An opinion on the Disappearance of The Page (As transcribed by Cory Banta)

     
     "I dont think the topic is related to the group, but I just wanna rant.
Am I the only one bothered by the disappearance of the concept of 'PAGE' on internet and the deliberate inconvenience it brought?
I remember vaguely once on Youtube comment section there was page. So if a video has 2000 comments, one could still put them in temporal order and straightly goto the page in the middle. The youtube comment section now, however, users are forced to either only viewing the latest comments (suppose the user wont waste few days keep scrolling down thousands of comments), or to view the comments picked by the AI algorithms.
 
     Its the same for facebook or any other major social medias. For one to find a older post in a facebook, the only thing they can do is scrolling down for god knows how long, or hope it magically appears by facebook algorithms.
And this design was deliberate. What it causes is a destruction of the concept of 'past' on social media, which what only remains is the 'now', the 'present', the newest in the feed, and the things being pushed by the algorithms lord.
In the old school style BBS and forums, one could simply browse the history of a community by selecting a page and look for the old posts from years ago whenever they want. But for the major social medias, they eliminated the feature together with the history of the each within-communities.
   
     On facebook or most social media now, it became so hard for you to find something that you can only wait for things to be fed to you. It is triumph of information control and training for user dependency."

The City of God is Built on Clay

     

     There is a trepidation to be found in the holy city of Wilmore, Kentucky. Outwardly the small town carries itself to be a place of spiritual excellence and vitality. After all, it holds both a Christian or "conservative" arts college (Although they will tell you they are a rather prestidgious university) and a Wesleyan theological seminary. Much of the land within the town has been owned or subcontracted to these two pillars, and as a result much of the population believes and conveys that just as these two organizations are undeniably performing the Lord's work, such also are they. This is most often conveyed metaphysically through subconscious behavior and attitudes, but can also be found manifest through both the egotistical and capitalist advertizing and slogans scattered across the town's landscape as well as in the very conversations of residents.

     A false self-awareness can be heard from the lips of her heard of villagers. In fact the very nikname "The Holy City" is one of the most common found at the seminary. The supposed irony lies in the comparison of their beloved Wilmore to bulwarks like Jerusalem, Rome, or for the Southerner, Charleston, South Carolina. Clearly Wilmore resembles these cities in no way. Where these cities shine as the eyes, jewels, and serve as the foreland to the hinterland, Wilmore conversely hides in the shadow of a shadow, resting beyond the hinterland of Nicholasville which already serves as the hinterland to Lexington. Furthermore, these cities play and have played significant roles in the religion of their people for much of their existence primarily by drawing pilgrims and others to them. A University and College do the opposite of this by sending people away from the city after they have scraped up what it has to offer. While the seminarians who crack these jokes regularly find this to be a good bit of irony, the issue is that not only does the instrumentally-thinking majority struggle to conceive this, but the seminarians themselves hold this underwhelming jest to be a truth in their hearts.

     I take revulsion at this notion (for more than simply a stagnant humoresque). Not only is their identity incorrect, but it is quite hypocritical. Swept under the rugs of the college and seminary is the seedy underbelly of the town. Meth labs, addicts, sex-offenders, and all the like that are associated with "white trash" appear in an almost vampiric fashion some time after dusk. Wilmore is no more devoid of its deep socio-economic problems than any other 'hood in middle America. Unlike many of these 'hoods, however, Wilmore refuses to acknowledge or legitimize the presence of any these individuals. Instead of recognizing (let alone resolving) this dysfunctional and problematic stem of their town, the puritanical seminarians would instead hide away in their ivory offices carefree. Those who claim to be the guardians of truth and faith reap no practical application of it in the field most plainly within their reach.

     However, the auxiliaries and producers are found guilty as well. Fed by the disdain of the guardians, the two lesser classes share in this identity, but where the guardians are at least bound by posterity, the lesser classes are not slaves to appearances. It is beyond dispassion that these people hold; repudiation serves much better for these classes against the hidden faults of their town. What is most glaring is despite all these efforts, conscious or unconscious, the grave issues plaguing this town stand out all the more as they are juxtaposed to this whitewashed wall of false purity.

     An eerie vibe carries through the town of Wilmore during the day which I attribute to this lifestyle. After dusk, this vibe is only exemplified as the true nature of the town is made apparent. I am unsure if it is possible to entirely dismiss my perturbation, but I feel that doing so would be injustice. It is for this reason that I write this piece.

Respice post te. Hominem te memento.

t. A concerned onlooker

In the Fog

The fog is all around Wyatt. I can’t pull him out now. He has only two options: remain in fog or come to our side. Brady and I are here on this side. 

I discovered Brady here with me at dinner the other day—actually before dinner: he asked me about Wyatt and I responded, and he cowed me with his eyes. I jumped, rabbit-like, away from his eyes, feet grinding invisible grain beneath me. I know he sees I’ve apprehended some truth, I saw it in his eyes. At dinner he doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t open to me. His questions are broken and half-responded. He has responses for his own questions. Wyatt, a child, plays along, whirling his ice-cream with a spoon. I, too, am a child, but I’m out of the fog—I think—with Brady. Brady and I know we’re out and know the other’s out. We both vie for influence over Wyatt’s mind. Wyatt, blank, without understanding, believes I am on a journey with him; he thinks Brady is static, found a comfortable place. Brady and I hurtle at a million miles an hour through information and thoughts, we don’t stop. Wyatt’s mind is stuck in a rut, wheels floating round in infinite mud, blind to truth. We have yet to throw out ropes, but we are both scrambling to find the best way to do so. Wyatt thinks he can influence my mind—he hasn’t yet. He’s just made me sad for him. He resents my pity, yet he takes it. He can’t buck this burden I’ve let fall. Only I can remove it. How can I remove it while he remains enshrouded in fog. Step through the door and we’ll be equals. 

But Wyatt doesn’t know. He wonders why I don’t take his advice. I already know how the game is played, I see it from the outside. Brady and I do. Brady’s a few meters ahead of me—hurtling, as always—but a few meters makes a world of difference. Brady, I know what you’re up to. Good man, but unclear motives.

Why didn’t Brady reveal himself at dinner? I know he knew I knew. He wouldn’t throw his eyes at mine; he wouldn’t be straightforward. He leaned his head back and moaned of a brain freeze. The great equalizer, I joke. Wyatt laughs, Brady keeps his eyes tightly shut, head folded back onto the booth seat. Uhhh, he moans through grated teeth. I take the liberty of glaring at the bottom of his chin. It’s wiry with grey hair, like mine with black. I look back at Wyatt: his head bobs with childish mirth. Why can’t he see.