Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Infinite Monkeys (->tumblr)

Hi!

Ich zocke u.a. mit tante und BuzzingDanZei gerade ein Storium-Spiel, das ich "Infinite Monkeys" genannt habe.

Ich wollte die Episoden hier posten, aber da das Rüberziehen der Inhalte auf hier auf Blogger nur Schmerzen bereitet, habe ich das Ganze auf tumblr umgezogen.

Bussi,
Toby

Friday, June 21, 2013

Chore

His wrists hurt. His back hurt. He couldn't feel his legs and feet. James had been slicing onions for what felt like hours now, and still there was no end in sight.

He was long past hating Joan for this assignment. At first, he had felt the white-hot rage reserved for the lowest category of assholes, for sadistic fucks that get kicks out of other people's misery. But that had long since been washed away by the burning in his eyes, by the endless flood of tears, and had given way to a dull determination to make Joan pay for this, a dark black sphere of steely resolve that throbbed in rhythm with his lower back.

Keeping a sip of water in his mouth had helped, a little, at first. But try having the same mouthful of water for 15 minutes, and anybody would prefer burning eyes, he was sure. He'd made his worst mistake after the first half hour, when he had unthinkingly rubbed his eyes. His left eye had still not fully opened back up yet.

The knife was nice, though. A slick, ultra-modern applicance from some robotics manufacturer he'd heard of once, in the news. Something to do with home automation. He hated that modern crap, but he had to admit the knife had a nice balance. As soon as he'd picked it up, it had greeted him in a voice he assumed had been recorded by some highly paid TV actor, and focus group tested all to hell and back for maximum comforting effect. It sounded like a damn televangelist. He'd told it to shut the fuck up after the first sentence.

He continued slicing, caught in the kind of trance that only repetetive, brainless work will put you into. Hindbrain work, he called it. Not the kind of work he enjoyed. He was accustomed to using a keyboard, and sitting in a comfortable chair. He had no idea why that asshole had told him to go slice a metric fuckload of onions. Her nonchalant visage flashed in front of James, in the perfect clarity that only angry hindsight could give you. "It's no big thing," she'd said, "everybody takes turns chopping up the onions." Sure, it wasn't part of his normal job, but then again, he was new and didn't want to go against the boss in his first month at work. This must be some kind of hazing ritual. What a jerk.

There was a gentle knock, and Lisa peeked around the door. When she saw James, her eyes widened in shock. "Christ, what the hell happened to you?"
"What do mean, what happened to me? I've been chopping these bastard onions for forever now, just like Joan told me."
Lisa's hand shot to her mouth. "Oh god. You've been actually physically chopping them with your hands."
"What? Are you kidding me? How would I chop them otherwise?"
Lisa stepped up to the table, and put her hand on his knife hand. "Here, let me." She held the knife up, examining it. "Oh, you put it in standby," she said. "OK Knife, chop those onions." A green dot of LED light winked on at the base of the knife's handle. Lisa put the knife down, which started to hang in the air above the chopping board. She then grabbed an onion, and laid it down next to the knife. Immediately, the knife hacked the onion into two halves, then started dicing the halves into tiny, mathematically precise cubes.

"Jesus, Jim," Lisa said, "didn't anybody ever tell you you've got to let the knife do the work?"

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Sunday, May 05, 2013

Rest

"ご主人さん"
The girl's voice jars the warrior out of his stupor. He does not recall how long he has been sitting in the half-dark chamber, staring into the remains of the fire in the centre of the room. He recognises the girl by her voice, but even if he didn't, he would recognise her by the wrong honorific. A bit too irreverent, not respectful enough. If he were to discipline her for this insult, nobody could object. Then again, nobody can object to anything he does. After all, he is part of the army that conquered this village.
Everybody hates him. But their good manners still make them treat him like a dignitary. No, not their good manners. Their fear. Except for the girl. She is all of eight years old, and the only member of the household that has taken him in who openly shows her dislike. The others cower and bow in fear, even though it was their idea to offer their bed chamber to a warrior from the invading army, in the hopes of preferential treatment. And it is true, those families who put up soldiers have a better chance of surviving the winter.
As long as their guests behave themselves.

