INSOMNIAC SUMMER CAMP
Sleep is overrated....
In early development. (Still not sure what I want to do with this place...)
WELCOME!
Wanderers, sleepwalkers, night owls, and nerds. Geeks up late refusing to relinquish projects and craftsmen trying to perfect that final touch as dawn approaches, this is for you. A place where 3 A.M. and 3.P.M. might as well be the same and 7-11 clerks knows us all day long. Welcome to Insomniac Summer Camp!
About:
I am a...
Writer, Gamer, Reader, Scribbler, Generally snarky gay person.
Nerd by day... semi-sarcastic dreamer by night.
LINKS
Webcomics
Gaming sites and articles
MY ARTICLES:
(Click here for main article page)KENJI ENO, FORGOTTEN MAD GENIUS OF THE EARLY INDE SCENE
by Mike Anthony
Ask random gamers off the streets what they think of the late game designer, Kenji Eno, and most would certainly all give you the same answer: Who is Kenji Eno? But, ask gamers whose roots in video games reach a bit deeper and span back through the later half of the 1990s, and many will express a polarizing set of sentiments either glorifying the man’s works and impact on video games, or angrily dismissing his career as trash. At the end of the day however, it doesn’t matter whether his games were widely loved or not. Kenji’s restless, creative spirit and unorthodox methods led to the creation of digital experiences that evoke strong, emotional responses from players and spectators with a wide range of tastes. Even today, his works from the 1990s captivate players at levels that many of today’s modern games fail to reach. The problem isn’t that Kenji Eno’s career lacked an impact; it’s that his contribution to video games and his punch to the industry itself is so often overlooked and forgotten.....
.... Continued in the Insomniac Library.MEDIA! CHECK IT OUT!
"Fear Area 5 (Edit)"-REZ Infinite
A GREAT internet radio hub!
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S L E E P
D E P R I V A T I O N
This a sort of blog space made for 3 AM or 3 PM. Expect Diary entries, important thoughts, where I might have left my house keys... all the things that come to me when I should be asleep
10/26/2020
Halloween is rapidly approaching. The weather is changing, trees are red and orange, and creeps are in the air. I love it. I've been p awfully late watching scary movies, and I have a great classic to share with you. If you've never heard of it, or have seen it before, you should watch 1946s "The Spiral Staircase." its a noir, proto-slasher flick about a mute woman trapped in a victorian New England home being stalked by a murderer targeting disabled women. The cast & direction is excellent. It can be seen as a prescursor to the whole Slasher genre and has several key traits that contibute to it. It's been called "The best Hitchcock film Hitchcock never made," and I think that's fitting.
this halloween take a break from the gorefests, jump scares, and shock drama and take some time to indulge in a classy suspense thriller. It's worth the time of day oy of night. (late at night)
POEM OF THE WEEK:
Saturday, November 14, 2020
To Elsie
by William Carlos Williams/p>The pure products of America go crazy— mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves old names and promiscuity between devil-may-care men who have taken to railroading out of sheer lust of adventure— and young slatterns, bathed in filth from Monday to Saturday to be tricked out that night with gauds from imaginations which have no peasant traditions to give them character but flutter and flaunt sheer rags—succumbing without emotion save numbed terror under some hedge of choke-cherry or viburnum— which they cannot express— Unless it be that marriage perhaps with a dash of Indian blood will throw up a girl so desolate so hemmed round with disease or murder that she'll be rescued by an agent— reared by the state and sent out at fifteen to work in some hard-pressed house in the suburbs— some doctor's family, some Elsie— voluptuous water expressing with broken brain the truth about us— her great ungainly hips and flopping breasts addressed to cheap jewelry and rich young men with fine eyes as if the earth under our feet were an excrement of some sky and we degraded prisoners destined to hunger until we eat filth while the imagination strains after deer going by fields of goldenrod in the stifling heat of September Somehow it seems to destroy us It is only in isolate flecks that something is given off No one to witness and adjust, no one to drive the car
Previous poems:
The Bean Eaters by Gwendolyn Brooks
Lenore by Edgar Allan Poe
THe Sleeper by Edgar Allan Poe
"Fog" by Carl Sandburg
"Scary Movies" by Kim Addonizio
