Switched to wordpress!

For the 2 terrifying people that read this blog religiously, I have switched to Wordpress! The posts will still be linking to Facebook, but if you want to make comments etc. you'll have to do it on Wordpress instead. I think it just looks nicer.
Peace.

Review: 'The Player of Games' by Iain M. Banks

I've always been a big fan of science fiction: those of you that know me will attest to this. Seeing Star Wars as a kid ignited my passion for the mysterious future: the idea that someday we may able to do things that seem impossible now. Visit life on other worlds, travel across the galaxy within a lifetime, eliminate disease, or ultimately cheat death.

Banks' 'Culture' novels are set in a utopian future society, where humans symbiotically exist with like-minded robots. The society is described as being 'post-scarcity', where the need for fuel and energy is virtually arbitrary: technology has become so advanced that there is no longer a struggle for survival or resources. This brings the Culture, as it it known to its citizens, to a kind of world where expense and value become meaningless: currency does not exist, and people simply live for the purpose of living. Certainly an exciting, or terribly boring, prospect, depending on how you look at it.

The Player of Games is the second book in the Culture series, and often described as the best book to start with if one wants to dip into the series. So I was thrown into the fictional universe head-first with the introduction of the protagonist: Gurgeh Jernau, the best game-player in the Culture. Gurgeh is blackmailed into working for the Culture's secret service, and infiltrates a distant Empire, one which is completely based around a game. This game, Azad, forms the cornerstone of society. It is played so much, and has grown up with the Empire, that it is essentially a condensed form of the Empire's ethos. So much so, that the best players of the game get offered the best jobs.

What I found interesting about the book. besides the fantastic ending (the majority of the book was so-so, up until the climax), was Banks' silent mocking of his own creation, the Culture. The Empire is described by Culture denizens as barbaric, base and abhorrent. It would seem so to us as well: they rape and pillage any other societies they come across; the upper echelons of society enjoy a disgusting hedonism of horrible mixes of sexual and violent entertainment; and they are completely opposed to and offended by any other society that thinks in contrary to them. However horrendous they may seem, however, the Empire of Azad has a lot to compare with our Western civilization on Earth. We pride ourselves in being tolerant and diplomatic, yet deep down, as individuals, we are all terribly primal (think about Lord of the Flies).

The Culture is seen by the Empire as this boring, benign entity that lacks the passions of battle and crimes against nature, and in that respect I think they are right. I, for one, would loathe to be part of a sterile world where death plays no part, and events during life become ultimately useless with a lost sense of time and importance. Part of the excitement of life for a lot of people comes from recognising one's own mortality, and grinning at it, mocking. I definitely subscribe to this, at least in part.

If you don't like sci-fi, don't read this book, and if you think you might like sci-fi, don't read this book. Read 2001 or something equally as immersive. If you like sci-fi, you've probably read this book. If you like sci-fi and haven't read this book, consider it if you want a good yarn and a chance to be disgusted at yourself.

This Is Us

A fine dust blows round at my feet
and slowly circles round to meet
a crumpled paper frayed to bones
that lives its life upon the streets.

A cocky man grim leers at me
and laughs as I shift up to meet
his wrinked mug and beer-stained breath
that I scrounge my memories to delete.

A pint of piss costs less than bread.
I'll pour the liquid on my head
and dance like I don't have a job,
then pull my mate, she's just as dead.

A grand old town, its folk shut up,
its affect flowing from a cup
of grandiose haught and pride of show
that's lost in piles of junk and muck.

See all the skanks line round the wall
to bust their chops in Satan's hall.
Their lads surround a mate of theirs
to slay his corpse and bear his pall.

A pint of piss costs less than bread
so pour the liquid on your head
and dance like you don't have a job
then puke up blood that Jesus bled.

You pass a homeless man outside
who shakes his head as you start to slide
upon the slabs that spit and sperm
choose, over dustbins, to reside.

And when you finally get home,
where covers drape your weary bones,
you'll laugh and howl about that time
some tit was dancing on his own.