"主人さん、ご飯はできました"
He realises she is waiting for his permission to enter. He grunts. The door slides open. She is kneeling outside, a tray in front of her, with covered bowls of soup and rice.


"いらん。出ていけ" he barks at her. She does not flinch at his gruff dismissal, like she did yesterday. Instead, she shuffles forward, pushing the tray of food until it sits next to him on the tatami mats. He ignores it.
Staring into the embers of the fire, images from the last weeks flash unbidden before his eyes. Images of gore and blood, of death, of bodies lying by the wayside. Crows picking at still warm corpses.
Listlessly, he removes the cover from the bowl of soup. A small cloud of steam wafts up. It smells of miso and seaweed. The aroma should make him salivate, but the taste in his mouth is of ashes and death. There was  a time when he could enjoy food. There is a tingling pain in his nose as tears start to gather in the corners of his eyes.

"お邪魔します"
Her reappearance jerks him out of his thoughts. He did not notice her leave, but now she's kneeling outside the room again. As their eyes meet, she drops her eyes, and bites her lower lip. What a sorry sight he must present. Welcoming the distraction from his thoughts, he watches her as she scrapes the ashes out of the fireplace and replenishes the coals. Then she sees the uneaten food, and wrinkles her nose.

"お召し上がりになりませんでした"
"いらんって言っただろう。出ていけこんヤロー!", he barks, irritated.
Taking the tray, she leaves, shuffling backwards on her knees and closing the sliding door behind her. He hears her stand up, then a window being opened. The sound of soup being poured on the ground outside. 
So they do not even want his leftovers. Maybe they are too afraid. He does not care. He has not seen any of the residents of this house after they offered him this little chamber. Except for the girl.
His thoughts drift to images of other little girls. Crying. Dying. Dead. To atrocities he has seen. Atrocities he has committed. His gaze falls on a bit of coal that has dropped out of the fire. Without thinking, he puts his bare foot on it.
Immediately, a sharp burning pain shoots up from the sole of his foot, up his calf. He does not move his leg. The pain is all he feels. The images are gone. The ember of coal fades beneath his foot. A smell of scorched flesh wafts up to his nose. The pain fades.
More images. This time of a burnt village, of smouldering corpses. The same roast pork smell. He is caught in his living nightmares. This time, he does not attempt to hold back the tears. He does not know how to escape this living hell.
Some time later, the girl reappears. Her eyes widen at the sight of his injured foot, and she scurries out of the room, to reappear minutes later with a bowl of warm water and a washcloth. To his amazement, she kneels down and starts washing his burn wound. He is too weary to stop her. 

"なぜだ"
His question goes unanswered. He wants an explanation, a reason for her behaviour. Instead, she looks away and shakes her head slightly. She continues to clean his wound. Her touch is soothing, a long-missed bit of human contact. He leans back and allows himself to relax. We she is finished, she takes the dirty rag and the bowl outside, but leaves the door open. Soon, she reappears with another tray of food, which she puts down next to him.

"お召し上がり下さい"
He is not even annoyed by the slightly too impolite address any more. He just shakes his head, then moves to turn his body away from her.

"もう食べなさいよ"
This is not polite at all. Instead, it is what a mother would say to an annoying child. The rudeness surprises and angers him. His head snaps around and his eyes lock on hers. She meets his gaze, her lower lip trembling. Her eyes start to fill with tears, but she still does not look away.

"食べてください"
A little more polite, but far short of what would be used for an honoured guest. This is how you would talk to an acquaintance. To a friend.
He picks up the bowl of soup.

"ありがとう"
She nods at his thanks, and looks down again, the short moment of connection gone. Her hands are trembling. He must have scared her.
He takes the lid off the soup, and takes a sip. Like the noon meal, it is a miso broth with seaweed and cubes of tofu floating in it. As soon as the first gulp hits his stomach, he notices how ravenous he is. He devours the soup and rice. He doesn't even notice the bitter aftertaste until he is finished.
She is still kneeling next to him, head bowed down. A tear drops from her face and lands in front of her on the rough wooden floor boards.

