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.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
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.
Friday, April 17, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 13, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, April 10, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
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.
***
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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Something very interesting
So, I'm reading a bleeding fantastic book at the moment: 'Guns, Germs and Steel' by Jared Diamond, after a reccommendation from a friend of mine.
Diamond's book is primarily about why the civilizations of the Eurasion landmass have been far more technologically and dominatingly successful throughout human history. The most interesting point he's made so far (I'm not long into the book!), which I want to mention here, is about humans migrating to different continents and their subsequent use of the terrain.
One of the first, and most important, steps in the creation of a human society is development of food production - farming. If an animal can be domesticated and used for work that was previously reserved for humans, or used as food itself, then the humans doing the domesticating have less work to do, and more food to eat, allowing for human effort (as a society) to be put into other causes, such as craftmanship or politics.
This is exactly what happened in Africa and the Eurasian continents - humans evolved in coexistence with other large animals. These animals developed a sense of fear of humans, so could survive alongside them and not get made extinct. However, when humans migrated to southeast Asia, particularly New Guinea/Australia, and to the New World (mostly North America) they came into contact with megafauna (large animals) that had never been exposed to humans. This allowed the new immigrants to easily pick off the animals for food, and soon - within millennia - drove them all to extinction.
Subsequently, there were no large animals to domesticate for the uses described above. This led to the Aboriginal and North American indiginous peoples' inabilities to develop food production. Consequently, when these cultures were discovered by Eurasians in the 2nd millennium AD, they were still living as hunter-gatherer societies using stone tools. Essentially, they were 'living in the stone age'.
Of course, this is not at all to say that these societies were less developed cognitively - Diamond asserts that they possess the same abilities as any other modern human society. They simply lacked the technological developments that African and Eurasian cultures created because of their ability to farm.
Neat!
Diamond's book is primarily about why the civilizations of the Eurasion landmass have been far more technologically and dominatingly successful throughout human history. The most interesting point he's made so far (I'm not long into the book!), which I want to mention here, is about humans migrating to different continents and their subsequent use of the terrain.
One of the first, and most important, steps in the creation of a human society is development of food production - farming. If an animal can be domesticated and used for work that was previously reserved for humans, or used as food itself, then the humans doing the domesticating have less work to do, and more food to eat, allowing for human effort (as a society) to be put into other causes, such as craftmanship or politics.
This is exactly what happened in Africa and the Eurasian continents - humans evolved in coexistence with other large animals. These animals developed a sense of fear of humans, so could survive alongside them and not get made extinct. However, when humans migrated to southeast Asia, particularly New Guinea/Australia, and to the New World (mostly North America) they came into contact with megafauna (large animals) that had never been exposed to humans. This allowed the new immigrants to easily pick off the animals for food, and soon - within millennia - drove them all to extinction.
Subsequently, there were no large animals to domesticate for the uses described above. This led to the Aboriginal and North American indiginous peoples' inabilities to develop food production. Consequently, when these cultures were discovered by Eurasians in the 2nd millennium AD, they were still living as hunter-gatherer societies using stone tools. Essentially, they were 'living in the stone age'.
Of course, this is not at all to say that these societies were less developed cognitively - Diamond asserts that they possess the same abilities as any other modern human society. They simply lacked the technological developments that African and Eurasian cultures created because of their ability to farm.
Neat!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Jealousy, thy name is Temperature.
You know who I'm really envious of? Luke. Yeah, that guy. Remember him? Remember that guy? You know, him. The guy that invented that certain type of water that's not too hot and not too cold. About room-temperature.
I'm jealous of him because his self-styled warmth is used across the English speaking world by nearly every person, nearly every week or two. That's a lot of useage! Compared to, say, the Bernoulli principle (you have no idea how long I took to think of that - trying to imagine something that's famous enough to be named, but not famous enough to be talked about on a day-to-day basis). If you're not familiar with the Bernouilli principle, fair enough, but that's enough to say that, well, Bernoulli, your principle just didn't cut it in terms of memorability. Not like Luke's word.
Good on you, Luke.
What a life he must have, lording it up in some semi-detached mansion somewhere, chuckling to himself in a "me-warm" bath, flicking the TV channels with a pretty big remote control, while ambivalent, partly-nude women flit in and out of his corion/marble combo bathroom, bringing him really milky cups of tea and bunches of half-ripened grapes.