A pint of piss costs less than bread
so pour the liquid on your head
and dance like you don't have a job
then go to work, pretend you're dead.

Meh

Wake up. OK, time to go.
A coffee, laced with amphetamines,
weed-killers, crop-killers,
money, whip-crack and rape.
A bowl of cornflakes,
concocted with cardboard.
Every flake looks the same
as I ladle them in.
Spoon after spoon.
Slurp after slurp.
I brush off the drips
and I cough
and I burp.

Wake up. OK, time to go.
A quick splash shower
in a grime-ground tub.
Lukewater warm dribbles drip on my head.
I grope for the soap.
A fluorescent nightmare.
Squeezed from the arse of Mr Tesco's
chained-up, holed-up,
radioactive soap monster.
I brush off. Towel down.

Wake up. OK, time to go.
A fat man gets on the bus before me.
Coin slinks in the coin slot.
He's so fat, I don't know why.
I stare at his fatness
for a little look longer.
Read the rag.
Glance at the fat man.
Think about the receptionist.
Think about the secretary.
Get off the motor.
Revolving work doors.
Spinning. Loping. Again.

Immortal Remains

It was midnight when I left the path to visit the river below. The argentine lunar light just illuminated the rocks I walked on, enough that I could avoid nettles and patches of glistening, wet moss. A few moments later, when I had lowered myself down from a high boulder, I was level with the water. It spun rapidly past me, with the velocity of a Bedlam escapee, and tumbled across the stony bed, sending white flecks of rabid froth up to the shingle.

The beautiful, majestic Dean Bridge arced above me, sheltering me and my surroundings slightly from divine strikes. It provided us with a pitch black divide in the deep blue witching sky, allowing for a slight degree of spatial navigation in the dim light. I heard the clack and split of a trap crossing above: some late night reveller returning from a gay party, no doubt.

Birch, beech and hazel waved their boughs at me as a thin gust spiralled westward through the deep valley. I pulled my long coat tight about me and shivered – I was going to meet him again. An ancient man. He would have to travel a while from the coast, but the gentleman would be here, soon, to dispense his watery wisdom.

I let my haunches sink onto a silt-smoothed piece of basalt, and glanced to the other bank. The hill rose steeply to meet the new houses on the other side – a great, but treacherous back garden for the fortunate rich. My leather knee-highs made a satisfying crunch in the fine, moist pebble grit as I shoogled them about. Reaching for the watch at my breast, I noted that he was late.

As I thought this, there was a sudden cease in all sound. The babble of the river stopped. The playful leaves grew reverent. The cart had paused in its midnight traverse. I looked to the water, and there he rose from it: glistening with trapped moonshine. He flexed and rippled with glorious fluidity in front of me and came to set by my side, laying his trident on some weeds.

We conversed for some time, it seemed days, about numerous things: his life back at his home; the state of the New Town, his small Athens; other worlds; the movement of the heavens, other eternal happenings. Then the time came for me to ask him the question I had come to ask. To the eerie transparent avatar in front of me, the moonbeams within him refracting and reflecting, I gave my query: ‘Are you happy with it?’

He paused. He looked down – his coral crown shifted about his head. Minutes passed, but the silence remained. The water in the river was still as artisan-blown glass, remarkable in its seeming solidity. An aquatic face rose to meet mine. He gave his answer. It was lengthily vague, but I gleaned this much: it was not positive. The Enlightenment had stalled much of his work. Many Grecian projects had yet to be completed. Towers and monuments to others overshadowed his. I was given much to think about: pleasing a deity is not simple. I still had others to consult, however. The possibility of my reward was still plausible.

You're My Pride and Joy, etc

The sleeve, it fell down,
and the record did spin
and the teenager bounced to her bed once again.
The rattle of beads.
The sun through the glass.
The RPM RPM forever farce.

A ray through the clouds
to the newest of hearts.
A ray from a tower, projecting the arts.
Spiralling bliss
not made to forget.
Beautiful, bright, bold and bad pirouette.

