MGS2 had predicted the present.
Η αποθησαύριση αντικειμένων καθημερινότητας δεν είναι τόσο απλή ή μονάχα ενοχλητική πρακτική. Δεν είναι μόνο θέμα χώρου, που καταλαμβάνουν τα άχρηστα πράγματα μέσα στα συρτάρια, στα ράφια και τις ντουλάπες. Απομυζώντας ζωογόνο έκταση και τμήμα καθώς και επιφάνεια από τον πραγματικό αέρα που έχουν ανάγκη τα ουσιαστικά χρειώδη για την καθημερινότητα, στοιβάζουμε αναμνήσεις και χτίζουμε έναν όμορφα θεμελιωμένο πύργο κάλυψης ψεύτικων προσδοκιών. Το συναισθηματικό κομμάτι της υπόθεσης δείχνει μια ανασφάλεια και ένα χάσιμο, ένα ψυχοράγημα από το τώρα, το είναι και το θα είναι. Αποπροσανατολίζεις τον ίδιο σου τον εαυτό με τις δήθεν αναμνήσεις του παρελθόντος, ενώ η ανάγκη για την ολοσχερή ύπαρξη σου στο παρόν,που θα έπρεπε να ξεπερνά τη βάναυση σχεδόν υπενθύμιση του τότε, στοιχειώνει μια ζωή με αποκόμματα από προβολές ταινιών και ημιτελιωμένης χρηστικότητας πράγματα.
Whatever you now find weird, ugly, uncomfortable and nasty about a new medium will surely become its signature. CD distortion, the jitteriness of digital video, the crap sound of 8-bit - all of these will be cherished and emulated as soon as they can be avoided. It’s the sound of failure: so much modern art is the sound of things going out of control, of a medium pushing to its limits and breaking apart. The distorted guitar sound is the sound of something too loud for the medium supposed to carry it. The blues singer with the cracked voice is the sound of an emotional cry too powerful for the throat that releases it. The excitement of grainy film, of bleached-out black and white, is the excitement of witnessing events too momentous for the medium assigned to record them.
Science fiction was once a literature which encouraged change, which explored ways and means to effect changes. Now it’s comfort reading, it makes us feel good about our reduced circumstances because at least we’re not suffering as much as the fictional characters we read about.
Movies - like TV, literature, painting, culture - are orphans. They have parents who produce them and nothing more; their effect upon those who meet them later - the audience - is determined by all kinds of other factors. What an artist intended with a piece of art is mostly irrelevant, because what a work of art is is not defined by that intent.
These photographs are straight out from 80’s space opera pulp fiction. I love them. Do yourself a favor and watch them full size for the spectacular details.
Found them through APOD.
Cayce and the German designer will watch the towers burn, and eventually fall, and though she will know she must have seen people jumping, falling, there will be no memory of it.
It will be like watching one of her own dreams on television. Some vast and deeply personal insult to any ordinary notion of interiority.
An experience outside of culture.
Pattern Recognition, by William Gibson, chapter 15.
Vivid description of the 911 terrorist attack through the eyes of the protagonist.
My father’s question forced me to reconsider my own position as an adult, and then to consider your position too – because we’re all in the same boat. You didn’t receive that book of wisdom either, and that’s no coincidence. There wasn’t a problem with the mail. You and I weren’t unlucky: there’s just no book. And by direct consequence, in our most secret hearts, there are no adults either.
Who decides these things? Is it simply that history is written by the victors, so that those who seemingly “won” a decade get to determine what it was like, what it meant? The airbrushing of entire eras has become almost Stalinist in its refusal to allow for complexities, alternatives, or the possibility that various things were happening at any one time. It’s apparently too difficult to understand that there was more than one point of view, one style of fashion, one type of record. Instead we simplify, and homogenise, and boil everything down to a few bullet points.