Come to think of it, I'm not acually jealous of Luke. Not because of his disgustingly egotistical lifestyle, but because he forgot one important detail, one item that anyone creating an eponym would want to include: his surname. So, I'm not jealous of Luke anymore because he's an idiot.
Actually, Luke could be a surname in itself. Hmm, that's me stumped....
That said, he didn't even choose to capitalise whichever name he used, be it surname or fore. It's just...'lukewarm'. With a lower case l. So my point still stands - luke is a moron. Go to Hell, luke, you pathetic namer.
I'm jealous of him because his self-styled warmth is used across the English speaking world by nearly every person, nearly every week or two. That's a lot of useage! Compared to, say, the Bernoulli principle (you have no idea how long I took to think of that - trying to imagine something that's famous enough to be named, but not famous enough to be talked about on a day-to-day basis). If you're not familiar with the Bernouilli principle, fair enough, but that's enough to say that, well, Bernoulli, your principle just didn't cut it in terms of memorability. Not like Luke's word.
Good on you, Luke.
What a life he must have, lording it up in some semi-detached mansion somewhere, chuckling to himself in a "me-warm" bath, flicking the TV channels with a pretty big remote control, while ambivalent, partly-nude women flit in and out of his corion/marble combo bathroom, bringing him really milky cups of tea and bunches of half-ripened grapes.
Come to think of it, I'm not acually jealous of Luke. Not because of his disgustingly egotistical lifestyle, but because he forgot one important detail, one item that anyone creating an eponym would want to include: his surname. So, I'm not jealous of Luke anymore because he's an idiot.
Actually, Luke could be a surname in itself. Hmm, that's me stumped....
That said, he didn't even choose to capitalise whichever name he used, be it surname or fore. It's just...'lukewarm'. With a lower case l. So my point still stands - luke is a moron. Go to Hell, luke, you pathetic namer.
Monday, March 16, 2009
A thought on consumerism (yeah, stick it to The Man!)
My toothbrush has worn out. Its fibres are all splayed and I find it hard to reach the little nooks and crannies between my molars. So as I was trying hard to use this failed instrument for its purpose this morning, I thought, nay, knew that Oral-B, who made it, definitely had the technology to make a non-splaying brush, or at least a brush that lasted longer. This one lasted about 2 months. This raises three questions:
1) Can a toothbrush perform its job just as well when it is splayed? In other words, have we falsely been told that toothbrushes (teethbrush?) need to be replaced?
2) Does a non-splaying toothbrush exist in a top-secret, military underground Oral-B base somewhere? And they're just not selling it to us, the poor consumer?
3) Are we just too reliant on tooth technology companies? Can we live fine without toothbrushes? (Probably not, unless you're a hippie or a sociopath)
I believe a combination answer can combat all of the above: we have come to be so reliant on consumerism, through both our own and society's faults, that we have reached the point of no return, so that any change we try to make against this will be detrimental. If we all stop using toothbrushes, our teeth will eventually rot and become useless in later life, possibly even reducing our lifespan, and Oral-B would go out of business, people would lose their jobs and their livelihoods. If we keep on buying toothbrushes regularly, The Man will just reduce the lifespan of an average toothbrush once again, and we will be buying toothbrushes even more frequently. And if, say, Colgate released a non-splaying toothbrush, then the economy would lapse into a recession. That's right,
IF YOU STOP BUYING TOOTHBRUSHES, SOCIETY AS WE KNOW IT WILL COLLAPSE
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Food - what's that all about then?
So, there I was, in my pyjamas (yes, I have pyjamas, why do you care? They happen to be very comfortable and stylish. But it's not like anyone is observing my dress sense when I'm asleep is it? Is it? Erm). Mhm, in my pyjamas. I slurred to the kitchen to pour a bowl of cornflakes - pretty standard for me. It's a bland choice, but I like to think cornflakes reflect my economical situation rather than my dismal, monochromal outlook on life (which, by the way, I don't have).
So, I shovel the first spoonful into my mouth, and they hit my tongue. And I can't taste anything except milk. I can feel them crunching and showly getting soggy. But I can't taste them. And I think, "This is weird, it must be some sort of physiological anomaly to do with getting up early. Maybe it's my taste buds, they're under-stimulated overnight or something. Maybe I should eat a smint before I go to sleep." and other distracted thoughts. Then it hit me.
