#psychogeographic

[hitherzones]

[limpingarcadia]

The Italian Chapel consists of two Nissen huts transformed into a beautiful chapel by Domenico Chiocchetti and his colleagues, Italian prisoners of war captured in North Africa and transported to the Island of Lamb Holm in Orkney.

In October 1939 a German submarine under the command of Gunther Prien entered Scapa Flow and sank the British battleship 'HMS Royal Oak' with the loss of 834 lives. Winston Churchill, at that time First Sea Lord, visited Orkney and the decision was taken to construct barriers to close off four of the entrances to Scapa Flow to make the base for the home fleet more secure.

A shortage of manpower to construct the barriers coincided with the capture of thousands of Italian soldiers fighting in North Africa, so a decision was taken to transport 550 men to Camp 60 on Lamb Holm and a similar number to Camp 34 on Burray.

Following a request from the camp priest, Fr Giacobazzi, it was agreed that two Nissen huts would be joined together to provide a chapel. Among the Italians in Camp 60 was an artist, Domenico Chiocchetti, and he was given the task of transforming the two Nissen huts into a chapel. He was assisted by other tradesmen - in particular Giuseppe Palumbi, a blacksmith, and Domenico Buttapasta, a cement worker.

Domenico Chiocchetti carried in his pocket a small prayer card given to him by his mother before he left his home in Italy, and it was the image on that card of the Madonna and Child by Nicolo Barabino that Chiocchetti based his painting above the altar in the Chapel. When the Camp Commander, Major Buckland, realised that the prisoner was a very talented artist he was allowed to continue painting to make the building more attractive.

Now, decades after the completion of the Chapel, it is one of Orkney's most loved attractions, with over 100,000 visitors every year.

Source:

[metrocentric]

Black Path, E10

[canmom]

It appears that today is the day of ZA/UM successors.

To begin with, we have this article, which mentions three projects by former Disco Elysium devs...

Dark Math - a 20-person team, half of them formerly from the Disco Elysium team, working on a detective RPG called XXX NIGHTSHIFT

Longdue Games - has the "leads" of the cancelled Disco Elysium sequel, now working on an as-yet unnamed RPG with a "psychogeographic" mechanic - it's a bit vague, but they do have funding

Kurvitz and Rostov are rumoured to be working on an unannounced game at a studio called Red Info, backed by chinese company NetEase. if so, we don't know anything about it yet!

Alongside these, we have senior writer Argo Tuulik and a number of other ZA/UMites, who've announced a plan for a new studio called Summer Eternal with a whole-ass manifesto for their company structure...

Lots of radical zeal but they haven't even made the company yet, so unclear if this will get off the ground, but they're also planning on making an RPG of some sort.

I'm very tempted to end with something cynical like 'release/implode, place your bets' but honestly? I really hope they all work out, and we enter a new era of literary CRPGs in which there will be more opportunity to work on arty shit in games. I don't wanna be that doomer about it all.

So best of luck to all involved, let a thousand za/ums bloom... (look, the summer eternal guys twisted mao's 'half the sky' quote to be about 'creatives', just let me have this one ok)

[revacholianpizzaagenda]

Some minimal Longdue snooping since they aren't saying anything themselves: this is from their job postings.

Personally, alongside the obvious advantage of being a Not Kaur Kender entity, Longdue's elevator pitch sounds extremely relevant to my interests: "a psychogeographic RPG". Big if true! Will the project live up to its promise or will it be a (pleasant, engaging) game industry product(TM) with a lil philosophical hat on top? Time will tell. Does this job posting hint at a direction?

[inthesirensandthesilences]

todays psychogeographic adventure

[deadpanwalking]

ooh! i am Not Like Those Other Anons, but if you're still feeling generous-- ldo you have anything about, say, the technological and social advancements in 19th century london-- i'm thinking bazalgette and john snow and building the london underground, henry mahew and london labor and the london poor, shit like that, maybe as a gestalt or the zeitgeist or what have you?