"毒入ったね"
It's not a question. He already knows what she has done. He can already feel his fingertips start to tingle and go numb. He thinks he recognises the type of poison. From what he has heard, his death will be relatively painless.
His sword is lying next to him. It has been lying next to him the entire time. He knows he has enough time left to take his revenge on this family. But what would he gain from that? Maybe it is for the best. This way he can rest, finally. No more nightmares. No more unbidden images in his mind. This girl. He first met her two days ago. She decided to take revenge for her townspeople, but instead she gave him a way out of the trap his life has become.
He realises with a jolt that her family will be punished if his commander were to find out he has been poisoned. They will make an example of them, to deter the rest of the town from rising up against the occupying forces. He realises he does not want that to happen.
He picks up the sword and holds it out to the girl. She flinches, then looks at him, puzzled. He shoves it towards her, and she hesitantly takes it.
He props himself up to a kneeling position. When he draws his knife and holds it before his stomach, she realises what he is about to do. This way, they will not be persecuted. He will have died by his own hand, and her ending his suffering will be an honourable thing. An act of mercy. In a way, that is what has already happened. He looks at her.

"手伝ってくれ"
He hopes she knows what she has to do. His sword is very sharp, so he thinks she can manage to sever his head, as soon as he has committed seppuku. As she starts to draw his sword from the scabbard, he braces himself to make his last act an act of compassion.

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Friday, January 25, 2013

An alle Männerrechtler


Liebe Männer, die sich von #aufschrei zu Unrecht angeprangert, mit bösen Menschen in einen Topf geworfen, oder sonstwie diskriminiert fühlen:

OK, ich verstehe, daß das echt scheiße ist, wenn man das Gefühl hat, man wird für etwas angeklagt, das man nicht getan hat, nie tun würde, und das man auch schlimm findet und verurteilt. Aber ich verstehe eins nicht.

WHY THE FUCK FÜHLT IHR EUCH DA ANGESPROCHEN?

Da erzählen Menschen (ja, überwiegend Frauen) davon, wie sie im Alltag belästigt, oder wegen ihres Geschlechts, beziehungsweise ihrer sexuellen Orientierung, schlecht behandelt wurden.

Ende der Geschichte.

Niemand prangert, niemand verallgemeinert da irgendwas, keine alte Sau schmeißt irgendwen in irgendeinen Topf. Wer sich da angesprochen fühlt, der zieht sich den Schuh nicht einfach an, der rennt dem der den Schuh hat hinterher, reißt ihn ihm aus der Hand, merkt er passt nicht, hackt sich den großen Zeh ab, und zwängt sich dann mit Gewalt rein.

Und eins ist echt eine ziemlich arschige Nummer: Eine Person, die Euch nicht persönlich angreift, die Euch nicht mal persönlich kennt, und der es gerade schlecht geht, anzugreifen.

IHR ARMEN, ARMEN, ARMSELIGEN KLEINEN WÜRSTCHEN.

Ende der Durchsage. Lest mehr #aufschrei. Denkt darüber nach.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Über das Missbrauchspotential der Creeper Move Cards


Während und nach der 29c3 habe ich einiges über die Creeper Move Cards gelesen, unter Anderem über ihr Missbrauchspotential.

Insgesamt kann ich die Reaktionen gegen die Karten, die ich gelesen habe, so zusammenfassen:
  1. Generalverdacht!
  2. Also ich bin noch nie belästigt worden.
  3. Wem's hier nicht passt soll woanders hingehen.
  4. Man kann doch drüber reden statt gleich 'ne Karte zu geben.
  5. Die Karten sind viel zu krass.
  6. Inflationärer Gebrauch der Karten schadet der Sache.
  7. Missbrauchspotential!

Generalverdacht

Wenn ich zu mir in die Arbeit sowas wie die Creeper Move Cards mitbringe (und klar ist, daß ich vorhabe, sie im Büro bei Bedarf einzusetzen), dann werden mich meine 4 KollegInnen mit Recht fragen, ob ich sie wirklich so fies finde.

