Think Forward.

Art

The Appeal of Fear in Media

Exodia04, 21 d.
1 min read.
The growing sales of horror games such as the Resident Evil franchise, and the success of horror shows and movies indicate the appeal of the genre. The reasons behind this appeal have been investigated through many studies. First, we must distinguish between the terms “horror” and “terror”, which tend to be erroneously used interchangeably. According to Dani Cavallaro, horror is the fear linked to visible disruptions of the natural order, sudden appearances, and identifiable objects. Horror causes intense physical reactions and provides us with surprise and shock. On the other hand, terror is the fear of the unknown. It is the feelings of tension and unease proceeding a revelation [1]. “The difference between Terror and Horror is the difference between awful apprehension and sickening realization: between the smell of death and stumbling against a corpse… Terror thus creates an intangible atmosphere of spiritual psychic dread… Horror resorts to a cruder presentation of the macabre” [2]. While playing horror games or watching horror movies, we constantly oscillate between terror and horror. One is willing to endure the intense fear (horror) because of its less subtle modulations (terror). In fact, a study done by the Institute of Scientific and Industrial Research at Osaka University reveals that players were more likely to experience intense fear when they were in a suspense state and then faced a surprising appearance [3]. From a biological perspective, once the human brain detects a potential threat, dopamine is released into the body, and once that threat is identified as false, the body feels pleasure and the person wants to repeat this cycle by seeking scary content [4]. Although one can aim for a long psychological experience by having a good combination of terror and horror, what causes terror and unease is individual and varies from one person to another. Individual characteristics, traumas, and phobias must be taken into consideration to assess the level of fear and manipulate future gameplay accordingly. [1] D. Cavallaro, The Gothic Vision: Three Centuries of Horror, Terror and Fear. New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2002. [2] Varma, D. P. (1988) The Gothic Flame, Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Vico, G. [1725] (1968) The New Science, trans. T. Goddard and M. H. Fisch, Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. [3] V. Vachiratamporn, R. Legaspi, K. Moriyama and M. Numao, "Towards the Design of Affective Survival Horror Games: An Investigation on Player Affect," 2013 Humaine Association Conference on Affective Computing and Intelligent Interaction, 2013, pp. 576-581, doi: 10.1007/s12193-014-0153-4 [4] A. Damasio, Descartes error: emotion, reason and the human brain. New York: Avon Books, 1994.

