Writing is work. It’s also gambling. Technique alone is never enough. Be without fear. Too much fear and all you’ll get is silence. You have to have passion. To hell with facts! It doesn’t matter how “real” your story is, or how “made up”: what matters is its necessity. We tell stories in order to live. The thing that’s important to me is that you never know. You’re always sort of feeling your way. There is no truth. There is only perception. Stare. It is the only way to educate your eye. And if there are no jobs at the end of it, that’s not necessarily a reason not to do it.
The people I liked were those who were able to do something with nothing – painters, writers and photographers. I looked into photography early on and I saw that there were sports photographers who needed an Olympian, fashion photographers who needed a model and war photographers who needed a war.
Cartier-Bresson and Robert Frank and Riboud and those guys – they didn’t need anything; they would just look out the window or go to the garden. In other words, the everyday life situation became a gold mine for these artists, and I gravitated towards the fact that you could take something right next to you and turn it into art or communication. I liked the integrity of journalism but I was always interested in photographs. Photographs didn’t have to communicate a great concept, they could just be
How are we to speak of these ‘common things’, how to track them down rather, flush them out, wrest them from the dross in which they remain mired, how to give them a meaning, a tongue, to let them, finally, speak of what is, of what are. What’s needed perhaps is finally to found our own anthropology, one that will speak about us, will look in ourselves for what for so long we’ve been pillaging from others. Not the exotic any more, but the endotic.
You must know everything well before you can know what to discard. You must cover pages with material you will not finally put into the book. That doesn’t mean you don’t use it. It is still there, must be there, an invisible foundation which gives authority to the story. The planning done on setting is never wasted. Nothing is ever wasted. If it has been thought through and written, it is still there, in every word which does not mention it.
Now, email is a pot constantly boiling over. Like King Sisyphus pushing his boulder, we read, respond, delete, delete, delete, only to find that even more messages have arrived whilst we were pruning. A whole time management industry has erupted around email, urging us to check only once or twice a day, to avoid checking email first thing in the morning, and so forth. Even if such techniques work, the idea that managing the communication for a job now requires its own self-help literature reeks of a foul new anguish
EBooks are perhaps inescapable, but if we understand the primitive response we have in the experience of a tangible book, the possession and proprietary nature of owning it, then we can translate that over to the digital format and make it better. And vice versa. EBooks will not improve with technological advances alone, just like physical books will not diminish; they each need to look to each other to move forwards. But it should be a careful, considered process.
We all want something from these networks of technologies. In a strange way, we all depend on one another. Igor needs the bots. The bots need Igor. I need Igor and the bots and Olivia. Twitter needs all of us, though they claim in regulatory filings that only five percent of their accounts are fake, based on an internal review. (It should be noted: the spambot problem definitely used to be worse.)
And yet, despite all of our connections and interdependencies, the logic of the bots remains mysterious to human beings.
This is a poem waiting to be written. Thank you, Dear Internet.
Source: The Atlantic
Working alone means the voice must grow louder, for who can stand to think quietly all through the day’s calculations?
I cannot. I let the voice grow loud. I let the voice hum outside my body in distinguishable phrasings, and count
the increments as I set the fence according to the blade. All day
I stand before a blade and push things into its path.
I stand aside as what is removed is whisked alongside me. The smallest particles of what is removed thicken the air,
making a dream inside which one cannot live. All day the voice is learning how to be outside of the body.
When they lapse into consciousness, they are possessed as Nietzsche was when he wrote “No artist tolerates reality.” Those who are awake, if only momentarily, are the artists. And by artists, I mean these writers who feel and tinker until they’ve given form to something that exists within the bandwidth of reality but resists humdrum conventionality. Of course, it’s akin to the famed tell it slant. But more than that, they’re telling it like it ain’t, not keeping it real.
Ruiu posited another theory that sounds like something from the screenplay of a post-apocalyptic movie: “badBIOS,” as Ruiu dubbed the malware, has the ability to use high-frequency transmissions passed between computer speakers and microphones to bridge airgaps.
I stopped worrying about viruses so much when I first made a shift to using Macs exclusively in my set up (yes, there was a time when I was a PC user. I was actually pretty anti-Mac until mid 2007…)
That’s not to say I don’t pay attention to viruses. It’s good form as a computer user to take general precautions, even when you pretty much exclusively use an OS that suffers far fewer viral attacks than most. But computer viruses have always fascinated me. Viruses in general— something about the idea of small organisms operating on the basis of their own natural drive to thrive in a way that can almost seem like organised intelligence. And the fact that a computer can be infected with something that seems so… organic. Intriguing.
This one’s been added to my file of source material for tech related poems.
Source: Ars Technica