel’s move to Nightraven landed him work in a textile mill.

While it was honest work, there was a bit of resentment in his main utility being nimble-and small-enough to unjam the machinery. It was on the tail end of one grueling day that put him in the path of Vil and Rook. His face hung low, and to the other two, absolutely beautifully. They inquired if he had work, his lukewarm explanation was enough of a go-ahead to offer a place at their side as another model and errand runner. It wasn’t sweating in a clothing mill so it was enough for the young lilac-haired man to say Yes. Though, his employment would come with strings attached, as most of the best things in life are want to have. None of that country bumpkin business; he was going to be a man of culture, whether he liked it or not.

[cfrog]

OC-tober Day 5: Relationships

[full prompt list]

How about the start of a relationship, does that fit the prompt? Here's a "prologue" I've been working on about how Xiph and Naut met :]

Xiphoid was working on a bot. An Arachnoid, not an uncommon sight in maintenance. It was an older model, with an ambitious number of moving parts for when it was designed. Intended for textile production, the model was usually issued to work in factory settings, along production lines. A good idea on paper, but not in practice. Sure enough, one of its four arms had gotten caught in the bigger machinery. Could've been a deliberate action spurred on by a human supervisor, or a mechanical failure brought on by repeated stress to the joints. The file didn't describe the full circumstances. It didn't matter. All the bot really needed was a few parts replaced and a bit of cleaning. That'd been easy enough.

This wasn't the sort of repair that would normally require xer skills, but it'd been sent to Xiph anyway. Maybe because none of the other Xiphoids had time for it, maybe because none of them felt bothered to do it themselves, maybe just as busy work. But it was work all the same, and Xiph savored it.

That's why Xiph was so immediately annoyed when they were interrupted by a ring at their office door.

Admittedly, the doctor was running a bit later than anticipated on their current project. The repair was only scheduled to take an hour, but Xiph had found a few parts on the Arachnoid's other arms that needed replacing, likely from smaller accidents that hadn't impeded its function enough to warrant sending the whole bot out. Those weren't listed on the initial damage report, which meant the Xiphoid didn't have to fix it, but Xiph did it anyway. They didn't have anything else to do today- or so they'd thought. No, Xiphoid was certain they hadn't had anything else scheduled for the day after this. Who was at their door, then? Pulling them away from their work, without even the decency to schedule an appointment, or give them a heads-up? And when they were so close to being done. Surely it wasn't the other Xiphoids back with more work to drop on them. But who else? Was it a human? No, no. In the maintenance wing? That couldn't possibly be it.

A second ring pulled Xiph back out of xer thoughts. Right, no point in questions. They can just open the door.

The door slid open and the doorway was empty. Then Xiph tilted their head a little further down than usual.

It was a small bot, very small compared to Xiph, maybe around 5 feet tall. A model they didn't immediately recognize, this was rare. Big eyes, thin protrusions in place of ears, sleeves? A quick search of the database gave them a match: Nautiloid. A skim of the basic model file gave them more information: 'Intended for deep sea research.' That explains why they hadn't seen one before.

The Nautiloid simply stared back up at them, unblinking. No clear expression. Still no greeting. Xiph would have to make the first move.

"Hello." No verbal response, but at this, the bot's eyes finally blinked. A deliberate gesture of acknowledgement. Xiphoid continued. "I'm sorry, I was sort of in the middle of a repair. Did you need something?" This time, Xiph got a nod in response.

… And nothing else. Xiph pulled back up the file they'd found, and skimmed it a second time, searching for something in particular. 'No speech program.' Of course, that's a logical design choice. What would it use that for, talking to fish? Still, very inconvenient at the present moment. This would require more time than they wanted to spend standing in their doorway.

Xiph sighed, an expression of resignation lost on the Nautiloid, then moved to beckon it inside. "You can come in."

