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We looked inside some of the posts by wlinarch and here's what we found interesting.
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13
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When “GIF” was named word of the year in 2012, Oxford Dictionaries U.S.A. credited Tumblr for pushing the word.
Text
A collection of disparate yet entangled fragments.
A collection of disparate yet entangled fragments.
I want time to leave me alone, and protect the last reasonable thought from the ceaseless battering of the wind and the waves.
In this tiny world of his own, Bill indulges himself in the illusion of having escaped reality and the omnipresence of entropy. Though the islet degrades day by day, he meticulously keeps it in perfect condition, lulled by the persistent songs of nostalgia, the memory of a place, previously pristine, untouched by the smells of bazaars, the eyes of satellites, the bustle of crowds, the threat of decay, or the calls from minarets.
I’m not connected to the fungal Wifi
The Fairytale
“Forbidden” space at Murray’s: Terrace Room, whose dimensions have been made unknowable through arrangements of screens, walls, lights, mirrors, sounds, decoration. Smoke of Vesuvius hovers ominously over the Greco Roman idyll as a metaphor for the explosive quality of life in the Metropolis. Murray’s is to be “the storehouse for all that was beautiful in the World that the Romans knew, conquered and plundered.”
However, the form and purpose of the fairytale itself are deformed, reformed, and rendered formless. Stories entangle, weaving together fact and fiction, transforming lighthouses into palaces with the aid of gauze.
The centre of Murray’s “villa” is “an open court with a colonnade on each side” — an artificial open air garden, realised through the most advanced technical means: “The ceiling is decorated to represent a blue sky in which electric lights twinkle, while by an ingenious arrangement of optical apparatus, the effect of clouds sweeping over the Sky is produced….” The Clouds do not contain even [...] the material to form water.
The mirrors, projecting screens, complex illumination effects and the sounds of a concealed orchestra suggest an infinity of forbidden space beyond the accessible parts of the villa.
An Old Poster
Visit Istanbul in the summer of 2022!
Istanbul, a city divided in two by water, harbours countless historical, religious, gastronomical, and cultural delights. The city is known for its colourful bazaars permeated with wafts of imports: cane sugar, vanilla, tobacco, coffee, and the blended haze of spices.
One of the must-sees is the Maiden’s Tower, which offers a breathtaking 360 degree view from the heart of Istanbul. It houses a small museum and cafe and can be reached by ferry every 20 minutes.
Google Maps
Mehmet Turan
3 years ago
(Translated by Google) What’s wrong with this beautiful island? From the island itself, now, the nearer view is spoiled by loathsome machines. Thirty or forty years ago, it was a thriving place; but now, lying amid debris and overgrown vegetation, it is a desolate island indeed.
Its upper end is in ruins, overgrown with bushes. This is not early romanticism of ruins, but mockery at neglect. I definitely do not recommend.
Eşref Huluk
38 years ago
(Translated by Google) We went today. We said let's have a salep each. It looked like anything but salep. The fragrance is artificial, the taste is artificial. How can they sell it as salep when it is just sweet powder?
The Report
29/09/2022
The trees keep mutating into rhizomes. I keep trimming them into tree shapes. I walk to the next tree before the fungal hyphae get a chance to digest my leather boots. The mycelium keeps trying to entangle stories. Absolute rationality must be maintained!
I must not let the Palace decay.
“Changelessness is decay," advises the asp hiding in a nearby tree.
A paradox. There is no decay without a change for the worse.
"Changelessness is a change for the worse, Bill.”
The image of the pristine tower from 2022 nevertheless persisted, perhaps an idealisation of nostalgia. It seemed a lighthouse; but it was inside his brain—a flashing, bright green light that had seemed as close as a star to the moon.
The island was enveloped in a general air of mild decay. I rubbed my somewhat bulbous nose and feared how badly the flavour of decay was developing.
The ocean is particularly agitated tonight. It runs up, leaps with the aid of the full moon, and tries lick the base of the lighthouse. What charming ignorance! I laugh at the petty attempts of the ocean while the waves of ignorance gradually eat away the ground I stand on.
