Cafe Bedouin
Cafe Bedouin
This is my show. It’s a blog as hupomnemata. Michael Foucault defined hupomnemata as a personal notebook similar to a spiritual journal but with a different goal. He did not want “to pursue the unspeakable, nor to reveal the hidden, nor to say the unsaid [like a spiritual journal does], but on the contrary to capture the already said, to collect what one has managed to hear or read, and for a purpose that is nothing less than the shaping of the self.”
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Every frontier lab runs the largest canon-formation project in literary history and calls it a data pipeline. Look at the actual operations. Crawl the written world. Deduplicate it. Filter it for “quality” — a value judgment wearing a lab coat. Weight the mixture. Sequence the curriculum. Then, at the end, write a...
The experiment took one word. Hearts of Glass is a story from this site — written with models, as most of the fiction here is, but outside the pipeline the archive documents: it began as a conversation about human hibernation, and the machinery never touched it. A couple sleeps through deep time in an automated...
Act One They woke her first, the way they always did, because she came up slower and Aaron liked to be awake when she surfaced so hers wasn’t the only face in the room that had missed him too. The waking room was warm. That was the first thing, every time — the warmth, engineered to arrive before consciousness did,...
Act One They woke her first, the way they always did, because she came up slower and Aaron liked to be awake when she surfaced so hers wasn’t the only face in the room that had missed him too. The waking room was warm. That was the first thing, every time — the warmth, engineered to arrive before consciousness did,...
An argument, three failures, and what the failures leave The conclusion at the end of this shouldn’t be accepted on its own. Stated flat, it sounds like a shrug: whether a preference is really yours is not a question you can answer, and the harder it presses the less answerable it gets. Said cold, that reads as...
The kitchen light was the only one on in the house, and Cole was already under it when Russ came down. Six birds on the counter, out of the plastic now, pale and sweating in the trays. Their mother had made this every year for the church supper and God knew how much of it for other people’s funerals, and someone at...
These aren’t polished essays or tidy aphorisms. They’re scraps I’ve carried around this month—half-heard thoughts, borrowed lines, sudden recognitions—that refused to be forgotten. Zuihitsu literally means “following the brush,” and while my version is shorter and scrappier than the classical form, the impulse feels...
I. The Height of the Mark The soil-reader came to the Vask terrace on the third morning after thaw, chalk in a tin box, an assistant to carry the ladder. Odrun stood in his doorway with Sennet beside him and watched the man measure the wet ground with a bare foot — heel to the channel, toes to the sill, the old...
You go down empty-handed or the telling is a lie. That was the first thing Weha put in me, before the breath work, before the shelves, before she ever let me past the first drop. A teller carries nothing up. Not one shell, not one fish, not the smallest bright thing you fall in love with at nine fathoms and want to...
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