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And so it began... an undefined number of participants competing to finally leave this game and their monsters behind. Few of those committed suicide, not willing to live in this scary dangerous unknown world anymore. Some were too scared to fight, only to be killed by ones more brave. Blood has taken control of many, countered only by those who carefully crafted their plans. All is but finite.

At last, one remained, a young fellow, barely over 18. The one who killed the last participant. The one who hoped to escape this cruelty, who has descended to cruelty on his own. To no avail. The fate was not kind. The monster which should have disappeared, remained alive. Haunting the mind and sanity of the victorious one. Was this a reward? Or a bad twist? He couldn't tell. The years had gone past, filled with paranoia, doubting every shadow. His life was but a war of one. With none to help. Yet after long long years, he finally saw it. A young adult, perhaps few years younger than the victorious one, going carelessly along the busy street, and beside him, a frightening creature, which none paid attention to. He was conversing with this monster like it was an old friend. He had escaped the gruesome game by luck, and happily befriended the creature. Before the young adult knew it, he was bleeding. An expression of surprise, rather than shock was on his face. As he turned back, he saw a crazy smile of the paranoid one. He accepted his death much easily, even nonchalantly, as opposed to his killer, who frantically acted the same minute he saw the true last participant of the game.

As both monsters disappeared into the void, now the truly victorious one was finally free from the game that took too long to finish. Or was he really free The game that took eleven years. The game that stole countless lives. But in a true sense, it stole only one. The one that was left alive.

I came up with this story some time ago, and suddenly remembered about it now. It was very fun to write and reread, so I decided to post it somewhere.

The most important thing is to continue writing. Sometime ago, she promised herself she would write constantly, in every spare moment. She enjoyed writing the most when it was crazy and free. Don’t stop. She glared at the half-filled google document, the one where she kept all her writing projects. She had stared it earlier, but at that time had homework to do. Would she ever finish the poem? She thought about the dragon story she wanted to write, but she had last week dedicated herself to finishing this poem. She looked at the writing. What was there to add to it? But she wanted to write a long narrative piece, and this wasn't even a page. She liked long stories more.

What was she thinking? Why couldn't she make any ideas? Or really the only thing in her head was the worry about the half filled screen. What was she supposed to write about? Write what you know? The half-filled page itself? Who would want to read a description of half a page? And how could that be related to the half page? Why was she having writer’s block? The inspiring YouTuber/rapper CJ the X said that writer's block was an excuse for pride. Was she doing something wrong? Why couldn't she write anything of worth?

She checked her phone’s notifications. She checked her YouTube. She started to watch a video about writing advice. What was she doing? This wasn’t even advice about writer’s block. It was a twenty minute long vlog by a booktuber she hated.

Her mother called her for dinner. The writer became worried again, because she had not been working on her final project for history. She had no ideas for that either. She had not even read the description. She wanted to have ideas. Like she liked history, but there were so many things to do, like the promise to write whenever she thought of writing, or to read all the time, or to do homework all the time or to be polite and charming or to do … all the time…all the time…geez why is she on her phone all the time?

Who wouldn’t leave eyes of flame wandering this globe? As if the simple insinuation that his once free Jabberwock, was lost between boards, silenced him? Avaunt tonight he grasps in his arms my heart born of the requiem! Dost see not the dirge that I’ll upraise softened by the poor shuddering child howled in plays about the sea rolled up with waves? How shall the ritual then be sung with crown and with train? How? by the elk queen trying with the original raw mystery polished and returned as a pretty trinket? He holds the grandfather beside the king of heaven The sweet child hath keep him to a golden throne with hope that grandfather is good

In a video lecture by Graham Harman he predicts that in the future there will be something called Philosophy criticism. Philosophy criticism will not be disagreements with philosophies but aesthetic criticism of philosophy itself. Now it is unclear if he means...

1: Literary criticism of philosophical writing,

or 2: criticism and aesthetic appreciation of philosophy as an art form in itself, separate from writing, like a wine critic, but for philosophical ideas?

Because the first choice is a real craft, I will choose to look at the second in this essay/dialogue. But also I will ramble off path a fair amount.

What does this definition even mean? No seriously, tell me: A short dialogue.

The Voice: Philosophy criticism cannot exist. This second thesis implies that you can have criticism of an artform without a medium of presentation. An Aesthetics of pure ideas is too abstract and ungrounded. This is similar to the idea that worldbuilding is an independent artform. It’s hard to argue that worldbuilding is an artform on its own. Worldbuilding is always presented through a medium (writing, maps, movies, music, ect). Setting is a literary device or a genre not an artform. Philosophy likewise is always communicated. Philosophy is a type of writing. You can’t give criticism of ideas directly. Whatever that means.