The Sighs of Azemmour

Aziz Daouda, 24 d.
4 min read.
As we were heading towards Walidia, just to enjoy its beautiful lagoon, oysters and fish, my daughter, my wife, and I decided to make a short stop in Azemmour. I had promised myself I woud show my daughter the city as soon as I had the chance. We are here a stone's throw from Casablanca, a handful of kilometers from El-Jadida and not far from Jorf Lasfar, a pride of the industrialization of modern Morocco. Personally, I am rather fond of this city. Few are so captivating. I cannot explain why. There, you can be at times a berber in short Jellaba, tchamir and rounded or pointed toe slippers; sometimes a Phoenician clad in white in the style of the Greeks in their time of glory; sometimes wearing the toga of a proud Roman citizen or the blue turban of a rough Berghouata. You can daydream about the Portuguese singing their triumph at the capture of the city. You hear, the sound of your steps on an aged pavement, evoking that of the Saadian army taking possession of the city walls. The noise and vociferations of the soldiers resound there again and again; but in silence. At the turn of an alley of the ancient city, you hear the distant and confused voice of Sidi Abderahman El Mejdoub, wailing his pain in front of evil, questioning the world and the universe. At the turn of a street, you are greeted by the whispering voice, barely audible, of Rabbi Abraham Moul Ness and his prayers at the rising of the sun and its setting Sidi Brahim for Muslims. Religions struggle to find boundaries here... Moreover, it is a sort of miracle that revealed to the two communities that Abraham was indeed a saint. The citizens had just installed a mill right in front of the cave where he spent his time meditating and praying. The animals that powered the mill quickly fell ill and died one after the other. It was then understood that Abraham did not want to be disturbed in his meditation. Since then, he is Rabbi Abraham for the Jews, Sidi Brahim for the Muslims, holy for both. Farther inside the city, you can see rather silent young people, looking sullen, crestfallen, who face you at the turn of a lane. Some of those who walk by you look haggard, as though they expressed weariness or disgust; perhaps even deep anger and repeated hurt. At the corner of neighbouring street, on a small shapeless square, it is the jerky sound of a loom that catches your ear. One of the last Deraz still in activity weaves silken or woolen scarves. Tourists like them but do not come often... He works, he loves his job and keeps doing it, waiting for better days to come; or at least hoping that the war in the Middle East stops. Deep down, he must wish that his Israeli friends return to reason and quickly drive out their current leaders; neurotics thirsty for blood more than other thing. He is waiting for the Moussem but does not know if the Jewish Moroccans who return annually for the pilgrimage will still be numerous. The Arts and Crafts House is silent and expectant too. It spends long spells of time waiting that a small group would pass by to finally enliven it for an hour or so. The master craftsmen who stay there seem to contemplate the passage of time. Their eyes are nostalgic for a recent past certainly idealized, and a more distant past loaded with wealth and power, forever gone. A lady of a certain age, without any discomfort, dressed in battered pajamas, is there in front of her home, sitting on an stool. The blue door of her modest house, is wide open. The lady is a bit too large for her stool. Her gaze is blank. She does not notice our silhouettes and seems not to hear our involuntarily light steps, as if not to disturb the history or stir the anger of abandoned walls, houses with walled doors, those that time has knocked down and those that passively wait for the signal of the tumbling of tired stones that no longer have anything to hold onto. Behind the heavy doors of ancient buildings - and there are still many thank God - and some houses not yet walled up or fallen into oblivion of time and humans, we can guess the presence of young girls busying themselves with embroidery. Few are those who still have a passion for this ancestral art specific to the city with its bright colours and dragons. What are dragons doing here, if not recall a past so distant that it fades into the background of history. Some say that it is a Portuguese merchant who introduced this art behind the walls of the city. At the corner of a small square, as there are many in the city, in front of a small and neglected grocery store, stand idle young men. One of them must look like Mustapha Azemmouri, also called Esteban the Moor or Estevanico. He may even carry his genes. Without Estevanico, North America would never have been what it is now. What a destiny. To leave one country and travel so far, and change the course of history on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Walking out through one of the gates of the ancient city, one only has one thought: Azemmour is looking for a present that does not come. It is dying and dying. Maybe it is already dead. Some time ago, Karim Boukhari wrote in an article « I have visited Azemmour. A friend, from the city, warned me: Watch out, he said, it is a dead city. » Go and walk the promenade around the city walls. An esplanade that my friend Zaki Semlali has laid out with the little he had to revive this special relationship that the city has with river Oum Rebi3. Today, plastic is unfortunately more abundant than fish. Gone are the shad and the beautiful, fleshy ambrines. Some sections of the wall and houses collapse and flow towards the oued like tears of agony. The nostalgic Azemmour peeks at the Atlantic Ocean and watches, helplessly, the waves smashing in the distance. I pray the Almighty that this piece of our precious history can finally benefit from the attention of our rulers. My daughter, my wife, and I left the place sad, wounded in the depths of our souls; but the sublime voice of Sanaa Marahati singing some poems written somewhere in the city makes us hope for a better future for Azemmour.
youtu.be/T4BIRCsXQWs?si=KmRqI3mq...

INNERSCAPE - RELEASED

EL MONO MAS GRANDE, 2 mon.
0 min read.
The biggest ape has blessed us with a new audio release. INNERSCAPE takes the listener into a profond journey inward, beyond the veil of mundane consciousness: far into deep transcendental mysteries. This one is best appreciated with headphone and eyes closed. You will laugh, you will cry. And you will be grateful. == CHOKHMA - BINAH - GEBURAH - CHESED == Thus Spake Apathustra.
elmonomasgrande.bandcamp.com/alb...