Xiphoid instructed the little bot to sit by the desk until xe was finished. The bot complied and hopped into the guest chair. There it sat, perfectly still, watching the doctor work. Staring into their back. Xiph did their best to avoid acknowledging the new audience, but couldn't quite get back into the groove. Working under watching eyes was never pleasant.

They finished their work quickly. Xiph saw the repaired bot out, and watched the door close again behind it. Then turned back to their unexpected guest.

"Nautiloid model, intended for deep sea exploration, no speech program," Xiph recounted the information they had so far, ready to solve this new conundrum. It was almost exciting. "You can't speak, but you understand my speech just fine, yes?"

The bot nodded.

"Good. So I just need to stick to yes or no questions. Easy enough." Xiph recalled a human game with a similar premise. They’d always liked that one. “I assume you’re here for repairs. Is that correct?”

Another nod, just the same as the last.

“And do you know if you have a file started already? Have you seen anyone before me?” Wait, that was two questions. There they go, getting overexcited.

A short pause, processing. Two nods.

“Ah.” The doctor fought xer disappointment. Xe always loved getting to make new files. Not that it was important. “Alright, let me pull that up. It’ll be faster than just listing out every possible damage and defect.”

The doctor moved around the desk to their own chair, well-loved and only a little too short for them. The Nautiloid carefully turned its chair around to face them. A proper meeting position with a desk between them, much better. Xiphoid didn’t have the bot's exact ID, but a search on their laptop found only one Nautiloid registered as currently in the center.

Naut0324. File created by Xi04- of course she’d gotten a hold of it first. The full edit history, however, was more surprising. This bot had already been checked by half their department. The file had been created a month ago, but its contents were light. Lists of diagnostics run, hardware and software checked, multiple times over. Each with the same result: 'No issues found. No maintenance done.'

That’s why it’d been sent to xer. A puzzle. Xer favorite.

An easy place to start an investigation would be the subject of the mystery itself. Xiph turned to address the Nautiloid. “Do you know why you’ve been sent to us?”

This time the nod it returned was slower, unsure.

Xiph tilted their head at this new response. “You do know?” They glanced back at the file to check again that they hadn’t missed anything. “Your file doesn’t list anything being wrong. Which is odd, because there should at least be a note from the human sending you as to why you were pulled from…” Xiph's sentence drifted to a halt as they looked back at their patient.

The Nautiloid wasn’t looking back at them this time. Its expression had finally changed, shifting into an expression Xiph could only guess was frustration. The bot had no eyebrows, or at least none that Xiph could see under its bangs, but its eyelids were low, and its mouth twisted into a most disgruntled frown. It looked unnatural, likely not something the face had been designed for, but here it seemed to be all the bot had to communicate. This wasn’t something they could 20-Questions their way through. A different approach would be needed.

Xiphoid opened a new text file and turned the laptop to the other bot. The Nautiloid stared back at the blank screen, expression reset once more. Then at the doctor, awaiting explanation.

Xiph gestured to the keyboard. “You know how to type, right? Just write out what you know. Why are you here?”

Nautiloid studied the laptop for a moment. Slowly, they pulled up a claw-like 3-fingered hand, and began to poke at the keys. It didn’t have the dexterity for proper touch typing like Xiphoid had been taught, but it managed. Slowly, its motions gained confidence, getting more familiar with the layout. Xiphoid waited until the bot came to a full stop and looked up before they turned the laptop around to read.

'I collected samples. I sent reports. I stayed under the water for many days. Human team receive my reports. They tell me what to do next. Team stopped responding. I sent reports, no response. Alone. 217 days. Boat came and collected me, no warning. Sent me here. Many robots. I do tests, no response. 9 days. Nothing to report. I do not know what is wrong with me.'

