Nerdcore › This Blog about Beauty and Brains. Inside Syria: Letters from Aleppo (1) Am Freitag traf ich mich mit Just (hier auf Facebook), den man eigentlich als bekannten Berliner Streetart-Fotografen kennt.
Wir schmiedeten Pläne für die Zukunft und gingen danach zusammen in den Hobbit. An diesem Abend hatte er mir erzählt, dass er am Wochenende mit einem weiteren Fotografen über die Türkei versuchen wird, nach Syrien zu gelangen, um dort zu fotografieren. Angesichts der Nachrichtenlage (Chemiewaffen, Brandbomben und überhaupt) hab’ ich ihm dringend davon abgeraten, aber jetzt ist er dort und schickt mir immer wenn es passt Augenzeugenberichte und Eindrücke aus dem Bürgerkrieg.
Ich werde die Texte hier unverändert veröffentlichen, auf Flickr sammle ich die Bilder (unbearbeitete Screenshots), die mir der Mann zu seinen Berichten schickt, hier der erste Teil: Hi René, ich schreibe dir aus dem Office des AMC (Aleppo Media Center), einem alten und jetzt besetzen Science Center (mehr weiss ich nicht). Die Ausreise aus der Tuerkei war easy. Dream Psychology : Sigmund Freud. <div style="padding:5px; font-size:80%; width:300px; background-color:white; margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; border:1px dashed gray;"> Internet Archive's<!
--'--> in-browser audio player requires JavaScript to be enabled. It appears your browser does not have it turned on. Please see your browser settings for this feature. </div> 01 - Dreams Have a Meaning 02 - The Dream Mechanism 03 - Why the Dream Disguises the Desires 04 - Dream Analysis 06 - The Wish in Dreams 07 - The Function of the Dream 08 - The Primary and Secondary Process - Regression 09 - The Unconscious and Consiousness - Reality Librivox recording of Dream Psychology, by Sigmund Freud.
Open Humanities Press. Himalaya Winter Climb. Unspeakable cold.
A cold so unearthly, the two Polish mountaineers, even in their benumbed state, recognize it for what it is: the angel of death. She has wrapped their wasted bodies in her icy wings and is feeding on them while they're still alive—gnawing at their wooden fingers and frozen toes, eating away their waxy cheeks and hardened noses. It is the 12th of January, 2007, the dead of winter, in Pakistan's Karakoram Range. Darek Załuski and Jacek Jawień are pinned down inside their tent at 22,146 feet (6,750 meters) on the southwest ridge of Nanga Parbat, Earth's ninth highest mountain.
Everything is frozen solid—boots, socks, sunscreen, water bottles—as if left over from some ghastly ice age. "Wiatr . . . wiatr! " June 20, 2012: Solidarity to the comrades struck by the operation “Ardire” Was My Life Worth Living? (Emma Goldman. It is strange what time does to political causes.
A generation ago it seemed to many American conservatives as if the opinions which Emma Goldman was expressing might sweep the world. Now she fights almost alone for what seems to be a lost cause; contemporary radicals are overwhelmingly opposed to her; more than that, her devotion to liberty and her detestation of government interference might be regarded as placing her anomalously in the same part of the political spectrum as the gentlemen of the Liberty League, only in a more extreme position at its edge.
On Palante (Michel Onfray. A philosopher is dead when he is no longer read.
Some, then, know the strange fortune of death while still alive. Others suffer through periods of purgatory more or less long, during which their books sleep on shelves, covered in dust and desolation. In order to awaken them from this slumber an inspired hand is needed that will bring the ideas beck to life, make the words dance and once again give intuitions their shine of yesteryear. But forgotten ideas don’t always deserve this: if some would gain by dying the day of their birth since they are old from the time of their conception, others are of a marvelous actuality; they are what Nietzsche calls the untimely — the always current because never fashionable.
Palante has known the solitude of libraries and booksellers. That his books were written in the first two decades of this century is of almost no importance. Someone's Knocking at My Door. Anxiety: We worry.
A gallery of contributors count the ways. The editors of Anxiety recently asked the Hungarian novelist Laszlo Krasznahorkai to contribute to the series. Below, in the author’s words, is “a lyrical essay about the terrible meeting between boorishness and aggressiveness,” a meditation on a type of violent person who produces in him “the deepest personal anxiety.” It was translated by George Szirtes from the Hungarian. I’ve been living in complete silence for months, I might say for years, with just the usual dull sounds you hear at the outskirts of town, the occasional echo of steps in the corridor and, further off, in the stairwell, someone dragging a sack, a carpet, a package, or a corpse, God knows what, along the ground; or the sound of the elevator as it slows, stops, opens, then closes and starts to rise or descend.
Wie ich eines schönen Morgens im April das 100% Mädchen sah. Komics live!