Some very interesting trees, amongst other garden foliage.
It’s interesting, in that to get a series of trees whose growth is so visibly directional, usually requires either quite a strong and consistent windsource, or there has to be something (like another tree) that is significantly blocking the light in a particular area (I read a small passage in a book about using tree growth directions to infer the location of older, now long fallen trees that were there when the tree was young. The author described it as the tress reaching for the light!). Here the tree branches are showing a strong tendency for growing leeway, with a fierce and frequent wind coming from the big open bay/river area where the player has just come from in the opening.
This is reasonably plausible, and there is such a strong sense of wind direction coming just from these two trees (which I had never noticed before while playing!), but I can’t recall noticing *any* wind in Dishonored…
okay so social-justice-wario may be the greatest blog ever created and here’s why:
The images themselves are pretty funny (i died laughing at this one), but what’s even better are how fucking incensed haters get at this blog. Like, this post is beautiful—someone asks social-justice-wario about reverse racism and Wario responds with “reverse-a racism is less real than-a me, Wario!” and a pic of himself. That’s it.
But someone writes a fucking NOVEL in response to it, accusing social-justice-wario of spreading “hate, suffering and discrimination” and assuming that whomever’s running the blog has “suffered badly enough” to become bitter and jaded and, I don’t know, tried to make people suffer as they have by posting pictures of Wario with facts about discrimination on top. This is real. This is actually happening.
Other really good moments: the one where the Wario roleplayer asks social-justice-wario to stop taking up so much space in the tag, the one where an anon gets really mad that Wario has more followers than he does, and the one about the Year of Luigi.
This was good.
This might be my favourite photo I’ve ever taken.
The museum on a Sunday is mostly dads and their dad-smitten daughters. Dad is a smart guy, he knows all the culture things and all the snickery city jokes. Daughter does well in school, dresses like a grad student, has a crush on Ira Glass. Gets into trouble, yeah, but it’s smart-kid trouble. An edgy essay, some black and white photography that maybe the art teacher isn’t quite ready for.
Mom likes art fine but doesn’t quite get-get art in the same way that Dad does. Dad has some artist friends-of-friends, Dad attended a gallery opening in the 1980s that Debbie Harry was at. Dad dabbled. Dad has books you are not allowed to touch because they’re fragile or important or expensive or pornographic in ways that might not be art in the way a teenage daughter understands art.
Dad isn’t in a hurry, Dad doesn’t follow you around the galleries like Mom does. Dad spends twenty minutes looking at one thing because that thing is very moving or fascinating or troubling to Dad. Dad sometimes peeks over your shoulder and tells you an interesting fact about the thing you are looking at. Mom is lost in a gallery and needs you to guide her. She nervously tells you things that the placards say and you’ve already read the placards and the placards are so pedestrian anyway, Mom.
Dad says you can pick one book from the bookstore. It has to be a book, not a piece of crap. It’s understood that you’re not supposed to pick the most expensive book, that’s obvious. Dad is going to judge you a little by your selection. Jasper Johns? Well, okay. If that’s what you’re interested in, okay. Dad flips through an art magazine and says that it used to be better. You note this, and you repeat it to a boy you like when your art class goes on a field trip. A momma’s boy, he is wrenched by the neg, and his hotness for you redoubles.
actually having trouble believing how good this is
That Mike Krahulik would revive his position on Dickwolves, calling his pulling of merchandize from his store “a mistake,” came as a move that almost no one has found particularly surprising. The shock has worn off, though it’s as shocking it was two years ago when Dickwolves first became an…
On Universals, Formalism & the Critical Reception of BioShock Infinite
So the last week has resulted in a plethoraof critical writing about BioShock Infinite, many of which (encapsulated in Cam’s list) is quite good, even when I disagree with it. Today more words have been spent on the game, most notably Leigh Alexander’s retrospective on it – a piece which I think stands as some of her best writing on videogames to date. While I think that a lot of us can agree that the game itself isn’t necessarily deserving of the heaps of praise – and that much of the critical writing revolves around the collective disappointment with the game – i think that in itself makes the game that much more important. The lead up to Irrational’s game was a long one, and as somebody who deliberately avoids most videogame pre-release marketing, I was myself caught in the game’s – to take a term from Levi Bryant – regime of attraction. I was pulled into the force that constituted not what the game materially was but the affect – the expressive elements – that it gave off, that it signalled to those involved in Game Studies, the enthusiast press, and the developers and twittergentsia that I interact with on a daily basis.
this is so fuckin good
“One only has to spend a term trying to teach college literature to realize that the quickest way to kill an author’s vitality for potential readers is to present that author ahead of time as “great” or “classic.” Because then the author becomes for the students like medicine or vegetables, something the authorities have declared “good for them” that they “ought to like,” at which point the students’ nictitating membranes come down, and everyone just goes through the requisite motions of criticism and paper-writing without feeling one real or relevant thing. It’s like removing all oxygen from the room before trying to start a fire.”
– A footnote in David Foster Wallace’s essay about Joseph Frank’s volumes on Dostoevsky. This guy just got it.
EDIT: This essay was written in 1996. I decided to look up Joseph Frank to see if he ever finished his Dostoevsky project. It turns out his death was reported two days ago. That’s freaky. (via jickleblerg)
At the end of high school, I had a weird thing - not romantic or sexual, but very close and personal - going with a girl that I was very much into. It was the most high school of high school things, and it would be improper to get into details. It ended poorly, we’re no longer in any sort of…
"The past is a foreign country."
“On Tuesday, Google announced via Google+ that Image Search now has an ‘Animated’ filter. That means that if you’re only searching for animated magic, you need never be bothered with a still image again.”
Zoomorphism as a new trend.