Fornicate to me,
a thin plastic sheet,
all rattled with grooves and all laid out all neat.
The sleeve, it fell down,
and the record did spin
and the teenager bounced to her bed once again.

A Mist of Analysts - Part 1

Would it not be perfect to see everything all at once? To capture every spiralling drop; every expanding crystal lattice; every cell in a muscle contracting in sensational unison; every blustering squall that contributes to a cyclone? To see, on innumerable display screens, the lives of ten thousand billion organisms played out as a cosmic theatre production? To have this glorious spectacle stored forever as solid data, to be collated, reviewed, consumed and analytically dissected by humans? Or better still, scrutinized by perfect, immortal robotic systems? Would it not be impressive to be a part of this experiment? To initiate it? Create it, bring it about. You would think so. After all, you are, as I am, a striver: a sprinter, an achiever, a target-archer. A human. An analyst. I once brought this great, unfathomable wish within a hair’s breadth of reality. Grim, unforgiving reality.

***

His hand paused, ready to push, on the burnished bronze panel. He held his palm there for a second, mildly caressing the cool metal set into the shining, polished wooden doors. And such doors! He had seen them only once before, on receiving the honour of High Pilot from the Council, who, for the second time, lay beyond them. Looking at them for a following time they were no less grand. No less indulgent, no less austere, than in their first meeting. Three times as high as him - and he a well-built, healthy adult human - and carved from some beautiful tree. A tree from Earth? Possibly. Trees from a new planet? Given the Council’s wealth and exuberance, far more likely.
He breathed in deeply; part preparation for the oncoming test of nerves, part gratuitous inhalation of the rich filtered air that, at great financial and manual cost, passed through these expansive chambers. He remembered his colleague behind him, turned his head to the side and sighed, “Are you ready?”
“I’m shittin’ myself, Noa”
“Yeah, me too. This is big news, but it’s what they’re looking for. I’m sure they’ll take it well.” He turned his head again to the extravagant timber, then back to his friend, “And we let them know we were coming. Had to send a comm fourteen weeks ago to book a hearing with these guys. Hopefully they won’t be angry at the lost time.”
“Wondered why you were taking so long to get back to me. Thought you’d offed yourself or something.”
“Me? No. I tried that before. Didn’t work. Sorry, I haven’t been in contact recently...I took a trip to the Ravere system. Had to clear my head.”
Earth High Pilot Noa Jona pushed steadily with a careful concoction of might and respect on the door. Its weight resisted him heavily, at first, as if Newtonian physics or some other, far more mystic and unseen, forces rejected his presence within. However, he soon felt a small hidden mechanism assist him. He heard its small purring whirr, and the door started slowly to give. He pushed with both hands. The light of the corridor he stood in was swallowed by the dim crack he had created. He stepped through this small breach and stopped. There they are.
A crescent-shaped table, of the same fantastic wood as the doors now behind him, was lit up in front of Noa by cones of a soft light. Beneath these beams sat the people he was here to see: undoubtedly the most powerful men on Earth. That particular thought had possessed him many times in the past few months. Last time he just had to salute and go through a ritual. Now he had to talk to them. He held the door slightly for his friend, straining under its only partially-relieved immense mass, and then started towards the group. His awkward steps betrayed his nervousness, and his palms sweated. He held his torso high in faux-pride, however. The table seemed lightyears away. The tapping footsteps of his Craft boots echoed solidly on the flagstones below, echoed around the cavernous chamber.
In the subdued light to his sides he began to see shapes form, emerging from the darkness as they recognised the presence of a fellow observer. Some of these shapes he remembered from his last visit, some were new. Glowing rocks; small field-encased gas clouds; beautiful sculptures – representations of scientific theories – double helices, networks, chaotic shapes; and busts of the greats. Newton. Darwin. Kefter. Bexa. Doesn’t matter, look forward. Look ahead. Look positive.
