In which I reminisce about childhood nightmares, uncover a deeply-held belief hiding in my subconscious, and continue to complain about my body.
- I sat at a weird angle in bed and hurt my neck and shoulders. I thought this body had a few good years left in it, but I fear it might be time for me to check myself into geriatric care.
- Reading Christine gave me nightmares for three nights straight. The closer I got to the end of the book, the more terrifying my nightmares became, until one day I woke up at 4am, sweaty and confused, and could not go back to sleep again. Ten out of ten experience, highly recommended.
- Talking of nightmares: when I was a child, I watched an episode of Aahat in which people’s reflections were able to murder them through mirrors. For months afterward, I refused to enter rooms that had mirrors in them unless I was escorted by an adult. My parents were not pleased, and they banned me from watching anything scary ever again. Even today, I get spooked by mirrors. I’m guessing I’m not the only one who had this experience growing up, because “aahat haunted mirror episode” is an autocomplete suggestion on Google, and the first link in the search results takes you to the episode hosted on Sony’s official YouTube channel.
- I’m now reading Lily King’s Writers and Lovers. The first chapter of this book starts with the most cliché protagonist-wakes-up-and-goes-to-work scene that you can imagine. This sort of opening — in books, movies, and even games — is an instant turnoff for me. That said, Writers and Lovers gets real good real quick, so I can forgive this minor transgression. It’s a sweet, well-written romance that tackles painful topics without letting things get too heavy. Just what I need to chase away the nightmares.
- There’s a belief I’ve unconsciously held for many years that keeps me from fully enjoying all the different art I like to engage with. The belief goes something like this: all the books I read, movies I watch, games I play, or music I listen to must have some sort of artistic merit. This “artistic merit” is defined either by practitioners who make the same kind of art or—more often—by critics who have studied it all their lives. I’d never been able to put this belief in words until last week. Now that I’ve managed to do it, I can see how harmful it is, and I’m starting to question it. But that’s a topic for another, much longer blog post. If I ever get to it.
Links of the Week
- They Were All Splendid by Darren Barefoot
- OpenAI Used Kenyan Workers on Less Than $2 Per Hour to Make ChatGPT Less Toxic by Billy Perrigo for Time
- We come to bury ChatGPT, not to praise it by Dan McQuillan
- Don’t believe ChatGPT - we do NOT offer a “phone lookup” service by Ed Freyfogle for The OpenCage Blog
- Meetings *are* the work by Elizabeth Ayer
- Reading: Writers and Lovers by Lily King
- Playing: Hades (Nintendo Switch)
- Playing: Banner Saga (Nintendo Switch)