new-aesthetic:

Son Finds His Late Dad’s ‘Ghost’ In A Racing Video Game
This is lovely, strange, and wrenching all at the same time. A teenager whose father passed away when he was just six had pulled out an old Xbox game that he and his dad used to play together, only to discover a part of his father lived on in the game, as a ghost car. This is less supernatural than that sentence sounds. In racing video games, a ghost car is a representation of a previous player’s inputs and actions as they drove the track previously. Usually, the fastest laps are stored as ghost cars and then used by players to help them find the best line around a track, or have a way to compete with another player in a time-shifted way.
Via Jake H.

new-aesthetic:

Son Finds His Late Dad’s ‘Ghost’ In A Racing Video Game

This is lovely, strange, and wrenching all at the same time. A teenager whose father passed away when he was just six had pulled out an old Xbox game that he and his dad used to play together, only to discover a part of his father lived on in the game, as a ghost car.

This is less supernatural than that sentence sounds. In racing video games, a ghost car is a representation of a previous player’s inputs and actions as they drove the track previously. Usually, the fastest laps are stored as ghost cars and then used by players to help them find the best line around a track, or have a way to compete with another player in a time-shifted way.

Via Jake H.

Jenny Diski reviews ‘Cubed’ by Nikil Saval · LRB 31 July 2014

The secret beating heart of the dream office is the stationery cupboard, the ideal kind, the one that opens to enough depth to allow you to walk in and close the door behind you. No one does close the door – it would be weird – but the perfect stationery cupboard is one in which you could be perfectly alone with floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with neat stacks of packets, piles and boxes, lined up, tidy, everything patiently waiting for you to take one from the top, or open the lid and grab a handful. It’s fully stocked with more than one of everything and plenty to spare. Sundries. In bulk. A dozen of; assorted; multi-buys; bumper bundles. Paper in quires and reams, flimsy, economy and letter quality, neatly contained in perfectly folded paper packets. Boxes of carbon paper. (Children, you interleave a crispy dark-blue onion skin between each sheet of paper, you align them bottom edge and long side, tapping the long and short sides sharply together on the surface of your desk, and if you type sharply you can get as many as six or eight copies, each slightly fainter than the one before.) Refills and spares. A cornucopia of everything you would never run out of. Paper glued into pads or notebooks. Lined and unlined. Spiral, perfect bound, reporter. Envelopes with and without windows. Ring binders. Snap binders. Box files. Sticky white circles to reinforce the holes made by paper punches. Paper punches. Green string tags to go through the holes. Labels. So many blank labels. White, coloured, all shapes and sizes. And a mechanical labeller with plastic tape to emboss. More than enough supplies so that if a thing is done wrongly, spoiled or not quite right, mistyped, misspelled, holes punched in the wrong place, pencil broken, you throw it away and get a fresh one from the stationery cupboard that never runs out because it is there always to provide more.

"Bear Dream" is a video of a black bear eating a replica of my head cast out of bird seed, marshmallows, and dried fish.

(via Steve Edwards)

I was a Fellow at the Royal College of Art in London, where I taught writing. I always admired the imagination, courage, and essential obstinacy of my students. What I like is that if you are a visual artist and you take no risks at all, you are nothing, you are irrelevant—you might as well just chalk up imitations of old masters on the side walk and hope a few kind people throw coins in to your upturned hat. It would be exciting if this kind of daring and curiosity were valued in mainstream literature too. Is it possible that we are only now becoming contemporaries of James Joyce? Does it matter?
Deborah Levy (via)
Margaret Atwood, “Abstract painting created by a polar bear clawing its way through an empty building,” Nunavik

Margaret Atwood, “Abstract painting created by a polar bear clawing its way through an empty building,” Nunavik

Whale Fall, from the film Code Black

Germany 'may revert to typewriters' to counter hi-tech espionage | theguardian.com

According to German media, revelations about digital surveillance have triggered a fundamental rethink about how the government conducts its communications. “Above all, people are trying to stay away from technology whenever they can”, wrote Die Welt.

"Those concerned talk less on the phone, prefer to meet in person. More coffees are being drunk and lunches eaten together. Even the walk in the park is increasingly enjoying a revival".

Lara Paulussen (via)

Lara Paulussen (via)

I wish American writers in general were less anti-intellectual, more interested in the interior life and exterior systems of power. I don’t come from a subculture that had much in the way of an intellectual tradition at all. My people believed there was only one answer to every question, and after that you stopped thinking. I’ve been leaning hard on a couple of generations of postwar American writers of various Jewish ancestries—Saul Bellow, Cynthia Ozick, Philip Roth, Isaac Bashevis Singer, and Bernard Malamud among them. They set the stakes sky-high, they never stopped with the insistent questions, they weren’t afraid to be wrong, and if sometimes they were, it’s only evidence of their fearlessness. At least they were braving the conversation.
Kyle Minor @ PEN Ten

[[insert metaphor here]]