I love the specificity! I hope it's not a cop out, but if it's zeitgeist and/or gestalt ye be wanting, I want to recommend an author instead of a book: Peter Ackroyd.

My first introduction to Ackroyd was through a literary biography of T.S. Eliot, which he wrote during a time when Eliot's widow, Valerie Eliot (in accordance to his wishes not to be the subject of a biography) refused almost all applications to quote from Eliot's published work outside of a literary context, or to quote at all from unpublished work and correspondence. Ackroyd, who had managed to track down an enormous amount of unpublished material during the course of his research, tried to argue his case with Mrs. Eliot, but she didn't budge—however Ackroyd was confident that the material could still be useful, and went ahead, opting to paraphrase.

T.S. Eliot: A Life was considered the definitive biography of Eliot for decades despite the unavoidable awkwardness of the paraphrasing. “The lines of Eliot’s life are well-known, and Ackroyd does not effect, or seek to effect, any radical re-limning of them. [Ackroyd's] strength,” Eliot scholar and absolute lad Christopher Ricks writes, “is local detail, patience, circumstantiality, respect. [...] He eschews psychobiographical plunges, and this makes the book at once more satisfactory to the hungry and less satisfying to the greedy.”

The reason for this tangent (aside from Eliot monomania and the fact that Pyotr's vet seems to have forgotten us in the exam room) is because I wanted to give you a sense of how resourceful Ackroyd can be when he approaches his subjects from a distance, without scaling down his ambition or using sensationalism to force the impression of intimacy.

In addition to literary biographies, Ackroyd has written (and is still writing 🥳) a lot of books about London and Londoners—I've only read two: London: A Biography and London: Under. I know historical sociology isn't always the best approach and constantly undermines its own credibility by oversimplifying some aspects of a complicated subject at the expense of others—but when it comes to writing about an era, you can't get more zeitgeistian than psychogeographical writing that focuses on everyday life. You cannot. You'd die trying.

The title of London: A Biography is straightforward: London lives, so it makes sense to approach it the way a biographer would. It doesn't quite fit the limitations you set (19th century) because it begins in the Late Jurassic period. Nevertheless, you might appreciate it because—despite its insane scope and breadth—it does something really great, which I can't describe better than Patrick McGrath did in the NYT blurb:

This, then, is an unorthodox history of London that is fascinating not only for what Ackroyd selects but also for what he ignores. There is barely an aristocrat to be seen in these pages. The Earl of Sandwich appears when, unable to tear himself away from the gaming table for 24 hours straight, he puts a piece of beef between two slices of bread and invents one of England's few enduring contributions to world cuisine. The House of Commons is mentioned only because it burned in 1834, ''which provoked some of the most picturesque London paintings,'' including works by Constable and Turner. ''These artists recognized,'' Ackroyd writes, ''that in the heart of the flame they might also evoke the spirit and presence of the city itself.'' The great statesman Pitt the Younger appears only once, in connection with the ''Bog House Miscellany.''

The other book, London: Under, is going to fit you like a glove, but it's more of a companion piece than a stand-alone book, despite being well-written—Ackroyd doesn't start in the Late Jurassic period, but definitely takes the scenic route from Roman Britain to get to Bazalgette's sewers, and Pearson's Metropolitan Railway. One of the reasons I'm recommending it now is because I always pore through bibliographies and references to poach for more books to read, and I distinctly remember that Ackroyd's bibliography contained some fascinating titles that I will, realistically-speaking, never get to because my own interests and priorities tend toward the literary. RIP to me, but you're different!

[hairtusk]

rewatched woodlands dark and days bewitched: a history of folk horror again this weekend for the fourth (?) time, and i was so struck by the comparison made between the concept of the heritage film celebrating the heyday of the english aristocracy (maurice, a room with a view, remains of the day, etc.) and the way folk horror (in particular lair of the white worm, the wicker man, a field in england) depicts the aristocracy as something as old as england itself and yet as rotten, as dark, as secretive. as both very much of the soil and yet a parasite on it. the way the land in heritage film is passive, merely landscape, but in folk horror it is very much an active force, england alive beneath our feet, the psychogeographical pull of all the weight of our history, the intrinsic connection between england and her people felt in the medium loci, all of england's dead.................... this makes no sense and yet. i'm thinking.