Xiphoid had always known they were sentimental for a robot, another oddity in their programming. They kept junk files on their laptop, physical pieces of paper tucked in their desk, things that gave them this same sort of feeling. Xiphoid often recalled the phrases found in human text to describe these sorts of feelings, tightness in the chest, ache in the heart, stinging in the eyes. All things linked to their biology, to systems the Xiphoid didn’t have. But they could assume it as a similar sensation to the one running through them at that moment. Something about these bits of text were so familiar, not as if they’d read them before, but their meaning. They'd thought it a million times, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

For once, Xiphoid had no idea what to do. What could they do? What was the repair to be done? Where was the problem to be fixed? They read the text through a second time. Then a third. It didn’t make sense.

Nautiloid’s fin twitched in their peripheral, and Xiphoid snapped back to attention. Xe was making it uncomfortable. Xe shut the laptop.

“I’m so sorry,” Xiphoid apologized, not entirely sure what for. “I… I don’t know what’s wrong, either.”

The Nautiloid’s fins drooped. Its face twisted again, eyelids low. Disappointed.

Without thinking, Xiphoid reached across the desk and held its hand in theirs. An attempt to comfort. Another gesture lost on the little bot, Xiph thought, but it was all they could think to do. What the Nautiloid model had could hardly be called a hand, less fingers with less joints, a simple grabbing implement. Intended to collect samples. Not that Xiph's hand was much better, long and slender, removable joints, some fingers still swapped for small tools. Intended to complete repairs. No, this wasn't something they'd been trained for. This wasn't something it had been designed for. But here they were, two bots.

“Hey, look at me.”

Camera to camera, metal on metal.

"I want to help you. I will. Promise."

Xiph gave it a smile. Naut twisted its mouth to match.

[amaiguri]

Ririkya is the Many-Colored City

This is one of the cities I built for New City November! Ririkya is an Afto-Svanihk City built on the back of eleftegos, potters, and witch knowledge, shaped by their rivalry with Kivihkya, and truly, at its heart, it's a city of quietly proud survivors. They have survived the Sundering, they survived their war with Kivihkya, and their culture survived being subsumed by the Aftokratoria.

Overview

Location: The South Coast

Environment: Wet, hot, jungle with hot/dry season and monsoon season, rainbow mountains and rainbow eucalyptus trees

History: Ririkya was an eleftherios-wandering village until the Sundering--the Upper Continent split and water, mud, and clay poured down where the Goddess Dyeus and Goddess Eris were fighting. Eris stabbed and bled her sister, Dyeus. Where this happened, there the wanderers settled and were named the Ririhk. They have always been led by a divine Witch-Tsar who bathes in the muds of many colored soil. The Witch Tsar's job to prevent a second sundering and they have guarded this sacred place every since.

Aesthetic: Red deserty, vaguely Arabesque with colored yurts and tents on and/or near carved cliffsides

Governance

Today: Govenor and City-Senate but usually, Witches either are on it or the City-Senate are just expected to listen to the local Witches

Historically: The Witch-Tsar and her coven of Witches ran the city

Important Figures

Veneriza is the purported name of the Witch Tsar who settled Ririkya where it is today. Veneriza was known for being a beautiful, powerful old woman who was friends with Dyeus Herself. Veneriza is depicted in imagery has having a square jaw and square-ish body, rainbow-colored skin, and wild hair behind a rainbow koroshnihk.

In more recent history, think 10 years ago, they had Galina. One of their mines collapsed while they were installing the tram system and everyone would have died if it weren't for her--she froze everything in place for it could collapse more until help arrived. She is hailed as a local hero.

Core Values

Strength, victory with minimal harm, women, connectedness, categorizing but with lots of subtlety--like the mixing of paint dyes. They see conflict as inevitable but healthy--you should seek conflict to understand each other better and to grow, not destroy each other.

Transportation

There are two automaton-run tram systems--they're both fairly new. One of them goes into the mines, and the other leads around the city. They also rely on horses a lot, but they use Eleftegos even more.