Aber doch nicht auf einem 6000-Personen-Kongress, Leute. Sexismus existiert. Menschen, die sich ein 29c3-Ticket gekauft haben sind deswegen noch keine Heiligen. Und die Möglichkeit von sexistischen Zwischenfällen anzuerkennen (mehr tun die Karten nicht) ist von Generalverdacht so weit entfernt wie noch mal was. 'Nuff said.

Habt euch nicht so

Argumente Nummer 2 und 3 habe ich nur der Vollständigkeit halber aufgeschrieben. Wer die benützt hat, denkt bitte nochmal drüber nach. Oder (alternativ bei #3): Schämt Euch.

Man kann doch über alles reden

Es gibt eben Situationen, in denen nicht jeder über alles reden kann. Und dazu zählen auch soziale Situationen, wo alles recht schnell geht, eins sich leicht überrumpelt fühlen kann, und auch unter Konformitätsdruck steht. Außerdem zählen dazu noch Situationen, in denen man sich vor den Kopf gestoßen, angegriffen oder verletzt fühlt. Eine Belästigung auf eine Hacker-Kongress (bis zu der man sich wahrscheinlich sogar auf dem Kongress recht wohl gefühlt hat) vereint alle dieser Bedingungen.

Können wir uns also darauf einigen, daß man nicht immer über alles reden kann? Und daß diejenigen, die das aus unterschiedlichen Gründen nicht können vielleicht trotzdem eine Chance verdient haben, zu signalisieren "Stop! Ich will das nicht." oder "Das ist nicht in Ordnung."?

Na also.

Der Missbrauch

Bleiben also die Argumente "Die Karten sind zu krass" a.k.a. "Geht das auch netter?" a.k.a. Tone Argument, der inflationäre Gebrauch und "Aber das Missbrauchspotential!"

Die Creeper Move Cards sind im Grunde Macht. Macht, die diejenigen bekommen, die weniger privilegiert sind und strukturell diskriminiert werden. Die Machtlosen also.

Und Macht kann eben auch missbraucht werden. http://neindochoh.de

Wenn eins sich mal diesen Aspekt unter dem Blickwinkel eines weißen Mannes (also mir) reinzieht klingt das so: Personen, die weniger Macht haben, und die auch immer wieder mal schlecht behandelt, ausgegrenzt, verarscht, in den Hintergrund gedrängt werden, bekommen plötzlich ein Machtinstrument, mit dem sie willkürlich jedem eins auf den Deckel geben können, so ganz ohne Kontrolle.

Da wird mir auch ein bisschen mulmig.

Da könnte ich ja jeden Moment von jemandem einfach so eine Karte vor den Latz geknallt bekommen, und die/derjenige müsste sich nicht mal rechtfertigen. Obendrein wirken diese Karten auch noch so, als wäre dieses Verhalten (auf irgend einer Ebene) allgemein geduldet, wenn nicht sogar sanktioniert. Da kann eins sich schon ein bisschen schutzlos ausgeliefert fühlen.

Genau so ist das Gefühl (glaube ich) für so manche Frau. Nur eben nicht erst seit es diese Karten gibt.

Sondern eigentlich immer.

So kommt man mit den Creeper Move Cards - so ganz neben dem eigentlichen Zweck - als Mann in den Genuss, mal diesen Blickwinkel nachempfinden zu können. Meine Empfehlung (mit den Worten von Noah Sow): Nehmen Sie's als Erfahrung.


Wednesday, December 05, 2012

Die andere Seite der Klotür


Ich habe jetzt eine wirklich unglaubliche Menge über das c-base-Klotür-Incident gelesen. Ich glaube, es ist inzwischen genug darüber geschrieben worden. Also habe ich mal was darüber geschrieben.

Vorweg: Ich halte Vandalismus für eine legitime Art der (politischen) Meinungsäußerung. Ich finde ihn oft scheiße. Manchmal so, wie ich Meinungen oder Meinungsäußerungen scheiße finde. Manchmal, weil ich es scheiße finde, daß etwas kaputtgemacht wird, das jemand anderem gehört. Schmaler Grat.

Ich möchte in diesem Post nicht das Vandalisieren der Klotür bewerten, sondern eine Sicht auf den Vorfall zeigen, die ich interessant finde.