[folkhorrorrevival]

Sunken Lands: A Journey Through Flooded Kingdoms and Lost Worlds by Gareth E. Rees: Book Review

Sunken Lands, the new book by Gareth E. Rees may be one of those that forms a quandary for bookshop staff – just what shelf should it be placed on? For within its pages it covers a wealth of terrain (mostly of the moist or entirely saturated variety). Is it a folklore and legend book? A travel and history book? Psychogeographical philosophy? Natural History/Conservation? Occulture and Mystery?…

[mapsofthelost]

Spirals within spirals

Even if you spend a lot of time on Google Maps or an old school print A-Z of London, it’s hard to find it. Hard to disentangle it from all the other twists and turns of streets and alleys, back lanes and passages in that part of the city. It’s a complicated place as it is, with new built on old built on old built on old, a city which can feel like a forest that has grown rather than been planned. Like a forest, you only see the understory at street level, and the overstory that towers above. You don’t see the mycorrhizal networks, the wood-wide web where under the ground everywhere is connected, one way or another.

But that’s for another time. What concerns us now is at street level, and what is at street level is a labyrinth. Technically a maze, but it started as a labyrinth before most of the city was even a city, and that’s what it is called by those who know of it.

You need to find the right starting point, but there’s talk by those who know of it that if you find a carving of Gog and Magog on the parapet above a shop and then form an isosceles triangle between it, what is now a Nando’s, and the spire of a Hawksmoor church just visible above the roof tops then the arrowhead shape points you the right way.

The labyrinth can be completed within half a square mile of the city, but there are many different choices that can be made along the way. Unless you take exactly the right routes through the streets and alleys, the passages and the courtyards, the magic of the labyrinth falls away and you’re just walking the streets, round and round like a mad person or an earnest psychogeographer.

If you walk the labyrinth just right though, every turning correct, you will find yourself in a small and scruffy pocket park, fenced round with rusting railings. A small Hellenic-style statue stands on a plinth, stained by bird-shit and the air of the city.

Sit on the bench near it. If you have walked the labyrinth the right way, the statue will get down from its plinth and sit next to you on the bench and tell you many things.

[palilalia]

PAL-087 Ava Mendoza LP/CD

"The Circular Train"