Cheap food is abhorrently abysmal.
It wasn't my tongue that was the problem. It was the recycled, re-coloured, re-corned Chinese toilet roll that I was loading into my mouth. I wanted to spit them out. Then I realised that doing so would be a terrible financial decision for me, and chomped them down anyway. Mr and Mrs Tesco, if you are reading this, ask yourself, 'Would I want my children eating wood mulch for breakfast?'. No, no of course you wouldn't. Then stop making this garbage.
Of course, it's not that simple. The world, including me, needs garbage. We need these tasteless calories to stay alive. And at the end of the day, isn't any food with a nice taste just a bonus?
Food for thought. (heh)
So, I shovel the first spoonful into my mouth, and they hit my tongue. And I can't taste anything except milk. I can feel them crunching and showly getting soggy. But I can't taste them. And I think, "This is weird, it must be some sort of physiological anomaly to do with getting up early. Maybe it's my taste buds, they're under-stimulated overnight or something. Maybe I should eat a smint before I go to sleep." and other distracted thoughts. Then it hit me.
Cheap food is abhorrently abysmal.
It wasn't my tongue that was the problem. It was the recycled, re-coloured, re-corned Chinese toilet roll that I was loading into my mouth. I wanted to spit them out. Then I realised that doing so would be a terrible financial decision for me, and chomped them down anyway. Mr and Mrs Tesco, if you are reading this, ask yourself, 'Would I want my children eating wood mulch for breakfast?'. No, no of course you wouldn't. Then stop making this garbage.
Of course, it's not that simple. The world, including me, needs garbage. We need these tasteless calories to stay alive. And at the end of the day, isn't any food with a nice taste just a bonus?
Food for thought. (heh)
Monday, March 9, 2009
Dreamscape II
By the sad twisting strings of some glowing sky beams
a boy pilots his craft through a delta of streams.
He weaves a small rudder between select waves,
and sends handfuls of stones to their silvery graves.
Looking down to the bed, he glimpses sand sift,
a darting of shadows, a mellowy shift.
The green yellow waters make fine patterns of gold
and whatever moved hides behind boulders of bold.
His curious nature leans his head overboard
and fast playful crests lick their childish lord.
Small simple fingers dip down to the flow -
the waters push past them to where waters go -
his palms follow suit, and his elbows and arms,
and he strains half his body to the coral so calm.
He fishes around for an object to mold,
and his hands wrap around a peculiar hold.
It wriggles around, and it tries to escape
from the powerful claws that are wrenching its shape.
But its master has won and the surface awaits:
the boy's face is rippled by the waves it creates.
He brings the small monster right up to his eyes -
it twists to the babble to say its goodbyes -
but benevolent forces look down on the thing
and the boy hurls the creature back into the spring.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Go and see this movie because it is good
So, I'm a big fan of the Watchmen comic (I refuse to use the phrase 'graphic novel'. It's a comic. You guys with beards and figurines and Asian girlfriends, they're comics. Really, I mean, honestly. Get over it). If you're not familiar with the COMIC, it was written by Alan Moore (crazy wizard of a guy, whose other works include V for Vendetta, From Hell, and the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), and inked by Dave Gibbons. And it is great:
Watchmen is a highly critical and symbolic story that charts the decline of the 'masked heroes' of the 1950s, a fictional bunch of vigilantes with similar appearances and actions of the Batmen and Supermen we all know and love. After they started to get out of hand, what with taking the law into their owns hands and all, a law was passed banning all masked heroes from exacting their own criminal justice. So the practice died out.
We reach the 1980s, and the comic starts out with the murder of a certain famous man. The rest of the story is spent unravelling the situation and the huge plans behind his death. The latter involves some of the old masked heroes taking up their costumes again, for the supposed greater good.
As mentioned before, it's a highly symbolic work and touches on a lot of subjects including utilitarianism, criminal law, our place in the Universe, and man's imperfection.
