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There is no such thing as a perfect place on the internet. But it’s possible to avoid the ones that aren’t even pretending to try to be better. The best time to leave Substack was a long time ago. The second best time is now. — Marisa Kabas Visit original link → or View on nazhamid.com →
I went for a run. I’ve been running consistently for over a year and a half now. It’s a panacea for me. I run outside. I like to feel the cool wind on my skin, my pores open and sweating, the legs rhythmically turning over in pursuit of flow. In the beginning, I kept my head down, finding it difficult to smile or look at others. I usually like to connect to people somehow, to remind us of our humanity. Eventually, as the pace got me past the first mile, I started to look up and around. I saw and heard people. A laugh. A morning greeting between co-workers. A one-sided phone exchange. The juxtaposition of the feelings of my country divided and decided, against the backdrop of life as usual was jarring. I wanted to run down the feelings, in search of something: resolution, calm, peace, catharsis, or something else altogether to jettison the overwhelm. My body needs nurturing. It wants to build. It craves maintenance. If you have ever made anything then you know this truth: creation can take hours, months, years. And yet destruction can happen in an instant. Yet we still forge. We have to conceive, design, and construct to satisfy this innate desire. With matters of the physical, the mind, and the heart, upkeep is paramount. Without it, disrepair creeps up quickly. To achieve or progress further, requires even more effort. Sometimes that feels outsized in comparison to how easy it is to slip into decay. My feet took me to over 3 miles around a corner and a mild uphill. The legs started to give, and the crushing feeling in my chest forced me to a stop. I wasn’t having a heart attack. My ire had manifested itself physically, and halted me. I had to let it consume me briefly. I had to have a small breakdown. This was grief tied up in a turd of disappointment. My legs started to walk. Slowly at first, and as I crested the small incline, they got back to it. The feeling of disbelief is a privilege. I’m not surprised. Disappointed and angry, yes. But not surprised. I’ve experienced racism enough times in this country and gone through a lengthy process with immigration to know what this country truly is. Ironically, the racism I've experienced has occurred in cities. And despite being heightened to it when traveling through smaller parts of this country, I haven't knowingly experienced it. The racism is here, in our backyards. But this country is unlike any other. There are good people here, aiming to truly make the world a better place. It can be a place where you can make something out of nothing. That promise has been forgotten in favor of lifting the singular and not the plural. I’ve been able to make a good life for myself, and the many dependents I am responsible for, but that didn’t come easy. This life was hard-fought and hard-earned. I wanted it, and needed to make it happen. My family and loved ones rely on me, and I have a duty to care. My breath settled back in and the legs found their beat again and took me home. Five miles down. Five miles to keep the systems in check. Five miles to strengthen this body, sharpen this mind, and create momentum. As I walked through the door, I realized I found something I’ve had all along: resilience, and the ability to work hard. The work is never done. Let’s get to it. Read on nazhamid.com or Reply via email
If anything, as the well gets poisoned by their own outputs, large language models may well end up eating their own slop and getting their own version of mad cow disease. So this might be as good as they’re ever going to get. — Jeremy Keith I use AI. Not particularly for generative work but to work through code or even to find some semblance of an answer because the very same companies have made search unusable. My work also involves AI, and there's a longer post here about ways that AI might help, but the concerns are real, and I struggle with that balance. Visit original link → or View on nazhamid.com →
Stone Temple Pilots’ “Kitchenware & Candybars” comes on, and suddenly I'm 17 again, driving underneath the amber glow of late-night deserted streets in Kuala Lumpur. I can feel the sharp air conditioning in the car against my skin, keeping the tropical heat and humidity outside at bay, while the heady thoughts of my former teenage self wash over me. This isn’t singular to that song or memory. Music is so engrained in my being, noting the notable. A chord, drumbeat or lyric can transport me through my lifetime and to the person I once was. I then exist in this liminal state, suspended between now and then, today and yesterday. Read on nazhamid.com or Reply via email
Eva Decker is a designer engineer who likes playing piano and writing CSS. Currently living in NYC with Samwise. — Eva Decker Visit original link → or View on nazhamid.com →
More in literature
If something feels wrong, it is useful to articulate very precisely why that is
Ridgeline subscribers — For the last ten days I’ve been walking around London. Mostly in a little corner of it in the northeast part of the city. But can you even call a part a “corner” when the city extends in every direction without stopping? Whatever you call it, I’ve been in my little northeast section (if not corner) spending mornings reading and writing until I’m cross-eyed and then afternoons walking the streets over and over again.
Jay St. Charles is a legendary bowyer based in Fall City, Washington. While he was born into the world of archery and grew up in his father’s archery shop, Jay eventually became a master bowyer, carving bows under the brand of Pacific Yew Longbows. He lives on a small homestead above the Snoqualmie River Valley, nestled in the foothills of the Cascades.
The antithesis of slop. It's been a few years since I'd attended the SF Zine Fest. Friend Scott Boms had a table with his Matter Editions wares, and it's a 10-minute walk from home, so Jen and I had to go. Held at The Hibernia, it was a treat to actually go into this historic building that I've wondered about for as long as we've lived here.[1] It's a beautiful venue inside, and lots of people were milling about outside, having just gone in or waiting to meet friends to head inside. Masks were required (which we already had), and they were giving out plenty of KN95 masks. Transmission is high at the moment, and I just recovered from my second bout with Covid two weeks ago. Bustling with people! Inside, the venue was delightfully packed. Good energy in the air, and it was pretty tight getting around to seeing makers and their wares. A huge variety of zines in all shapes, sizes, and styles were present, and it warmed my heart. Having made a few zines in the past, it really inspired me to pick up a long-gestating project of making some zines or book-shaped things with the photography and words from the Weightshifting newsletter overland archives. Scott's table, and a photo of the two of us taken by Jen. We found Scott downstairs, chatting with people, and interjected with hugs. I had just received his Lost Memories zine last week, so it was a delight to add his fresh-off-the-overnight-press spiral-bound release, The Tower That Ate People. More people kept coming by, and with the vibrant crowd continuing to grow, we started to make our way out. Matter Editions latest — The Tower That Ate People. (And C3P0's eyes are worked in here). As we passed more tables on the way out, Jen and I remarked to each other that this felt like “the antithesis of slop.” So many young people, getting zines, getting into art. So many hand-drawn, hand-made pieces of art all over the venue. That energy again present in the air, feeling like I was back in my own teenage years in the 90s, when technology was just a means to propel our own innate creativity rather than usurp it. Photocopiers, basic computer graphics for layouts, cut and paste collages. That felt liberating. Today's technology feels imprisoning. Good job, SF Zine Fest. I fucking loved it. That would be over 17 years now. ↩︎ → This looks better on the web → Reply via email Thanks for reading and using RSS!