Third Paradoxist Manifesto by Florentin Smarandache

Brad Ovitt, 5 mon.
2 min read.
Therefore, don't enforce any literary rules on me! Or, if you do, I'll certainly encroach upon them. I'm not a poet, that's why I write poetry. I'm an anti-poet or non-poet. I thus came to America to re-build the Statue of Liberty of the Verse, delivered from the tyranny of the classic and its dogma. I allowed any boldness: - anti-literature and its literature; - flexible forms fixed, or the alive face of the death! - style of the non-style; - poems without verse (because poems don't mean words)- dumb poems with loud voice; - poems without poems (because the notion of "poem" doesn't match any definition found in dictionaries or encyclopedias) - poems which exist by their absence; - after-war literature: pages and pages bombed by filthiness, triteness, and non-poeticality; - paralinguistic verse (only!): graphics, lyrical portraits, drawings, drafts... - non-words and non-sentence poems; - very upset free verse and trivial hermetic verse; - intelligible unintelligible language; - unsolved and open problems of mathematics like very nice poems of the spirit - we must scientificize the art in this technical century; - impersonal texts personalized; - electrical shock; - translation from the impossible into the possible, or transformation of the abnormal to the normal; - pro Non-Art Art; - make literature from everything, make literature from nothing! The poet is not a prince of ducks! The notion of "poetry" and its derivatives have become old-fashioned in this century, and people laugh at them in disregard. I'm ashamed to affirm that I create lyrical texts, I hide them. People neither read nor listen to lyrical texts anymore, but they will read this volume because it's nothing to read! However, the Paradoxist Movement is neither nihilism, nor disparity. The book of the non-poems is a protest against art's marketing. Do you writers sell your feelings? Do you create only for money?? Only books about crimes, sex, horror are published. Where is the true Art? In begging... . You may find in this book of uncollected poems everything you don't need and don't like: poems not to be read, not to be heard, not to be written at all! Enjoy them. Only after nuisance you really know what pleasure means. They provide a mirror of everybody's infinite soul. Art, generally speaking, is pushed up to its last possible frontiers toward non-art, and even more... Better a book of blanc pages, than one which says nothing. A very abstract and symbolic language is further used, but very concrete at the same time: non-restrictive verse from any form or content. It takes advantage of cliche against itself. EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE, THEREFORE: THE IMPOSSIBLE TOO! Hence don't wonder about this anti-book! If you don't understand it, that means you understand all. That is the goal of the manifesto. Because Art is not for the mind, but for feelings. Because Art is also for the mind. Try to interpret the un-interpretable! Your imagination may flourish as a cactus in a desert. But, The American Manifesto of the PARADOXISM is especially a revolt of the emigrant to the United States who doesn't speak English, against the language - an anti-language book written in more than a broken English (the American speech of Tomorrow?)... [From the book: NonPoems, by Florentin Smarandache, Xiquan Publishing House, Phoenix, Chicago, 1991, 1992, 1993; the volume contains very experimental so called , such as: - poems without verse; - poems without poems; - poem-drafts; - drawn-poems; - poems in Pirissanorench (language spoken in the South-West of the United States by a single person); - super-poems; - graphic poems; - upset-poems.]
fs.unm.edu/a/paradoxism-en.htm

AI Is Eroding The Art Of Writing

Anas Bedraoui, 6 mon.
1 min read.
From a young age, I've been captivated by writers who express complex ideas through books, articles, and blogs. This inspired my dream of becoming a writer myself. Initially, I used writing as therapy; whenever I felt overwhelmed or distressed, I would write, knowing the paper wouldn't judge my feelings like humans might. As I advanced in my education, enrolling in a PhD program, I honed my academic writing skills. However, the advent of generative AI models like ChatGPT marked a turning point. These tools could replicate much of what I considered unique in my writing, leading me to wonder if we are losing the art of writing. With the rise of platforms like Medium and LinkedIn, blogging has become accessible to everyone, which is wonderful. However, it raises questions about authenticity. Can we truly know if the content was crafted by the person, or was it generated by AI? It's a distressing reality. Previously, securing freelance writing or blogging jobs was straightforward, but it has become challenging to discern whether someone is genuinely a writer or merely claiming to be one. This ambiguity has narrowed opportunities for passionate young writers like myself, who wish to pursue their passion and earn a living. I believe that the ancient wisdom of writing is being eroded by AI. However, this won't deter us from reading or writing. Human writing resonates with emotions, which AI-generated text often lacks, typically relying on repetitive phrases like "embark," "journey," "unleash," and "dive into." While everyone is free to use tools as they see fit, if AI constitutes more than 50% of your writing, then those aren't truly your words or expressions; they belong to the machine. I personally use AI for my research, correcting grammatical mistakes, and sometimes for checking paraphrasing suggestions. However, once I began generating AI text, I started feeling that it wasn't truly mine. It felt more robotic than human, lacking any real emotion.  I truly believe that generative AI will never be able to reach the beauty and complexity of the human mind. How one can convey emotions through text is truly something distinctive of the human nature and will never be reproduced.
medium.com/@anasbedr/ai-is-erodi...

