“When the sadness comes, don’t welcome it in.
Let it stand outside your door all night in the pouring rain and
don’t pay attention to the rapid knocking.
After a while, it will stop
but its presence will continue to be a welcome mat
outside your front door.
Start wiping your feet on its chest,
start wringing it out in the dirt,
start using the back door instead.
When the sadness comes, tell it to leave.
Hold its bones in the palms of your hands
and say, ‘You do not belong here.’”—Advice For Sixteen Year Old Girls with Blue Hair or Things Your Mother Never Taught You (via bitchtopiamag)
Breaking stories down for a computer “involves not only encoding story elements like characters, events, and plot, but also the ‘common sense’ people take for granted”, said Sarlej. Telling a story is simple enough for a child to do, but stories are actually “incredibly complex”.
"For example, if Bob gives Alice an apple, Alice will have the apple, and Bob will not. To a person, that’s obvious, and doesn’t require explanation. If Bob punches Carl, people would generally assume Carl will be unhappy about it, but a computer doesn’t have the ‘common sense’ to make such an inference. In a computer programme, details like this must be explicitly spelled out," she said.
Current results are fairly rudimentary but, according to Scarlej’s supervisor, computers “will be making interesting and meaningful contributions to literature within the next decade.”
To a stranger I speak he does not answer I reach out but my fingers pass through your body vapors a stranger passes by me on the train appears sometimes as a face in a crowd with piercing blue eyes or on the edge of a rocky island, captain of an abandoned ship. A stranger watches he listens. Hello, Stranger you haunt my moonlit Odyssey I wish I could call you by name.
Este mes presentamos a la periodista digital Leigh Cuen, co-organizadora de Online News Association Jerusalem, el único equipo periodístico en el Medio Oriente dirigido conjuntamente por periodistas israelíes, palestinos e internacionales…
Ori was a painter whose work was always pensive and occasionally brilliant. He’d recently graduated from art school in Jerusalem. Remnants of his teenage depression and eternal sensitivity were still scribbled across his bedroom walls in black-sharpie poems about love and death. When Ori leaned over to kiss me, I moved away and read his letters.
We left Nablus’ ancient bathhouse. On the way to eat kanafeh, we somehow ended up at a Palestinian professor’s house. He was hosting a small gathering of international volunteers and a few men from Nablus, including teachers from the nearby school. The house sat perched high in the hills. The backyard balcony offered a sweeping view of the city below. The home itself was built with smooth stones and stretches of white marble with gray swirls. From the balcony, we gazed out at hills speckled with olive trees. The sunset draped the world in a blood orange glow.
I don’t know how the joke started, because I wasn’t paying attention to the group. I was busy nagging the school teacher with jowls and an untamed moustache. The one who brought us here.
“Let’s go, you said we were going to get kanafeh in the shuk,” I whined. He had promised we would just stop by this house for a minute to “say hi.” My host, a school teacher I met that same afternoon, told me the taxi would take us to kanafeh in the Nablus city center. I bit my lip when it drove us somewhere on the distant outskirts of the city instead. I had no idea where we were now. We entered a huge white home without any real furniture or shelves in the living room. Inside it felt like a skeleton without organs.