Beim Durchlesen der unzähligen Posts bin ich über das Wort "Safe Space" gefallen. Es war in dem Kontext gebraucht, daß sich Frauen an einem Ort (hier: in der c-base) sicher fühlen können sollen. Aber da kam mir die Einsicht: Irgendwie ist so ein Hackerclub auch ein Safe Space für alle Mitglieder, die sich dort von einer Welt zurückziehen können, in der sie wegen ihrer Interessen dumm angelabert werden.

Und nun passiert etwas in diesem Raum, in dem man sich sicher und wohl fühlt. Eine Klotür wird vandalisiert. Das ist ein Eingriff, ein Angriff. Das ist Gewalt. Der sicher geglaubte Raum wird beschädigt. Sicher ist das nicht dasselbe, als wenn ein Einbrecher bei einem zuhause war, aber es geht in die Richtung. Man fühlt sich verletzt, und deswegen verletzlich. Der Space wirkt plötzlich gar nicht mehr safe.

(In dem Kontext versteh ich auch, warum viele ein Nichtmitglied verantwortlich machen möchten.)

Von der anderen Seite her betrachtet war das Bekleben der Klotür sowas wie eine Notwehrhandlung. Da war's mit Safe Space wohl von vornherein nicht so weit her, andere Versuche, das Bild an der Tür zu entfernen waren erfolglos, und so wurde dieser Weg gewählt, um sich zu wehren.

Sich zu wehren, gegen ein System, das übermächtig und uneinsichtig ist, selbsterhaltend, und ohne aktives Eingreifen der von ihm Begünstigten nicht zu ändern. Und nachdem (nach Ansicht der handelnden Personen) alle anderen Optionen erschöpft waren, wurde sich eben mit anderen Mitteln gewehrt. Durch einen Angriff auf das System.

Man greift ein System an, aber man trifft immer Menschen. Ja, natürlich auch Menschen, die das System unterstützen, oder zumindest dulden.

Jetzt kann man sagen, geschieht ihnen recht. Sollen halt nicht das System unterstützen. Ja, nein, vielleicht. Keine Ahnung.

Aber mein Punkt ist: Denen wurde gerade auch Gewalt angetan. Die sind aktuell verletzt. Klar, das macht nichts besser. Aber behaltet es Kopf, wenn Ihr mit ihnen diskutiert oder ihre Blogeinträge lest.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Lost Cities UI Tips and Tricks

With Additional Hints for People Who Have Trouble Distinguishing Between Colours

I'll touch on some of the more subtle parts of the UI which can be very useful, if you know how to make use of them.

1. Opponent's last move

Those lamps up there above the lanes show you into which lane your opponent played their last card. 



If your opponent didn't play a card, but discarded instead, his last discard is placed a bit askew on the discard pile.


2. Opponent's last draw

That tiny card up top right shows you what your opponent last drew. If the card shown is face up, they drew it from a discard pile. If it's face down, they drew it form the draw stack (and we're not telling you what it was ;P)


3. Your last draw

The card you last drew sticks out a little bit from your hand. If you missed the drawing animation, looking for this is a quick way of checking which card is new.


The Colour Thing

We noticed there are a number of people who have trouble telling the colours of the cards apart. So we decided to do something about it. Several things, in fact.

1. High Contrast Mode

Turn this on in the settings, and the game board looks like this:

This mode may make it easier to distinguish colors. 

The "empty" cards on the discard piles are there to give a better contrast, and to show which color indicators (see Number 2) go with which lane.

2. Indicators on the cards

If you look closely at the points labels on the cards, you may notice some spiky bits standing out downwards from the cards. Let me tell you a secret: They are not there by coincidence (*gasp)! The number and placement of the spikes indicate the color of the card. It's easy to memorize: No spikes means center lane, and 1 or 2 spikes to a side mean 1 or 2 lanes to the left or right (depending on the which way the spikes are pointing).

So, to fully enumerate all colors: 


Yellow (leftmost lane)



Blue (1 to the left from the center lane)



White (center lane)



Green (1 to the right from the center lane)


Red (rightmost lane)