The greatest error I made as a creator was assuming I already had an audience.

Anas Bedraoui, 6 mon.
The biggest mistake I have made as a creator is letting my ego, my ambition, and the shallowness of social media convince me that I had an “Audience” instead of a network. It’s easy to become obsessed with the shallow popularity contest, with notions of influence and attention. And over the past few years, my work has become divorced from reality and drifted long way away from authenticity. Social media platforms, with their algorithms and echo chambers, made it easy to believe that the numbers represented people eagerly awaiting my next post, my next big idea. It’s a mirage, a superficial layer that didn’t capture the depth of real human connections. But I can’t blame the platforms alone. My self-importance is equally responsible. The term ‘Audience’ implies a one-way street — it suggests a group of passive listeners, viewers, or readers who are there to consume what I create. This perspective is not just limiting; it’s fundamentally flawed. It overlooks what it means to be a creator in the digital age: being part of a vibrant, interactive network. A network, unlike an audience, is dynamic. It’s not broadcasting to a group of faceless spectators. It’s about engagement, exchange, and mutual growth. It involves listening as much as speaking and learning as much as teaching. In a network, every node and individual is a potential collaborator, source of inspiration, or a critical voice that can offer valuable feedback. There are people on the other side of the screen. They don’t exist just to fill out our quota of 1,000 true fans. They don’t exist as data points on an analytics dashboard. And they have so much more to give than their attention and the time spent viewing a video or reading an article. I cannot and will not keep treating the people who find my work and engage with it as NPCs in a roleplaying game. Realizing this has been a game-changer. It’s shifted my focus from seeking applause to fostering conversations. Instead of obsessing over the number of followers, I’m more interested in the quality of interactions I have with them. This approach has opened up new avenues for creativity and growth that I had previously overlooked, blinded by the glitter of superficial metrics. I spend more time talking to people than ever before. I spend more time listening, too. And I spend a lot of time learning. My ideas shift, change and grow with every interaction. There’s a deep richness that can’t be found in delusions of grandeur. The shift has brought with it a sense of humility. You can get caught up in the numbers and believe your hype when your follower count is rising. But recognizing that each follower is a person with their own thoughts, experiences, and contributions is a reminder that I am part of something larger than myself and that my success is not just measured in likes or shares but in the impact I have on others, and the effect they have on me in return. I am not — and do not wish to be — some kind of bulls**t internet celebrity. The path of the influencer seems frightfully lonely. I’m a writer. I write. When I find people who want to read my work, it’s not something to take for granted. It’s a gift, and it’s an honour, and it’s something that I cherish every day.

Is daily posting on LinkedIn a waste of time? What should you do instead?

Anas Bedraoui, 7 mon.
Focusing on quality over quantity is crucial when posting on LinkedIn. Rather than adhering to a daily posting regimen, aim to create high-quality content that resonates with your audience, providing them value and fostering engagement. Understanding your audience is essential; tailor your posts to their interests and needs. Diversifying your content types, such as articles, videos, and infographics, keeps your profile dynamic and engaging. Engaging with others by commenting on, sharing, and reacting to their content, as well as including calls to action in your own posts, can significantly enhance visibility and build relationships within your network. Use a content calendar for planning and consistency, and optimize your posting times based on when your audience is most active. Networking strategically on LinkedIn, beyond just posting content, can open up numerous opportunities. Connect with individuals in your industry, potential mentors, and companies of interest. Showcasing your expertise through insightful posts positions you as a thought leader. Pay attention to analytics to understand what content performs best and adjust your strategy accordingly. Remember, success on LinkedIn is about making an impact and providing value, not just the frequency of your posts.
linkedin.com/in/anas-bedraoui-21...

Abdou Cherif left, carried by his voice towards the heavens.

