and I’m going to be writing many more things, but, before I begin, have some non-synth realism-ish Magnetic Fields (I just can’t get enough of Stephin Merrit’s bitter-sweet love lyrics).
Anyway, there’s this thing happening at the moment called #GamerGate – you may have heard of it. It hit the mainstream too-busy-to-actually-look-at-anything-in-depth journalists a month or so ago, and it’s back in the limelight due to some fuckers on the internet threatening female devs on Twitter. Death threats and general cuntery always gets the media slavering, so I’m not surprised by the attention. Problem is, journalists seem to be more than a little shit at giving the full picture. I can’t claim to know everything about #GamerGate, and now that I look back at the first big article I wrote for n3rdabl3 I realise that I’d actually missed out a lot. I was playing the middle game until I could delve a little deeper, and now I have, and I can tell you with certainty that it’s more complicated than the way the media are framing things. Surprise surprise… I’ll be writing up some follow-up articles pretty soon, so keep your eyes on n3rdabl3 for updates (or here, wherever, whatever).
I also wrote this thing – about how I think the stealth genre might be dying. There are a few things I couldn’t cover in here too (I hit three pages in my .gdoc and figured it was getting a little lengthy, so had to tie it off), but it’s a good summary of the potential of a genre, which is a bit shit.
In other news:
- I’m going to start writing whatever the fuck I want here, because etiquette is dull and often obfuscates meaning. Time to say things poesis-etically (by Heidegger’s definition, because Heidegger).
- I’ve started writing poems again after a long period of anti-poetical thoughts. I kept using the words; bone, soft, warm and others, and I was getting sick of myself. I was also having some trouble with prose. Turns out, if you write a lot of prose and then go back to poetry two things happen; you start writing poems as if you were writing prose, or you start writing poetry without any prose at all. I chose the latter rather than the former. My poems made no sense to anyone other than me.
- I rooted my tablet, I found Autumn, I was almost hit by two cars, I was almost hit by a bus, I went out to the Pentlands at night and got soaked and covered in mud, I finally bought some incense, I started a journal, I tried to befriend a squirrel.
- Oh, and I found a secret room in my office – image below (and featured):