The dusky light was so pressing in this place. He felt enclosed, encased; alone. There were tall windows and skylights above him, but these had long been encrusted with grime and soot. Outside had been irreversibly damaged in the past few decades – smog and putrid fumes choked the cities, and were beginning to creep to the rest of Earth, the last havens of unspoiled remote beauty spots. Nothing like the crisp, clean world that The Renews had envisioned: this planet was now damaged; defunct. Maybe the Councillors liked the gloom, Noa guessed. It would certainly fit their grim, droll personality.
Their eyes had been on him since he entered. He knew they would have been, but he could only tell for sure as he got close enough. Gold and silver bespectacled faces peered through him, scrutinised him, and observed him, as gamma rays would penetrate a brick wall. One of them looked down at the desk to arrange some papers, no doubt cross-checking his visage with that on a file. They were so ancient, these men and women. Were they still even in touch with reality? Had they seen the damage their kind had caused outside? They lived their lives in this building, it was rumoured. They stalked the halls during the day, and were held in stasis pods at night, where they were fed, watered, de-aged and informed by countless data cables. If one were to acknowledge the hearsay, one would doubt these individuals were even human. Yet here they were, breathing and assessing in front of Noa, trying to penetrate his confident air, hating like no robot or android possibly could.
“Good evening, Pilot Jona,” came a voice from the centre: a balding, sneering face. Noa stood to attention.
“Council.” He nodded with military precision and clarity. The bald dome shifted slightly to the right to examine the man behind Noa.
“And good evening, Lieutenant”
“Cay, get over here,” Noa hissed. His friend shuffled quickly forward to stand to attention at the Pilot’s side.
“Good evening, Sir,” replied Earth Lt. Cay, nervously.
There was a horrible stillness. Of motion and of thought. Cay hazarded a glance at his friend. It was not returned.
“So, what?” The bald man gestured with his palms, questioning.
“You did not get my personal message, Councillor?” Perspiration began to form on the Pilot’s brow.
“No, Jona.” The bald man glanced at his colleagues in annoyed amusement. One of them gave a small chuckle, looked down at a paper on the desk and ticked a small box. Noa wanted to strain to read it, but was firmly petrified to the spot.
“Spit it out, then”
“Sir, it’s about, hmm, our recent voyage.”
“To Sinai? It was successful, wasn’t it? You got what you went for? The planet was successfully tagged and flagged?”
“Yes, Sir, but-”
“Well? What are you standing in front of us for then? Just here for a chat?”
“Sir, you asked all stellists to report to you if we encountered –“
“Sentients?” The bald man cut him off.
Noa nodded solemnly.
Silence. The councillors looked at each other, and immediately scribbled short notes on their desks, and mouthed messages through their invisible mouthpieces to their contacts. Noa could hear the tapping of fingers against flat plastic screens. He could see the other councillors’ faces shrouded in shadow as their bent heads obscured their faces from the lights above them. He sniffed the clean, unwelcoming, air. After a long, whispered telecommunication with a colleague, the balding one looked straight ahead. Noa could see the messages flushing in vivid blue across his glasses. He looked back at Noa and their eyes met.
“We’re readied the Linnaeus for you, Jona. With a team of observers. You leave immediately.”
“Sir, I’m still recovering from my flight today. With all due respect, I’m entitled to my sickness hours”
“You’re going back to Sinai, to observe the sentients, and the rest of the planet.”
“Councillor, I –“
“We’ve equipped the craft with brand new tech: your new crew will brief you on it this evening. The Lieutenant will stay here with us for a short interrogation.”
“It’s unsafe, Sir. I physically can’t do it!”
“Do not use that tone with us, Jona! Your health is far secondary to what we will be achieving if we act fast, and reach Sinai again before the other colonies”
“Sir, we don’t even know if -“
A powerful fist crashed down mightily on the desk - “Jona, get out of this room and perform your duty to your Council!”
Lt. Cay watched in apprehension as the man, associate and friend he most dearly revered saluted, turned on his heel and marched out of the auditorium: spurned, degraded.