Ava Mendoza has never made an album quite as personal as her second solo full-length, The Circular Train. Through her decades of collaborations with Nels Cline, Carla Bozulich, William Parker, Fred Frith, Matana Roberts, and Mick Barr — plus years leading her power trio Unnatural Ways and playing in Bill Orcutt’s quartet — the guitarist’s name has become synonymous with virtuoso technique, raw passion, and visceral resonance, a player pushing the edges of the guitar’s possibilities. Along the way, from 2007 to 2023, Mendoza was writing these slow-burning, incandescent songs. The Circular Train is comprised solely of her single-tracked guitar playing and, on two songs, her corporeal singing. Her first solo LP of original material since relocating from California to New York City a decade ago, much of The Circular Train was honed amid pandemic years that clarified the virtues of slowing down. This expressive avant-rock is a definitive introduction to one of the most uncompromising and inquisitive visions in creative music. Mendoza’s thrilling melange of free jazz, blues, noise, classical training, and blazing experimental rock’n’roll all coheres with ecstatic feedback, with picking and solos that crest with shimmer. Sometimes she sounds like a one-woman Sonic Youth with guttural and poised vocals that equally evoke Patti Smith and blues greats like Jessie Mae Hemphill. Conceptually, The Circular Train is presented as a psychogeographical train ride through certain of Mendoza’s musical homelands. The songs draw on ancestral and recent familial memories, notably of her parents’ roots in mining towns — in her father’s home country of Bolivia and mother’s hometown of Butte, Montana, each country with its own history of colonialism, racism, forced labor, the eradication of culture and the subsequent excavation of it. These adventurous songs were composed in cars and planes, in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, in Los Angeles and upstate New York — which is to say in motion. “Ride to Cerro Rico,” named for the mountain and silver mine at the center of Potosi, Bolivia, was inspired by Mendoza’s great grandmother’s life there in a Quechua mining family. “Dust From the Mines” drew from that history as well as Mendoza’s familial lineage of miners in Montana, building up to stunning swaths of shredded iridescence. “Pink River Dolphins” was inspired by a visit to the Amazon rainforest, swimming with dolphins alongside her father — the pink bufeos that inhabit both Bolivia and Columbia — and the song is dedicated to the memory of Mendoza’s late friend, the Colombian-American trumpeter jaimie branch. They shared a fascination with those intelligent and agile creatures who often communicate by echolocation. “Make a sound, it comes back around,” Mendoza sings, and later, “Echo, echo/The answer in a sound,” evoking what branch knew well: through music we navigate life. The Circular Train contains one cover, “Irene, Goodnight,” composed by Gussie Lord Davis and popularized by Leadbelly; Mendoza has been performing it for over 20 years. Almost as deeply embedded in her repertoire is the penultimate track, “The Shadow Song.” “Treat your shadow kind and it might treat you good,” Mendoza sings on this song that she’s been reworking for over a decade, an emblem of devotion. “Treat your shadow kind and it might treat you right,” she repeats, becoming a blues mantra. What is a shadow self if not one’s secret world, which, once laid bare, awaits an echo, a return? — JENN PELLY 

[hitherzones]

[schismusic]

Psychohistory and the eternal people: Russian Ark and my grandpa's demise

[Disclaimer: for obvious reasons, this post deals in heavy subject matters regarding family death, natural disasters, and (worst of all) potential spoilers for Aleksandr Sokurov's Russian Ark. Reader's discretion is advised.]

So, remember when in the Ferrari post I said:

"We were at my grandparents' for Christmas and as we drove through the town my father looked out of the car's window and saw an obituary with his last name on it. I didn't quite catch who exactly it was and how they were related to us - and rest assured they most likely were, it's an Abruzzo thing. As most of my family's deaths, as discussed on my Godflesh post, were on my mother's side, to see my father's last name on a mortuary announcement was a bit of a surprise, in that as you probably can imagine it's also my last name. It's a new experience which, in total frankness, I don't exactly hope to replicate soon."

…anyways, July 17th, 2024 I get a phone call around 7:15pm. Grandpa is dead. Not like we didn't know, right — I hadn't been sleeping for days just so I could be awake when the phone call hit. Kidney collapse usually takes between twenty-four and forty-eight hours to get your ass. Grandpa took five days. Could have been three but the pacemaker did its job, unfortunately (not being able to contain any sort of discharge liquid is, how could I say?, immensely painful and irreversible). I had been living alone for the past three days, surviving on an empty fridge and anything canned I could find in my parents' house, working on my bachelor's thesis. Sometimes I'd watch a movie or something. So I'm reading this book on digital cinema — photonumerical, rather, as in it's still shot irl by an actual camcorder and not computer-generated — and of course Sokurov's Russian Ark gets namedropped in there. It's only one hour and a half anyways, so whatever, I watch it while eating lunch, i.e. canned tuna and perhaps salad from some kind of fucking plastic package.