The Paracosmonaut: No. I could invent a philosophy in my head. And experience the ideas as beautiful. Furthermore, I feel the ideas that I read. Successful communication results in a transfer of ideas, so I can then criticize them. I would even go as far as to say that your position is somewhat ridiculous. To believe in what you say you must claim that literary critics only talk about language and never about themes, plot, character, or worldbuilding. Criticism of philosophy is just as possible as criticism of worldbuilding. https://farkascity.org/thctt2aop7/edit#publish The Voice: You betrayer! Aren’t you undermining the distinction this essay is premised on. You’re arguing against the distinction between options (1) and (2). I can’t expect to hold good faith debate if you are disagreeing with our agreed subject of debate. Everything just breaks down.

The Monocosmonaut(the pair of cosmonauts broke down): Yeah I am. I guess I have to to fight for truth, or something…Like I do disagree with the distinction. I don’t think pure solipsistic idea criticism is very useful. It’s more interesting if you communicate with other people. I don’t care about the criticism of something only you have acess to! Like an idea in your head!

Other Monocosmonaut: I do agree with the distinction. I want to ideally sit and navel gaze all of my days. Concern myself wholly with beauty and not with pathetic things like truth. Ruminate on pain and death. Useless stuff like that. Tasty tasty tasty. Each idea I have tastes like honey and feels like god. Just think of how good sitting around feels.

The First Monocosmonaut: okay. That’s cool. I do that sometimes too. But I don’t think other people care that I think that “God is an illiterate dragon made of Mountain Dew and asphalt” but I think too much of that is bad for my brain.

The Voice: Y’all are so lame. Argue for the criteria of the debate next time.

The First Monocosmonaut: Sure. You could do literary criticism of philosophy that never once mentions the medium itself. Also i keep saying literary, you could have a philosophical movie, or piece of music.

The Voice: it would still be tainted by the impurity of the medium.

The First Monocosmonaut: If the only copy of The Great Gatsby that existed and could ever exist was one embroidered onto a piece of fabric with massive text. Some people would still read it. Sure, the medium gets in the way, but ultimately some people will care enough to escape the high Mountains of the medium.

The Voice: why would you avoid talking about plot, and language while practicing literary criticism? What is the point of escaping the rocky hills, instead of embracing and loving the medium?

The First Monocosmonaut: none really. The philosophy enthusiast would love philosophy to the point of forgetting discussion of language. This is more of a thought exercise meant to bring to light what one is doing. Isn’t it nice to have a fresh idea like aesthetically based philosophy criticism? Maybe many literary critics wish they did not have to speak about metaphors and plots. Maybe they instead preferred monologues of ideas to and descriptions.

The Voice: No! This stuff will just remain speculative nonsense.people care about truth!

The First Monocosmonaut: but like it exists already. I saw something like Karl Marx as literature as a course title once.

The Voice: grumble grumble I am interested in the idea of philosophy criticism. I am very interested in art criticism in general. The idea that ideas are beautiful and can be cultivated for aesthetic effects, is endlessly intriguing.

Fin

There is of course beauty in non-philosophical ideas. Art is everywhere, so are ideas. Think about how much of popular discourse and politics is based on the demagogic aesthetics and beauty of ideas rather then reason. Ideas can be captivating, seductive, and pretty.

You can in fact have an aesthetic reaction to an idea. The idea has nothing to do with the method of communication. Though it can be influenced by it. Really ideas can be experienced by an open mind, separately from their communication.

A heroic crown of cut up poems is a series of poems generated from cutting up other works with scissors, assembled like the old form called a heroic crown of sonnets. That form features a circle of 14 sonnets each having the last line of the previous one as its first line. Like a wreath of words fit for the head of a queen. Then there is one extra sonnet, the Mastersonnet, which is formed of all the first and last lines of the lesser sonnets who make up the wreath. I particularly like the cut up technique because it can form completely new poems without much labor. It’s almost like cheating! But it’s more like arranging flowers.

First cut up poem Without any methodical study or knowledge of nature Coming for to carry me home through the marsh Drest beautiful with all the flowers of spring

Second cut-up poem Drest beautiful with all the flowers of spring With you we wander through primeval oaks and aspens As thy sweet music stirs the sylvan leaves

Third cut up poem As thy sweet music stirs the sylvan leaves To a mist-clogged summit fading by the impartial neutrality of your eyes Without any methodical study or knowledge of nature

Master cut-up poem Without any methodical study or knowledge of nature Drest beautiful with all the flowers of spring As thy sweet music stirs the sylvan leaves

I thought it would be amusing for me to try to find the sources of these lines. I’ve actually read a few of the sources just sort of using old texts as a place to scope up words.

Line one of the first poems is likely from Kant. I randomly grabbed a bunch of his sandy sentences to fill my cut up jug a while ago. The second line of each of the three poems is edited. The second of the first is from an African American spiritual. The third line is plucked from a poem by Thomas Chatterton. That line in the middle of poem two is from Lovecraft’s poem dedicated to Lord Dunsany. I really butchered the center of the third, and I can’t find its writer. Originally it went “to a summit faded by the identical neutrality of the pit” which I imagine would be findable if someone was truly curious. But I can't do it.

