This post was originally titled “Is there a place in Carcassonne for people like Frankie Roberto?”
Frankie has adopted a hyper-aggressive form of Carcassonne. He plays tiles usually for the detriment of his opponents, rather than the betterment of his own hand. He enjoys nothing more than scoring a giant X onto the game board, scuppering towns or roads.
March forward, Orangemen.
Short stories, they’re the thing.
If you can’t say everything you need to in a fifteen-page short story, you’ve pretty much failed. As I get older, and “wiser”, I realise this is true in all things. Samuel Beckett’s bare(ly) theatre of Krapp’s Last Tape, Not I, Jørgen Leth’s Det Perfekte Menneske, Tony Conrad‘s Slapping Pythagoras, this bicycle rack, these buildings, and Jason.
I am gaining an inordinate amount of pleasure from watching Mann Island (Liverpool) take shape. The developers have a live webcam of the building site. It updates an image once every one-to-eight minutes, seemingly at whim.
Nothing fundamental is really happening. The sky is changing, and there is a silver car I suspect to be abandoned as it hasn’t moved in nearly twenty-four hours.
Anyway, it is interesting. Go watch.
I’d like to blog a little bit about buildings. Partially because of the RIBA Stirling Prize (winner) yesterday, but mostly because they’re everywhere. Really, you can’t walk down the street without seeing at least one.
Living in Sheffield, I’m cursed and blessed by the buildings around me. We have the superb Park Hill flats, a monument to idealised Modernist planning, an actual realisation of Le Corbusier’s “cities in the sky”. It stands proud, overlooking the train station and staring out to the city centre. view from the tallest building in the smallest town