The next RESTRICTED FREQUENCY is scheduled to drop on Sunday. In it, we draw on a chilling monkey experiment from 1957 to illustrate how comfort is often sought after over truth—nationalism, corporate “families,” and expat illusions are all explored within. Plus: a poster giveaway, smoothie recipe, and sharp cultural picks.
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In 2014, coal made up almost half of Greece’s energy generation. Just a decade later, solar and wind has tripled to 43%, with coal now only accounting for a meagre 6% — Via OUR WORLD IN DATA.
NATIVE LAND: Interactive map that lets you explore the traditional territories, languages and treaties of Indigenous peoples worldwide.
THE FIRST AMERICAN REVOLUTION examines surviving traces of the settlements “Pueblo people” built atop mesas following the Pueblo Revolt, which won back independence for the Native American population after nearly a century of Spanish rule in the American Southwest — ARCHEOLOGY.ORG
MIN: Minimal open-source browser.
The Dollar's Crown is Slipping, and Fast — Via REUTERS
Egypt's Suez Canal Economic Zone (SCZONE) has signed three new project agreements with leading Chinese companies operating in the textile industry worth approximately $52.6 million. This I'm assuming is part of China's big geopolitical strategy to get around US tariffs — Via ALCHEMPRO
On average, 17 American war veterans have taken their own life every day since 2001 — Via THE HILL
JAN PLECHAC makes some of the most stunning glassware I've ever seen.
“It currently seems possible that our galaxy lays right in the middle of a two billion light year wide void in the universe... You know how impossible you are? You’re from a barren universal ditch, and yet here you are.” — Via Warren Ellis' ORBITAL OPERATIONS.
“When there are so many signs of a system near collapse, accumulating enough money to avoid needing people feels like a deeply flawed approach. Instead, we ought to work harder at becoming the kind of person people want to help – and turn to for help – when the time comes.”
From DENSE DISCOVERY #344.
“Where's the other undershirt, the bigger one?”
What other undershirt, dad?
“Over there.”
I don't see any undershirts there.
“There should be one.”
What?
“Son”, a little frustrated now, “right now, in my hand, the other one like it.”
Show me your hand, dad.
“What?”
Show me your hand.
(He does.)
Now look at it. Do you see anything in your hand?
“What I mean to say is...”, looking at his empty hand, then using it to gesture towards the chair between the bed and closet, “That.”
That? The chair?
“Yes.”
What about it?
“The other one. Where is it?”
You mean the ones out on the terrace?
“Yes.”
What about them?
“It's different.”
What does the chair have to do with undershirts?
“It was there! Do you understand what I'm saying?”
No, dad, I really don't.
“Let me show you.”
Show me what? Where?
“Over there.”
Over where? The terrace?
“Yes.”
Okay.
“Some days I don’t want to touch my phone, when the competing demands create a kind of cognitive vertigo – not because I’m too busy, but because I get anxious about sending the wrong signal by forgetting to respond or not responding soon enough.
“Writer Miski Omar has the perfect term for this modern affliction: ‘multiverse fatigue’ – a kind of existential buffering that occurs when we interpret responsiveness as a proxy for care.”
Shall we go to the bathroom, I suggest, as he snatches a piece of lettuce from the bowl I left out on the dining table.
“No, I'm fine” he says, munching on lettuce.
Dad, I can smell it. It's time to change your diaper.
He shakes his head, snatching another piece of lettuce.
I can smell it, dad.
“What do you smell?” he asks, annoyed, munching on lettuce.
I can smell the shit in your diaper! Let's go!
“No, there's nothing of the kind”, he insists.
Okay, let's make a bet; we go to the bathroom and check. No shit, I owe you a 100 pounds. We find shit, I get a hundred out of you.
“Deal”, he says, excited.
This was a bet I would rather not have won because said diaper was indeed full of shit in addition to plenty of piss. So much so that the old man's crotch was smothered in the stuff like Swiss fondue. This is a time when all manner of social inhibitions and psychological holdups are completely obliterated, and you become laser-focused on one thing and one thing only: Cleanup.
Very. Serious. Cleanup.
San Francisco — Open from July 5 to September 21 is MOURNING AND MELANCHOLY: ARTISTS' BOOKS FROM THE ARAB WORLD AND ITS DIASPORA, a group exhibition curated by Maymanah Farhat at the San Francisco Center for the Book. Highlighting artists' books, ephemera, zines, and video art, the exhibition brings together an incredible range of pieces from an eclectic selection of artists such as:
For Ganzeer's participation, Maymanah chose to include a number of all-collaborative publications such as THE APARTMENT IN BAB EL-LOUK (created in collaboration with Donia Maher and Ahmad Nady, with translation by Elisabeth Jaquette), WE ARE ALL THINGS (with Elliott Colla and introduction by Molly Crabapple), and the Ganzeer-edited ZINE EL-ARAB #1 and #2.
Both THE APARTMENT AND BAB EL-LOUK and WE ARE ALL THINGS are available from their respective publishers (Darf and Radix, respectively) and ZINE EL-ARAB is available for free download.
“So wuddya think?” said the kid who brought me a photocopied sheet of paper.
This is amazing, I shrieked!
“Thought you might like it, being the artist and all.”
Can I borrow it and bring it back to you in a couple days? Just to make my own copy.
“Sure,” he said.
Later that day during recess, I sat with the thing and fiddled with it in a feeble attempt to understand the magic behind how it worked. How is it even possible that a simple sheet of paper featuring four pigs laid out in grid, when folded a certain way, would magically turn into the face of Saddam Hussein?! What strange sorcery was this?!
From the latest RESTRICTED FREQUENCY. Issue #223: Insidious Swine. Sign-up page can be found at Ganzeer.com/newsletter
CRISIS ACTORS by Maddison Stoff and Corey Jae White — for Strange Horizons
Becoming Earth by Robin Wall Kimmerer — who coincidentally was recently brought to my attention by Ottmar Liebert