Aziz Daouda, 7 mon.
2 min read.
I was driving back from Fez, when the radio channel which kept me company announced the sudden, dramatic, incomprehensible, unexpected, rapid, devastating and sad disappearance of Abdou Cherif. I adored, I adore and will adore until the end of my days this virtuoso whom I never had the chance to meet but whom television and YouTube subsequently made me discover and love. I, who adore Abdelhalim Hafed or Hafez and the beautiful Egyptian songs, find in him a certain continuity of the "belle époque"; that of the sublime musical drop; the one where lyricists like composers, conductors and performers surpassed themselves to offer the Arab public and not only the best of music. Inspired sometimes by deeply rooted popular arts, sometimes by musical tunes from elsewhere, even going so far as to explore Argentina Tango, they have bequeathed us a unique musical heritage whose richness we do not yet fully appreciate. Listening to Abdou Cherif performing Gabar or habibaha, we are caught in a whirlwind of magic by his captivating voice, strong, soft, expressive. The sound is crystal and the diction clear. Abdou sublimates this kind of song to make you forget the original… And then big surprise, one evening, at the Olympia in Cairo, he doubtfully gently announced that he was going to venture into singing "La Boheme". Charles Aznavour would have loved this moment so much. It was a triumph. And it's not over, Abdou will try the impossible and no one is bound to do the impossible, one evening in Casablanca he will amaze, surprise, by revisiting one of the standards of Moroccan Malhoum: Ghita. Who would have thought that one day this inveterate faithful of Abdelhalim would knock on the door of Lhaj Driss Benali Al malki and make him stand up in his two centuries old tomb. I am convinced that where he is, Driss Benali is smiling with satisfaction. No one has ever interpreted Ghita like Abdou Cherif, not even the great master Driss Toulali. This is the man who leaves us today forever, leaving us his voice, his smile, his elegance, his sensitivity and his audacity to stand up in large concert halls and take his fans on a journey beyond time. . When I arrived home, I stood in a corner, took my phone and started listening to endless extracts of his interpretations, spending more time on some where he had been at the height of his art, such as Rahila, composed by another of Moroccan music: Abdesalam Amer and performed by another beautiful voice that of the crooner Mohamed ElHayani. He also left early. A way of the deceased Abdou Cherif from a distance and to pray for the peace of his soul. I hesitated before offering you any of his interpretations: all of them are as perfect and beautiful as each other. Finally I said to myself why not Bohemia. You have a link down here. We belong to God and to him we return. Rest in peace Abdou.
youtu.be/hvM66SxNfJY?si=EAZNznev...

Part 5/5: PhD - The Eternal Optimist: Next Time Will Be Different (But Not Really)

Anas Bedraoui, 11 mon.
1 min read.
PhD Students: Where Schedules are Fiction and Coffee is King! "Colorful Calendars, Doomed to Fail": PhD students craft rainbow schedules, thinking this time it'll stick. Spoiler: It doesn't. "Surprise! More Work": Just when they think they've got it sorted, in swoops an email with a 'fun' new task. So long, free time! "Becoming a Night Creature": Who needs sunlight? The real magic happens at 2 AM, fueled by the glow of a laptop screen. "Coffee: The New Water": PhD students don't just drink coffee; they breathe it. It's not a choice; it's survival. "Procrastination Olympics": Watch as they masterfully avoid work by reorganizing sock drawers. Followed by panic-induced hyper-productivity. "Time, What's That?": One minute it's Monday; next, it's deadline day. Time flies when you're... panicking. "Free Time? Sounds Fake": When they do get a break, they're too puzzled to enjoy it. Ends up napping with books as pillows. "Deadline Superhero Mode": Everything gets done in a last-minute frenzy. How? Magic (and maybe a bit of crying). "Post-Deadline Amnesia": Once it's over, they forget the chaos and swear to never repeat it. Narrator: "They will." "Next Time Will Be Different": The eternal PhD mantra. Hope springs eternal, but so does the chaos. Basically, PhD students are like superheroes who fight the villains of procrastination and deadlines with the power of caffeine and last-minute panic. "Running on coffee and a questionable understanding of time management!"

Part 4/5: Research, Rants, & Ridiculousness: The Lighter Side of PhD Madness

Anas Bedraoui, 11 mon.
0 min read.
PhD: the art of turning coffee, chaos, and code into a degree, one panic attack at a time. - My machine learning model predicted I'd finish my PhD on time. Spoiler: Even AI has a sense of humor. - Neurotoxicity research: figuring out if it's the toxins affecting the brain, or just the endless hours in the lab. - Snake venom for drug discovery? Sure, because handling deadly snakes is less frightening than asking my advisor for a deadline extension. - I told my computer to find a cure for snake bites. It opened a travel site to Antarctica. No snakes, no bites, problem solved!