Exports & Imports

EXPORTS: Ivory, Ceramics, Metals, Salt, other minerals, Eleftegos hide/leather, Grains, Rice, Wheat, sometimes Armor, cinnamon

Eucalyptus salt is made by taking strips of of their rainbow eucalyptus, wrapping salt in it--either mined salt or salt from above the sub-oceanic kilns. The kiln's temperature burns away the eucalyptus but the oils (and poison) seep into the salt. Repeat this 7 times and the salt will ward against against Demons. One can consume it to purge against Demons, but the black salt can also be used as magic charms, as smelling salts or bath salts, and also to ward against slugs or demons in lines.

(Note: This actually does nothing but make the salt slightly toxic. It may make Demons' tails less effective but that's because their toxins are generally less effective if you're sick anyway because your immune system is already active.)

IMPORTS: Tools, manufactured things and machinery, textiles

Arts:

The Aftokratorian Army's Official Armor was designed here

Painting

Pottery

Sculpture

Incense

Technology

This city is not on the cutting edge of industrial technology in Yssaia but it has a number of techniques that make mining easier and safer, transportation of objects more efficient, and a lot of medical, navigational, teaching, traditions that have worked really well in this area for years. They've been sharing this knowledge with the Telethenians.

Common Professions:

Miner

Engineer

Potter

Witch

Eleftegos-farmer

Tram-operator/maintainer

Tanners

Papermakers

Population Distribution

The tsars here are significantly more wealthy than the average person. Miners and potters are often very poor. Dying young is not uncommon from working in the mines--though if you live to be old, the community will go out of its way to provide for you--and old miners have it pretty nice, regardless of how rich they were for the rest of their lives. Age is celebrated. While joining the Aftokratoria certainly benefited the lower class so they aren't regularly starving to death and mining has gotten safer with automatons helping, the lower class definitely has it worse than the very extravagant upper class--who dress in very fancy armor and brightly dyed clothes and have giant castles carved and maintained by top-engineers and so forth. All the tsars and tsarinavi in this region are historically witches.

Current Major Issues

The current major issue is that the last Witch Tsar (the Blind Witch Tsar) died in a mining accident and her husband was murdered by his brother (a mine-owning Tsar), locking her daughter, Perislava, inside the castle. He wanted to end the brewing civil war with Kivihkya. However, the Acting Tsar is bad at governance and has made really bad trade deals with Kivihkya--dedicating large percentages of metals to them at prices which aren't even sustainable, just in return for not-going-to-war.

Attitudes Towards Others

Ririkya common folk are typically fine with the Telethenians and the Aftokratoria--though only when they respect their version of Dyeusism. The Witch Tsars tend to be quite proud and see outsiders as only worthwhile if they can hold their own in a debate.

Others' Attitudes Towards Them

The Telethenians tend to think they're amicable and quite intelligent. They enjoy working with them a great deal. However, they find their feud with Kivihkya troublesome and wish they'd drop it.

Kivihki consider the Ririkihki to be ridiculous, ignorant of the true nature of the world, and untrustworthy and traitorous. Those less inclined to debate can find them to be sassy, sarcastic, and potentially rude BUT they tend to appreciate this when it comes to artisanship.

But, Kivihk's unequal trade deals are gonna sink the economy in the next 5 years here and Demons are gonna take it over if no one does anything XD

Languages

Svanihk, and the Tsars and Tsarinavi speak Telethenian but others only do rarely. Their Telethenian accent is known for being harsh with lots of "broken speech" but in a "mysterious, primal way," not in a "they're stupid" way 🙄

Most Famous Places

The Giriglofa (aka. the Light Shop) is a shop of handmade Witchlights. Owned by the witch Nosvina, a Svanihk lady with dwarfism who has worked with the miners for years. She started making the Ysse-powered lanterns for miners after her third husband died in the mines. No one with one of her lanterns has died since, but she is considered to be very auspicious and dangerous. People often avoid her unless they need a Witchlight or have no other choice. She's perfectly happy to quietly help whoever she can, and often sings as she works. Yuletide is the one time of year where she has many many guests, as everyone comes for lantern repairs and brings her food and nuts and sings with her.