The reason I'm bringing this comic up in my blog is because I watched its film adaptation last night. And it was really incredible. A definite 9/10 from me. I really reccommend reading the comic before you go see it - it will make the experience a lot more enjoyable. And it has a great soundtrack: the opening credits are particularly well done. The director, and everyone else involved, have done a great job keeping the film looking like a fantastic cross between reality and fiction, and the CGI character of Dr Manhattan (the blue guy above) has been integrated seamlessly amongst the real cast.
Go see it. You don't have to be a nerd to.
Watchmen is a highly critical and symbolic story that charts the decline of the 'masked heroes' of the 1950s, a fictional bunch of vigilantes with similar appearances and actions of the Batmen and Supermen we all know and love. After they started to get out of hand, what with taking the law into their owns hands and all, a law was passed banning all masked heroes from exacting their own criminal justice. So the practice died out.
We reach the 1980s, and the comic starts out with the murder of a certain famous man. The rest of the story is spent unravelling the situation and the huge plans behind his death. The latter involves some of the old masked heroes taking up their costumes again, for the supposed greater good.
As mentioned before, it's a highly symbolic work and touches on a lot of subjects including utilitarianism, criminal law, our place in the Universe, and man's imperfection.
The reason I'm bringing this comic up in my blog is because I watched its film adaptation last night. And it was really incredible. A definite 9/10 from me. I really reccommend reading the comic before you go see it - it will make the experience a lot more enjoyable. And it has a great soundtrack: the opening credits are particularly well done. The director, and everyone else involved, have done a great job keeping the film looking like a fantastic cross between reality and fiction, and the CGI character of Dr Manhattan (the blue guy above) has been integrated seamlessly amongst the real cast.
Go see it. You don't have to be a nerd to.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Fifth Floor Visions
Circling doves above the boughs.
I look again, a second glance.
The spinning wings belong to gulls.
Spiralling down to dying trees
on fading breaths of dwindling eddies.
They perch there on the twigs
and weigh them down and strip their leaves
to use them in their giant nests.
Three call to me in ancient tongues
and mock the rabbits in the brush.
They scare me,
make no sense at all.
I run to scatter
with my cries.
They fly to sea,
float on the waves,
and follow swell
like little buoys.
I look again, a second glance.
The spinning wings belong to gulls.
Spiralling down to dying trees
on fading breaths of dwindling eddies.
They perch there on the twigs
and weigh them down and strip their leaves
to use them in their giant nests.
Three call to me in ancient tongues
and mock the rabbits in the brush.
They scare me,
make no sense at all.
I run to scatter
with my cries.
They fly to sea,
float on the waves,
and follow swell
like little buoys.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
A note about why you, the Twitter user, are ridiculous
Do you really have to describe your life in one sentence every hour? Do you really feel the need to plague the internet with more information than the annoyingly unstoppable amount it's already incapable of dealing with? Do you have so little imagination that 140 characters (or whatever) contains your heartfelt emotions; or the descriptive horror of your 956th Boots meal deal; or the 10 reasons you hate your life? Do you have such a low cerebral capacity that you can't look up from your iPhone/Blackberry for one minute to survey your beautiful analogue surroundings? Do you feel part of a growing internet community despite the fact that the more time you spend at your computer, the more socially inept you become? Do you bum cats?
Yes. Yes, apparently you do.
Yes. Yes, apparently you do.
"Faith is the defeat of probability by possibility"
I'd like to share with you a recent editorial by Jonathan Sacks in The Times (28/02/09), that I found very thought-provoking. I'm very interested in the religious state of the UK, and the supposed uprising of atheism on the Dawkins bandwagon. I'm sure I'll bang on about it in many blog posts to come. Here it is:
"We owe a debt to the British Humanist Association for its advert on buses: “There’s probably no God.” It is thought-provoking in a helpful way, because it invites us to reflect not only on God but also on probability.
One of the discoveries of modern science is the sheer improbability of the Universe. It is shaped by six fundamental forces which, had they varied by an infinitesimal amount, the Universe would have expanded or imploded in such a way as to preclude the formation of stars. Unless we assume the existence of a million or trillion other universes (itself a large leap of faith), the fact that there is a universe at all is massively improbable.
So is the existence of life. Among the hundred billion galaxies, each with billions of stars, only one planet known to us, Earth, seems finely tuned for the emergence of life. And by what intermediate stages did non-life become life?