Russian Ark takes every available opportunity to destroy flatness and depth, mixing them up into indistinction. Since the camera is constantly moving, zoom-ins and zoom-outs lose the exact sense of dimension. Objects, people and locales in the frame get squished, morphed, moved, and this is especially evident in Sokurov's frequent closeups on paintings. Usually never shot head-on, generally favouring an angled view of their surface, moving closer or further, left or right, up or down, slowly zooming in or our, paintings suffer the same effect as the three-dimensional objects of the movie, and therefore become one with them, achieving a manner of three-dimensionality and motion. Custine's impassioned reading of a Flemish painted interior (a Rembrandt, if memory serves) underlines all these moving elements, or elements that should be moving:

"Rags… a dog… eternal people…"

And it's these eternal people who "live and go on living… you'll outlive them all". It's these eternal people who gain motion in this medium, as opposed to all the non-eternal people who remain for all intents and purposes confined within the ark itself. History is a trap and art is perennially tasked to find a way to escape it, whether it realizes or not. A psychological (psychic?) reading of history, not too far away from psychogeographical practices, could be on display here: and while it may be much easier to be psychologically influenced by, say, the way a place looks rather than the mythologized recollection of a historical figure, as it stands a lot of people still romanticize and/or fantasize about Julius Caesar or general Armando Diaz or Dante Alighieri. Why not Catherine the Great or Peter the Great or Nicholas II's children then?

Russian Ark is not a particularly accurate historical movie. It's certainly very concerned with aesthetic matters first and foremost — as in, it mostly cares for its scenes to stick the emotional landing regardless of who is being portrayed, most of the time: does Sokurov really expect me to get emotional for the Romanovs? — and its whirlwind nature makes it especially hard to know what the fuck is going on if you don't know much about Russian history itself, mostly because the movie often flatout refuses to make itself clear. But this last thing is no issue to me. This should come as no surprise to anyone who can remember what my all-time favourite movies are. Miami Vice (2006) straight up hates you, the viewer, and dumps kilos upon kilos of technobabble and contrived dialogue on your ass only to hit you later with incredible aerial shots of a motorboat — I'm sorry, I do mean a go-fast boat — crossing the sea, where two people are passionately looking at each other and all of a sudden the movie finds its punctum, its center of interest. INLAND EMPIRE needs no introduction, mostly because I wouldn't know where to start giving one to it. The Warriors is a Walter Hill movie and as such it hates talking. Una giornata particolare rests on quite specific knowledge of practices against political dissidents in fascist Italy, but also loves to make references that would be impossible to catch if you don't know anything about contemporary Italy either (my favourite is when it reminds its audience that Giovanni Agnelli was a senator under Mussolini, wherein in the current day the Agnelli family basically own half of this country's industrial strength, and change). Mark Fisher still said it best: "[…] as Deleuze says in The Logic of Sense, why, if superficiality is defined as lack of depth, is depth not defined as lack of surface?".

Right before the funeral, my mother remarked that my sister looks a lot like my grandpa in some ways. Of course, my sister wasn't exactly amused by that comment, considering she's a sixteen-year-old girl and he was an eightyfive-year-old man with five sons of his own, so my mom decided to delve deeper into that mentioning exact points of comparison (my favourite was the nose, notoriously massive for every person in my father's family) and then went on to say "oh, but look, Grandpa used to be quite handsome when he was younger!". As a Star Trek enjoyer, it was hard not to mention that "handsome is what you call old women" while throwing your drink on Captain Picard's lapel.

Russian Ark celebrates a place (the Winter Palace, in Saint Petersburg) just as much as it celebrates the hundreds of years of human beings within it. Aleksandr Sokurov, I'm willing to bet, did not personally know everyone who ever lived there; the same operation directed by you and set in a generic apartment building in your area would probably yield more personal results. Russia's history is turned into a recombining mishmash by the fall of the Berlin Wall, but if you think about it anyone has cataclysmic events that force us to reconsider and recatalogue, leaving us with a jumbled, freely-associated mess of data, events, information. This mess allows for new connections to be born. Associations previously thought inadequate, inappropriate or simply impossible are now the first thing that springs to mind. Details are lost to time, then found at the next cataclysm, traded for others. Alain Resnais called memory an "evident necessity", which automatically entails that the processes of memorization (which includes forgetting, distancing effects, etc.) are themselves inevitable, if painful. Why deny it?, he rightfully asks.

