Eu vivo vasculhando o Atlas Obscura desejando, de longe, as viagens que eu pretendo fazer um dia. O site, ainda bem, tem uma coleção de textos variando dos mais bizarros aos mais comuns — dependendo do que você considera como comum. Esse texto aqui sobre telepatia, cachorros e União Soviética, bem como paranoia cientificista e comunistas é uma das coisas mais doidas que vejo em algum tempo.
O New Yorker fez um retrato apaixonante do que foi Carly Rae Jepsen acompanhada de uma orquestra, nesse final de semana, em Toronto.
Em suma: eu queria estar lá.
The orchestra began, suddenly, in a way that resembled star formation—dense clouds of melody floating in suspension and then, under piccolo flurries and timpani rolls, fusing into one. A sax line emerged, neon with yearning, and Jepsen came out to sing “Run Away with Me,” unprotected by reverb and curling her voice tight around the notes. She glittered in her peculiar, brilliant, half vacant way. Jepsen is, for a pop star, a remarkably unassuming presence—she always seems like a conduit for something, rather than the thing itself—and though she managed the evening’s performance appropriately, like a diva, with a gown change and Streisand gestures, it seemed to me as if she could’ve been singing in front of her bedroom mirror, or in a dream. It just so happened that she was in front of a full symphony orchestra, facing a crowd of people who would eventually jump to their feet and sing along and dance like they, too, were alone in their rooms. The orchestra was heartbreaking, restrained by the simplicity of the songwriting and yet inherently hyperbolic. The violins took up the moments where, normally, on her albums, you’d hear Jepsen ad-libbing with interjections. Instead of a “Hey!” their bows would strike, like an epiphany, a burst of sweetness outside the realm of words.
Estão vendendo uma versão comemorativa de aniversário do Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club por cem euros.
O mundo tá doido.
O Consultor Jurídico soltou uma matéria detalhando bem como as delações premiadas firmados com investigados na lava jato com o MPF podem ferrar com tudo:
Acordos de delação premiada não podem prometer redução da pena em patamar não previsto na Lei das Organizações Criminosas (Lei 12.850/2013), nem oferecer regimes de cumprimento dela que não existem nas leis penais. Caso contrário, haverá violação aos princípios da separação de poderes e da legalidade. Também por isso, esses compromissos só alcançam delitos tipificados por tal norma, e não isentam o Ministério Público de deixar de investigar ou denunciar atos praticados pelo delator.
O resto está aqui.
O subscrito? Habilmente, “nocaute jurídico”.
Quando a Pitchfork quer acertar, ela acerta. Em cheio.
Uma das entrevistas mais encantadoras que eu li no The FADER em algum tempo. Olha só:
SPERBER: This is a really difficult time to be a gay party. It’s a really exciting time but the worst thing you can do is say that you are something that you’re not, and we are a gay party. We’re four gay men doing a party that is predominately men that come to the event. What we try to do is hold space and create forms of discussion and respect without having to kind of scold the people that are supporting what we do. There’s a very aggressive — and rightfully so — conversation out there right now about not just inclusion but exclusion, like the idea that some spaces are never going to be appropriate and they need to be recognized and maybe called out.
At least on the Honey side of things, what we’re just trying to do is be not only aware but make space where we know it’s not appropriate for us to be a part of the conversation. That’s as impactful as being a part of the conversation.
A entrevista toda está aqui.
OK. Não exatamente sobre o futurismo, mas o Gizmodo tem um dos textos mais encantadores sobre a mania cientificista que li em algum tempo. Eis então:
Over time, as technology has changed, so have the metaphors, but the gist is the same: the body is but a fancy machine. This mode of thinking has spawned a philosophical doctrine, generous research funding and misleading jargon in both the realms of biology and computing (see the brain’s “circuits” or deep learning’s “neural networks,” which have more in common with classical computational models than anything neurobiological).
But this point of view becomes especially troubling when the realms of biology and computing merge. We risk starting to treat the human body—in all its complexity, fragility, resilience and mystery—like the machines we compare it to. We risk over-promising on the deliverables, wasting time, money and public patience on far-out research we suggest we can hack together in a few years. And we risk compromising our health and well-being in the process.
Voltei a acessar o The Intercept com mais afinco esses dias. Eles têm, agora e em desenvolvimento, um especial sobre o FBI.
Vale a pena passar um tempo por aqui.
Gothic criticism, of which there is a vast boiling vat these days, has been rendering down the ectoplasmic energy of “spectrality” into sound bites for 25 years, while critics seem to arrive pre-loaded with cookie-cutter cribs from Freud’s “The Uncanny,” in which they laboriously explain yet again that the term unheimlich means rather more literally the unhomely in German, but that the “homely” is housed inside the “unhomely,” the outside in the inside, the strange in the familiar. Right at the start of his book, Fisher acknowledges that Freud’s unusually chaotic essay is full of brilliant possibilities but ends with an interpretation “as disappointing as any mediocre genre detective’s rote solution to a mystery.” This wonderfully provocative dismissal sets Fisher up to articulate an alternative set of terms outside ossified Gothic criticism and dictates the wholly new conceptual structure of his book.
The uncanny, Fisher says, puts the “strange within the familiar” and “operates by always processing the outside through the gaps and impasses of the inside.” In other words, for all its interest in boundary breaches, it is still centered on the self. The weird and the eerie work at this from the other direction, Fisher suggests: “they allow us to see the inside from the perspective of the outside.” The weird is a disturbing obtrusion of something from the outside in. It is the insidious intrusion, the confounding juxtaposition, the thing found in the wrong place. As Lovecraft put it in his essay “Supernatural Horror in Literature,” the weird is “a certain atmosphere of breathless and unexplainable dread of outer, unknown forces.” Lovecraft’s fictions, at their evocative best, are about a steady dethronement of anthropocentric models. This explains the embrace of Lovecraft’s weird realism by philosophers challenging phenomenological paradigms, or leaning toward the radical end of “Thing Theory,” where things escape routine imprisonment inside the implicit hierarchy of the subject/object binary.
The eerie, however, is Fisher’s original extension of this idea. He takes the eerie from lazy, everyday usage and gives it conceptual rigor: places are eerie; empty landscapes are eerie; abandoned structures and ruins are eerie. Something moves in these apparently empty or vacated sites that exists independently of the human subject, an agency that is cloaked or obscure. He wonders: What kind of thing makes an eerie cry? Because it rises up from the outside, and remains there, it resists simple hermeneutic interpretation.
Sobre Mark Fisher e sua última obra — sem nenhum complexo de adulação — numa análise do LA Review of Books.
O textão de Facebook para engolir todos os outros textões.