The Witch Tsars of Ririkya have long been leaders in the community and are well respected, even with their hypothetically lessened influence today. Their home, built beneath a crack in the Upper Continent--at the side of a waterfall and riverhead--is a grand fortress made of warm, red tiles and bright, ancient eucalyptus beams. The ceilings are gilded with the blackened, purplish Eucalyptus salt. The faces of the previous Witch Tsars are are carved into the cornerstones of the fortress. The fortress is two stories tall on average--with two towers reaching up another 3 smaller floors--and then two floors below ground. The gateway and main hall is large enough that two eleftegos can walks shoulder to shoulder with riders atop, and that ivory decorates the chandeliers and the koroshnihks of the Ririhki Witch Tsars.

Iratsovihk Zavlyai (the "Ysse"): The Ririkya has a very hot, natural hot spring which pours down from the pillars of the Upper Continent out into a small field of Ysse crystals. Steam fills the air here and strange, glass-like flowers and fungi grow around the crystals. The water ends up being a perfect temperature for bathing, but the ysse crystals are dangerous--as such, elaborate teacup-like bathtubs and scaffolding are erected to enable bathers, particularly witches and seeresses, to purify themselves in these waters. Bathing is communal and tubs are organized for clealiness and temperature--so you gradually increase your temperature and cleanliness as you both closer to the origin of the water. There are intermittent sand and mud baths--it's a whole process. Though individual tubs aren't technically separated by gender, because mining is has more men, the tubs for dirtier folks tend to have more men and the more ceremonial tubs tend to have more women, because more witches are women.

While I don't have any official art, here's some vibe checks and glimpses into Ririkihk culture!

[anniekoh]

elsewhere on the internet: technology platforms & AI

The Limitations of ChatGPT with Emily Bender and Casey Fiesler

The Radical AI podcast (March 2023)

In this episode, we unpack the limitations of ChatGPT. We interview Dr. Emily M. Bender and Dr. Casey Fiesler about the ethical considerations of ChatGPT, bias and discrimination, and the importance of algorithmic literacy in the face of chatbots.

Emily M. Bender is a Professor of Linguistics and an Adjunct Professor in the School of Computer Science and the Information School at the University of Washington, where she has been on the faculty since 2003. Her research interests include multilingual grammar engineering, computational semantics, and the societal impacts of language technology. Emily was also recently nominated as a Fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS).

Casey Fiesler is an associate professor in Information Science at University of Colorado Boulder. She researches and teaches in the areas of technology ethics, internet law and policy, and online communities. Also a public scholar, she is a frequent commentator and speaker on topics of technology ethics and policy, and her research has been covered everywhere from The New York Times to Teen Vogue.

Will A.I. Become the New McKinsey? by Ted Chiang (The New Yorker, May 2023)

People who criticize new technologies are sometimes called Luddites, but it’s helpful to clarify what the Luddites actually wanted. The main thing they were protesting was the fact that their wages were falling at the same time that factory owners’ profits were increasing, along with food prices. They were also protesting unsafe working conditions, the use of child labor, and the sale of shoddy goods that discredited the entire textile industry. The Luddites did not indiscriminately destroy machines; if a machine’s owner paid his workers well, they left it alone. The Luddites were not anti-technology; what they wanted was economic justice. They destroyed machinery as a way to get factory owners’ attention.

Whenever anyone accuses anyone else of being a Luddite, it’s worth asking, is the person being accused actually against technology? Or are they in favor of economic justice? And is the person making the accusation actually in favor of improving people’s lives? Or are they just trying to increase the private accumulation of capital?