Loop
for (day = 0, day < infinity, day++) {
07:00 wash(face);
shave(face);
brush(teeth);
brush(hair);
08:00 //eat breakfast
while (dirtyDishes) {
wash dirtyDishes[-1];
dirtyDishes.pop();
}
09:00 sweep(island);
10:00 if (airQuality < fantabulous) {
spray(airFreshener);
}
if (electronicLights == off) {
fix(electronicLights);
}
11:00
12:00 //eat a sandwich
13:00 for (stone in stones){
polish(stone);
}
14:00 if (wall == chipped) {
repair(wall);
}
15:00 if (roofTiles < 2856) {
for(tile : roofTiles){
replace(tile);
}
16:00 sweep(island);
remove(mushrooms);
17:00
18:00 //eat dinner
19:00 while (dirtyDishes) {
wash dirtyDishes[-1];
dirtyDishes.pop();
}
20:00
21:00
22:00
23:00
}
An Encounter with the Mushroom
“The mushroom speaks,” I announce to my guests, before handing the fungus the mic.
“I am old, older than thought in your species, which is itself fifty times older than your history.” Interpretation failed, reason blushed, speech was silent.
The mushroom continued, “If you have seen Mother Earth’s harlequin costume, you have known Antiquity. It is gradually disappearing, becoming a white, virginal coat again, open fields where monotonous corn, disturbingly, occupies the space as far as the horizon, ugly and greenish. Language and monotheism homogenise the pagan tatter, technology tramples over the altars: the old gods of the byways destroyed, tenure and boundaries abolished.
Finally, after a long dramatic (or perhaps tentative) pause, the mushroom speaks of the “baroque evolutionary possibilities” of symbiosis, dwelling particularly on its affair with algae. From the entanglement, emerged the lichen, something that is neither fungus nor algae, but both at the same time.
Ponderings to Self:
Searching for absolute truth is like trying to disrobe a harlequin, who will never arrive at his last costume. He undresses infinitely. There are always more peacock marks, ocelli and tattoos. The state of things becomes tangled, mingled like thread, a long cable, a skein.
Its layers of harlequin costume peel under the blazing sun to reveal more pleats and wrinkles. Pale. Hairless. Raw.
I decided to trust myself, and to start over from the assumption that I didn’t know anything and neither did anyone else. I stopped talking for a long time, and only played music. The process of reclaiming my sanity was questionable, but it was my own.It slowly evolved into a practice of taking two spoonfuls of psilocybin mushroom laced honey every day until time and space melted away into flashes of mercury swirling around the periphery of my vision.I wanted to erase my mind and start over fresh, as a psychic. I decided to explore the world and learn things first hand. I rejected all second hand information, including all I had learned about geometry, philosophy, physics, calculus, anatomy, psychology, art, history, and music.
A Eulogy for Youth
Was he the victim of an illusion?
He never knew—never indeed, had any cause to know—that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water, which came upon the young actor so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy. He mustered up the courage, again, to he clear and lucid eyes coming through the weathered face seemed so very touching.
But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish.Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!
It represents a vast circulation. Plants grow and are eaten by animals. Animals eat and are eaten. Any organism that dies is incorporated into the cells of moulds, decay bacteria, and so on.
Silence surrounds the cenotaph: music, murmuring, shades of colour and scents. The harlequins dance before the unoccupied seats in an endlessly rising loop under the Istanbul sun.
“I see the wisdom of the illusion now.” The last veil is torn away.
And with that, Reason took its last breath.
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Text
Identity
Murray is everything everywhere. He is the brother of the father; he is his heir; he is the husband of the wife and the lover of the daughter; he is the owner. Name all the characters-he has substituted himself for every one. When one controls relations it is certain that one controls men as well. His mimicry is more than just hypocrisy: it is nothing at all to say that he plays at being devout, since he also plays at being the father, the brother, the son, and the lover. He is the joker, placed everywhere at once, at the same time, and with the same relations. Who is Murray, black truffle, black box? Does he even have an identity? Can it be said that it is a question of the explosion of the principle of individuation? Who is Murray who is so many different metamorphoses at the same time? Is he the actor? Is he the actor, the one who plays such-and-such a character? The parasite, the madman, the joker, and the actor-how are they varieties of impostors? He is a and not only a; he is b as well ; he can be the inverse, the opposite, the contradictory. A is b, Q.E.D. This is the very logic of the denouement.
If he is a man, he is an actor. He goes on stage, sets up the scenery, invents theatre, and imposes theatre. He is all the faces on the screen. If he is a man, he is at the origin of comedy, tragedy, the circus and the farce, and of public meetings, where he gathers the noises of legitimacy.
Serres, The Parasite
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