My mate F.'s house was declared unsafe to inhabit after the August 2016 earthquake. It stood empty for about a year or two, then got demolished in (I think) 2019. For a really long time, all you could see were bits and pieces of the original tiling in the kitchen, the ascending line of paint that followed the stairs, the master bedroom's wallpaper. Pressed two-dimensionally against otherwise whitewashed walls, they projected outward their original full form, yearned for it to me. All of their history, or at least all of the history I had made experience of, sort of manifested itself, unfolded at random, reminded me of an offhand comment I'd heard once, or of that one time that F.'s grandfather had made it abundantly clear that I should avoid Psychology uni. The guy had been a Marxist-Leninist militant in the '50s and '60s, so I can at least justify his distaste.

After the pandemic, it took them about three years to actually get the work on the house started. When I came to visit Grandpa in the hospital, last June, I took the time to pass by and saw that it actually had been structured. They're changing the layout of the whole house, thank God, because the original structure always struck me as surprisingly inefficient and contrived. When the house is back up, I know it will not be the same thing, because the places themselves where the memories had been will no longer be there. But there will be an echo of aunt L. stuck in the new living room's ceiling, a past version of F.'s parents calling at us to get ready for dinner from across an empty expanse where there used to be a wall, or a door, F.'s dad's PlayStation One hooked up to a TV right in the middle of what used to be a tiled floor.

The process of historicization isn't that far off, anyway. Mythologizing practices are inherent in historiography, both folk and academic. This one scholar specializing in Carnival rites of Northern Italy went near Brescia once, in the mid-1900s, and asked a middle-aged farmer about traditional Carnival rites currently in practice at the time. The farmer described the current rites, then added that "after the Council of Trent, Carnival has become much worse". Quite flabbergasted, as there was no chance in hell that the woman had received education about an ecclesiastic event that took place in 1545, the scholar asked the lady if she knew when the Council of Trent had happened, and her reply was: "It must have been when my grandmother was alive or when my mother was young, because I wasn't born yet". Russian Ark takes the next logical step: everything happens all the time. No strong narratives means you make up your own, for better or worse. We all live in a yellow submarine, or more precisely in Noah's Ark, and every one of our arks is shaped slightly differently. Mine looks like a mountainside two-floor house that's painted white, where a lot of people come for big dinner parties just about every weekend of August, where my grandpa is sitting on a plastic chair, lighting a cigarette, silently watching around, smiling at the beauty and bustle of life. How does that one Fellini line go, from the end of 8½? "È una festa, la vita…"

[upsettingandunfortunateclasshate]

Went to hospital the other night and it activated the psychogeographer. Bit of a fucking bizarre and intriguing experience.

[titoist]

songs i like - 'i don't know if i will continue doing these again but found the situational revival of this style of post fitting for a novel song/conversation combination i felt drawn to'

kole — Today at 12:31 PM listening to any of the 69 love songs, even as relatively 'sterile' studio recordings, induces such a strong emotional reaction in me that often my entire body starts shaking -- so i have to ration them out. but i'll keep that in mind for if shaking is ever necessary, thank you very much. [A] — Today at 12:47 PM i walekd to the store singing some of them in order and my voice eas like shaking and cracking in the chorus of i don't believe in the sun which for a long time i felt to be nice but kind of less exciting than others and longer than i'd prefer it to be i entertained the idea of a linear progression for each person which ends at them having reason to cry at any song on the album, acquiring reasons over time kole — Today at 1:02 PM every time the unique beautiful thing that can't be described happens, i have a habit of picking a random new song from the album that i hadn't given much thought before. the merciful thing about this habit is that it allows them to be imprinted with the character of the unique beautiful thing. i like turning songs into psychogeographical mementos. my favorite song off of the album has always been no one will ever love you, and it is always hard to show anyone because i'm afraid they might think of it as demeaning or cynical. i'm not sure how to take their hand and say that the hope is the point

[kavaeric]

Assignment for one of my classes involves me doing a floorplan/map of my flat, but through a more subjective, maybe psychogeographic lens

and this coincides with me learning architectural feng shui principles let's gooooo