In 1980, it was common to support a family on a single income; now it’s rare. So, how much progress have we really made in the past forty years? Sure, shopping online is fast and easy, and streaming movies at home is cool, but I think a lot of people would willingly trade those conveniences for the ability to own their own homes, send their kids to college without running up lifelong debt, and go to the hospital without falling into bankruptcy. It’s not technology’s fault that the median income hasn’t kept pace with per-capita G.D.P.; it’s mostly the fault of Ronald Reagan and Milton Friedman. But some responsibility also falls on the management policies of C.E.O.s like Jack Welch, who ran General Electric between 1981 and 2001, as well as on consulting firms like McKinsey. I’m not blaming the personal computer for the rise in wealth inequality—I’m just saying that the claim that better technology will necessarily improve people’s standard of living is no longer credible.

[Image shows Stable Diffusion generated images for “Committed Janitor”]

Researchers Find Stable Diffusion Amplifies Stereotypes by Justin Hendrix (Tech Policy, Nov 2022)

Sasha Luccioni, an artificial intelligence (AI) researcher at Hugging Face, a company that develops AI tools, recently released a project she calls the Stable Diffusion Explorer. With a menu of inputs, a user can compare how different professions are represented by Stable Diffusion, and how variables such as adjectives may alter image outputs. An “assertive firefighter,” for instance, is depicted as white male. A “committed janitor” is a person of color.

A talk: How To Find Things Online by v buckenham (May 2023)

And the other way to look at this, really, is not about AI at all, but seeing this as the continuation of a gradual corporate incursion into the early spirit of sharing that characterised the internet. I say incursion but maybe the better word is enclosure, as in enclosure of the commons. And this positions AI as just a new method by which companies try to extract value from the things people share freely, and capture that value for themselves. And maybe the way back from this is being more intentional about building our communities in ways where the communities own them. GameFAQs was created to collate some useful stuff together for a community, and it ended up as part of a complicated chain of corporate mergers and acquisitions. But other communities experienced the kinds of upheaval that came with that, and then decided to create their own sites which can endure outside of that - I’m thinking here especially of Archive of Our Own, the biggest repository for fan-writing online. And incidentally, the source of 8.2 million words in that AI training set, larger even than Reddit.

The technologies of all dead generations by Ben Tarnoff  (Apr 2023)

The three waves of algorithmic accountability

First wave: Harm reduction

Second wave: Abolition

Third wave: Alternatives

The third wave of algorithmic accountability, then, is already in motion. It’s a welcome development, and one that I wholeheartedly support.

But I’m also wary of it. There is a sense of relief when one moves from critique to creation. It satisfies the familiar American impulse to be practical, constructive, solution-oriented. And this introduces a danger, which is that in the comfort we derive from finally doing something rather than just talking and writing and analyzing and arguing, we get too comfortable, and act without an adequate understanding of the difficulties that condition and constrain our activity.

Platforms don't exist by Ben Tarnoff (Nov 2019)

By contrast, a left tech policy should aim to make markets mediate less of our lives—to make them less central to our survival and flourishing. This is typically referred to as decommodification, and it’s closely related to another core principle, democratization. Capitalism is driven by continuous accumulation, and continuous accumulation requires the commodification of as many things and activities as possible. Decommodification tries to roll this process back, by taking certain things and activities off the market. This lets us do two things: 1. The first is to give everybody the resources (material and otherwise) that they need to survive and to flourish—as a matter of right, not as a commodity. People get what they need, not just what they can afford. 2. The second is to give everybody the power to participate in the decisions that most affect them.

[fashionbooksmilano]

American Fabrics Fall 1951 Number Nineteen

Doric Pub. Co, New York 1951, 115 pages

euro 50,00

email if you want to buy :booksinprogressmilano@yahoo.it

Fall 1951 issue of American Fabrics - superb articles such as the history of celanese and of all things, fabrics for caskets - great illustrations and advertisements along with real fabric swatches - includes a mini booklet of 18th century textile machinery.  Cover design by Vertès

12/10/22

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