In the land of the evergreen trees up past Long Island Sound There are six stars that can be found. Like Texans or other statesiders you can find, We, the New Englanders, don't claim to be a special sort or kind. My land is not some great wild forest or a place that could even be the best. Each state and country is a football team on tv. Each citizen sat down to watch, not rooting with glee Then became a cheering fan by arbitrary habit and happenstance. Suddenly all sucked into a willing swirling trance. Your busy friend missed the whole last quarter but won some dough from you from the lucky bets made earlier.

We are expecting 50 mph winds in this area over the next couple of nights, so there’s a pretty decent chance FarkasCity looses its internet connection for a bit. There is no need to worry though; everything is backed up so all of your data will be safe. There are also several measures in place to prevent and deal with power outages, so as soon as internet is restored FarkasCity will automatically come back online.

As always, if you have any questions or concerns about this please don’t hesitate to contact us.

#Downtime

Hey, how's it going? It’s been a long time. You don't remember my name, or my face, or my voice. That’s okay. At least you remember sitting in the woodchips and telling me about the bugs. Crouched over in the early fall heat, watching the fire ants from a distance. I’m glad you didn’t find out I was dying until later. You went to the fundraiser we had for me, right? You’re remembering it wrong now, the building was much smaller than that. There weren't that many people, either. It’s okay, things get distorted over time. You didn’t cry for a bit when your dad gave you the news. He got you ice cream and told you on the way home. How considerate of him. Now that I think about it, we didn’t ever talk much, did we? You still consider me your first friend. How long will you keep dragging my body? How long will you keep sinking? How long did the car ride last? How long will you remain stagnant?

Thanks for remembering me. I thought that nobody would. I hoped that nobody would, at the time. Though you keep replaying the memories we had. Over and over, getting more contorted each time, like copying a VHS tape until it’s nothing but static. Like showing skin until it’s nothing but scars. Until I’m in the chair and you pull the switch. Judge, jury, and executioner. We both know that’s not true, but you want it to be, don’t you? You want to be the reason behind it all. Please stop warping my voice. It’s hard enough as it is. I keep trying to email you, but I don’t think they’re getting through. Anyways, I’m glad you found a better place, better friends. I’m still here though, and if you press your ear up to the wall I might say that I’m sorry.

We didn’t talk much. I would have loved to keep drawing lizards with you.

how could you possibly understand? a consequence is nothing to a scared animal. threats fall unheard upon raised hackles and shaking paws. you dug yourself so deep into that hole trying to protect yourself—yet nobody pulled you out. a hole becomes a grave becomes a suffocating stench that fills the air. did you understand why i held you so tight that morning? why i refused to let go? of course not. but how could you? you stared down the barrel of the gun and you bit down

I am waiting with the mason, we are sitting by the barrows needing the permanence of such things. such sharp things. Won’t you lay down your arms and dance with me so? How I let that smile lull into stagnant waters in that altogether not – so – disagreeable way. So, won't you do me the pleasure of allowing me to dream that this was how it all had ended?

In Reply To: “Suggestion For The Betterment Of FarkasCitizens” — liv

liv made a very good point in their article. I totally agree that this behavior should be changed.

Unfortunately, I have two schools and two jobs, so I will not have time to work on this for a few months. If any of you can program and would like to help me with this, then this could implemented around late December. If not, I will definitely work on this early in the Summer. My inbox is always open.

#Replies

right now the date that a post shows up in the feed is the date that it was published as a draft, not when it was published publicly. could it be changed so that the date in the feed is when it was actually posted to the feed? it might make things a little easier to find!

last year i purchased a TWSBI eco fountain pen, and now it is time to review it. after using it consistently for a year, this is my favorite pen in my collection. not only does it write incredibly smoothly (even on a fine nib) but it also looks gorgeous. being a piston filler, it also has a large ink capacity and you will need to refill it less often than a cartridge or a piston convertor. TWSBI also includes a specialized wrench with the pen case so that you can take it apart if you need to repair or clean it, which is very useful. it is 30$, which is on the cheaper side for fountain pens. there are less expensive options however. all in all this is a very reliable pen that i use very often.

Wow, Thanks Hwithumalut for that dystopian image of too many people's reality.

I imagine the tiny bit of pleasure that comes from viewing 'one more' post. The pleasure slowly gets smaller with repetition. The woman zooms down into the details of her phone screen, looking hard for the next little buzz, from the next little post-view. The pleasurable buzz gets farther away, and the zoom level goes further down into the depths of internet links to links to links.

No wonder the room dissappears into its untidy hellishness. Her pleasure response is messed up. How to retrain that?

#Replies

We recently had unexpected downtime of unknown length. This unfortunately happened during the two days where my phone was broken, so I did not get notified. This turned what should have been a ten minute incident into a several hour incident. I am now working to address this problem so that it does not happen during future incidents.

If you have any questions or concerns about this incident, please email me at dj@farkascity.org.

#Downtime #StatusUpdates

The, small, dark wheels sit atop the grass lonely.

The great, red, basin reclines in majesty, beads of water scattered across its surface.

The scratches of the dirt from long-ago works leaves its mark.