Category: Non Fiction
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Selling Out
You dig? Selling out ain’t about empty shelves. It’s when the product pimps you, the consumer, to the real score. They don’t refine the sugar, they refine you. Dumber, twitchier versions of your former glorious self, slavering for the next dopamine drip, the next gaudy trinket. You dig, selling out ain’t about empty shelves. It’s…
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Earthquake Weather
The sky’s the color of a week-old margarita, the kind with the mystery fruit chunks floating like half-digested dreams. It’s earthquake weather, folks. Can feel it in my bones, a low rumble like a bad batch of mescaline kicking in. The air hangs heavy, thick with the stench of something fundamental shifting beneath our feet.…
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All Rebels Sell Out And All Right Hand Men Defect
They all turn state’s evidence, man. Every last one of those righteous bastards who howled at the moon about revolution, about tearing down the chrome-plated temples of oppression. Give it a few years, a taste of air conditioning and a decent spread at the country club, and their righteous anger curdles into lukewarm gravy. They…
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Ki-Sho-Ten-Ketsu structure
The poem “Spring Dawn” by Meng Haoran is a wonderful example of the Ki-Sho-Ten-Ketsu structure, a narrative framework commonly used in various art forms including manga. Let’s break down how each of the four lines contributes to the poem’s structure: Ki (Introduction): This line sets the stage by introducing the speaker waking up late on…
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A Solution in Search of a Problem
A chrome-plated roach scuttles across the cracked vinyl reality. It drags a spool of ticker tape, its message a writhing serpent of nonsensical code. This, chums, is the solution. A problem-eater, a glitch-gobbler born in the reeking underbelly of the machine. But the world spins on an axis of human misery, a jukebox of anxieties…
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Let Them Invent
Forget Silicon Valley sunshine and skinny jeans, amigo. In Spain, tech wasn’t some chrome and glass cathedral, it was a roach motel for the soul. A graveyard for authenticity. Unamuno, this Basque barfly philosopher, saw it clear as mescal on an empty stomach. “Let them invent,” he rasped, a flamenco guitarist of existential dread accompanying…
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St Anselm
Dig this, man. Anselm, this medieval code-joekey, riffs on the existence of the Big Guy in the Sky with this twisted logic circuit. His pitch? We can imagine the ultimate mainframe, the biggest, baddest AI ever, right? He says, the ultimate super-computer, God, by its very definition, gotta be the most maxed-out mainframe we can…
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Consensus
Man, consensus is a roach motel. Lures you in with the flickering neon of common ground, promises of smooth sailing and shared agendas. But step inside and the steel snaps shut. You’re stuck, plastered to the flypaper of groupthink, limbs twitching with the sluggish paralysis of conformity. You hear the スーツ (sūtsū, suits) murmuring in…
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Mourning Revolution
The once vivid reel of revolution, man, a Molotov cocktail hurled against the steel sphincter of the System, flickered, replaced by static. The dreamers we were, high on possibility and mescaline, our minds kaleidoscopes of rebellion, fractured. Now, like roaches skittering across a greasy diner counter after the lights go out, we scurry through the…
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Weimar Somocistas
They dream in flickering black and white newsreels, these squares with crew cuts slicked back with Brylcreem. Weimar? A hazy postcard of flappers and jazz, a decadent playground for the swells. Blind to the shadows at the edges, the thuggish brownshirts goose-stepping down cobblestones, a guttural roar rising from the radio static. Somoza in a…