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from hwithumalut

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


from hwithumalut

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.


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.


from hwithumalut

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.


from hwithumalut

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.


from hwithumalut

Now Racing heart. Sweat cut by the misty chill. Running away with great speed.

¿Howling from far off cars, or wind? Street lamps and fullmoonlight just past clouds look like little rainbow stars, cause astigmatism. Barefoot on damp blacktop sidewalk. Chilly soles and toes hoping up and down. Each time toe hits ground yelp inside. So cold.

Can’t stop thinking of past hour. Of orange many headed-ogre. Of crashing noises. Must focus on escape. Instead of thinking, run.

Alert eyes jump side to side. Outlines of trees, all black. Some nearby lamps clothed in green lichen, but otherwise greyscale. No people and no monster. Only occasional rushing cars with starry headlights blazing their way.

¿Should I find place to hide? ¿To avoid and escape? ¿Maybe throw rock at car? ¿Stop it? Maybe stupid idea would cause angry driver. I stop running and panic on ground.


Nameless little cousins whine and my ear buzzes. Sitting at Christmas dinner with family. Honeyed ham. I quiet and alone at table. They chat with liveliness and seasonally appropriate jolly voices. Normal order of things. I even utter politenesses in my timeless monotone.

Each evening with this big family—mostly not real family since they only here at Christmas—as I saying, each evening with this big family chaos and noise. Brian don’t mind. I mind.

Everyone talking about honeyed ham and how their year been. Drinking eggnog. Good stuff, but so much noise. Not muttering under breath, because can’t hear own thoughts.

Brian and all demon cousins play with toy train. They loudest and worst. I’m watching everything and each buzz sound and each word sound lingers. ¿Why can’t music this loud instead?

Eyes open. Windows at least look quiet, but usually there’s snow at Christmas. Mom says I can’t leave room. Stupid.

Looking at peaceful nature in window. Something moves.

“Something moved outside the window”

Uncle Marvin chuckles.

Clunk. Orange slime smear on window obscures sight of tree. I get away from table and walk toward window. Big eyes appear in window. “There’s an eye in the window”

People look up and I start to run away from eye. I’m at other end of the room.

Shatter. Has six cyclops heads on ten foot body. Squeezes through window. Gross oozing tentacled thing. Dripping orange. Dripping translucent mucus same shade as pale blood. I run as it stands to full height.

See no other escapee.


Sickening. Tired. Just sitting on side of road and waiting for something to come. ¿Live through the night?


from FarkasCity Blog

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.



from colestyle

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.


from colestyle

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


from BurntRamen

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?


from FarkasCity Blog

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.



from liv

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!


from colestyle

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.


from Permie

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?



from FarkasCity Blog

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


from Graff

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.