svoboda / tim

For personal context, before I went to the '98 Burning Man festival, one of the things I'd read from a couple different journalists was that "everybody" runs around naked. Which, fine by me, I'd already spent a lot of time in clothing-optional spaces, I'm not fanatic about it but it's nice.

So I got there early and set up a public shade structure on one of Black Rock City's main roads and spent most of each afternoon just watching the crowds go by. I don't remember seeing more than one actually naked person the whole week. I think a topless woman passed by my intersection maybe every half an hour, sometimes once an hour. So why in the hell were people, normally pretty smart and observant writers, coming away with the impression that everybody was naked?

Then I remembered an unrelated passage from Joel Garreau's great book about the history of the outer-ring suburbs, Edge City. Mall developers told him flat-out that they tried to keep the crowds in their malls less than 5% black. Not because they themselves were racist, but because they had determined, experimentally, that if more than 5% of the people in the mall are black, the median white shopper will wrongly describe the mall as at least half black, as mostly black. And not a few of them would describe it, at 6% black, as a mall where "only black people go." Why?

Because, emotionally, they were still upset over the last one when the next one came into view.

Just canceled my account (not that I used it that much). But I won’t permit this. Via @unaminh.bsky.social:

IMPORTANT: For any artists/writers/etc etc, using Linktree to point people to their work, from 5 July, they'll be feeding all imagery you use on your landing page into DALL-E by OpenAI.

Anyways! HERE'S YOUR HANDY GUIDE TO WHAT CAN COUNT AS EYESTRAIN! I'm pulling this straight from the Artfight rules page about what needs to be labeled and filtered as eyestrain because it's VERY helpful and VERY accurate! I also know not everybody has an AF account and might not always have access to this handy guide, and this is an important resource; That's why I'm sharing it here! (under the cut)

PLEASE TAKE THIS SERIOUSLY!!! THIS IS ABOUT THE HEALTH AND SAFETY OF OTHERS!!!

— -. . / - .– — / - .– — / ..-. .. ..-. - -.–

Unfortunately for you, you aren’t very well versed in translating Morse code, merely recognizing it. You reach into your purse to grab your phone, but after a moment of searching, you realize you had left it at home before you left for work. “God damnit,” you mutter. You’re more than halfway to your office, and you’re already running late due to the fact that that you decided to follow some whim and jot down some cryptic message from a provocative rapper. Concluding that it would probably be best for you to mosey to work, you pull back onto the expressway and try to make it to work on time.

Upon arriving at work, you ask any coworker in sight if they know Morse code. Nobody seems to, and some don’t even know what Morse code is. You slump your shoulders in disappointment and head over to your desk, when suddenly, the quiet, mouse-like secretary clears her throat and says, “Excuse me, I know Morse code!”

You turn around with the same wide eyes as before. “You do!?” you ask vigorous excitement, which seems to startle the young woman.

“Yes,” she says, “when I was younger, I planned on joining the navy, so I taught it to myself.” You feel a bit sorry for her, that she wound up as a mere secretary instead of a naval officer, but that feeling of pity didn’t stop you from being grateful for the lucky coincidence of her knowing Morse code. You show her the pattern.

— -. . / - .– — / - .– — / ..-. .. ..-. - -.–

“That’s all there is?” she asks, furrowing her brow.

“Yeah,” you shrugged, “it just kept repeating that over and over again. What does it say?”

“One, two, two, fifty.”

Your heart sinks a little. “What is that? What does that mean, is it like a phone number or house address or something?”

The secretary shrugs. “I’m really sorry, I don’t know. It’s too short to be a phone number, but beyond deciphering it, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

You nod slowly, and though you understand, you are still not at all satisfied. You go to sit at your desk. 1 2 2 50. The sequence plays over and over in your head all day, and needless to say, your curiosity an wonderment got the best of you. It was not a very productive work day.

You head home, and the same damned song plays on the radio. You shake your head as if that would make the song stop, then decide to plug 12250 into your GPS to see if there are any autofill results. None. You become increasingly frustrated.

When you get home, your daughter is sitting at the kitchen table, working on homework. She runs up to you and gives you a big hug, and asks about your day at work. You put on a fake smile and sigh. “Interesting,” you say— no doubt sugarcoating the intense excitement, disappointment, and confusion.

“Will you help me with my homework? I have to memorize something for my history class tomorrow.”

“Of course, doll! What are you memorizing?”

She hands you a laminated sheet of paper. “Roman numerals!”

You glance over the page, your eyes quickly darting from one, to two, to fifty.

It dawns on you. You’d recognize this pattern anywhere.