It’s a puzzle so improbable that Francis Crick was forced to argue that life was born somewhere else, Mars perhaps, and came here via meteorite, so making the mystery yet more mysterious.
How did life become sentient? And how did sentience grow to become self-consciousness, that strange gift, known only to Homo sapiens. So many improbabilities, Stephen J. Gould concluded, that if the process of evolution were run again from the beginning it is doubtful whether Homo sapiens would ever have been born.
You don’t have to be religious to have a sense of awe at the sheer improbability of things. A few weeks ago James le Fanu published a book Why Us?. In it he argues that we are about to undergo a paradigm shift in scientific understanding. The complexities of the genome, the emergence of the first multicellular life forms, the origins of Homo sapiens and our prodigiously enlarged brain: all these and more are too subtle to be accounted for on reductive, materialist, Darwinian science.
A week later Michael Brooks brought out 13 Things That Don’t Make Sense, the most important being human free will. The more science we learn, the more we understand how little we understand. The improbabilities keep multiplying, as does our cause for wonder.
And that’s just at the level of science. What about history? How probable is it that one man who performed no miracles and wielded no power, Abraham, would become the most influential figure who ever lived, with more than half of the six billion people alive today tracing their spiritual descent to him?
How probable is it that a tiny people, the children of Israel, known today as Jews, numbering less than a fifth of a per cent of the population of the world, would outlive every empire that sought its destruction? Or that a small, persecuted sect known as the Christians would one day become the largest movement of any kind in the world?
How probable is it that slavery would be abolished, that tyrannies would fall, that apartheid would end and that an African-American would be elected President of the US? Everything interesting in life, the Universe and the whole shebang is improbable, as Nicholas Taleb reminds us in The Black Swan, subtitled “The Impact of the Highly Improbable”. The book’s title is drawn from the fact that people were convinced that, since no one had ever seen a black swan, they did not exist — until someone discovered Australia.
One interesting improbability is that the man who invented probability theory, a brilliant young mathematician called Blaise Pascal, decided at the age of 30 to give up mathematics and science and devote the rest of his life to the exploration of religious faith.
Faith is the defeat of probability by the power of possibility. The prophets dreamt the improbable and by doing so helped to bring it about. All the great human achievements, in art and science as well as the life of the spirit, came through people who ignored the probable and had faith in the possible.
So the bus advertisement would be improved by a small amendment. Instead of saying “There’s probably no God”, it should read: “Improbably, there is a God”. "
"We owe a debt to the British Humanist Association for its advert on buses: “There’s probably no God.” It is thought-provoking in a helpful way, because it invites us to reflect not only on God but also on probability.
One of the discoveries of modern science is the sheer improbability of the Universe. It is shaped by six fundamental forces which, had they varied by an infinitesimal amount, the Universe would have expanded or imploded in such a way as to preclude the formation of stars. Unless we assume the existence of a million or trillion other universes (itself a large leap of faith), the fact that there is a universe at all is massively improbable.
So is the existence of life. Among the hundred billion galaxies, each with billions of stars, only one planet known to us, Earth, seems finely tuned for the emergence of life. And by what intermediate stages did non-life become life?
It’s a puzzle so improbable that Francis Crick was forced to argue that life was born somewhere else, Mars perhaps, and came here via meteorite, so making the mystery yet more mysterious.
How did life become sentient? And how did sentience grow to become self-consciousness, that strange gift, known only to Homo sapiens. So many improbabilities, Stephen J. Gould concluded, that if the process of evolution were run again from the beginning it is doubtful whether Homo sapiens would ever have been born.
You don’t have to be religious to have a sense of awe at the sheer improbability of things. A few weeks ago James le Fanu published a book Why Us?. In it he argues that we are about to undergo a paradigm shift in scientific understanding. The complexities of the genome, the emergence of the first multicellular life forms, the origins of Homo sapiens and our prodigiously enlarged brain: all these and more are too subtle to be accounted for on reductive, materialist, Darwinian science.
A week later Michael Brooks brought out 13 Things That Don’t Make Sense, the most important being human free will. The more science we learn, the more we understand how little we understand. The improbabilities keep multiplying, as does our cause for wonder.
And that’s just at the level of science. What about history? How probable is it that one man who performed no miracles and wielded no power, Abraham, would become the most influential figure who ever lived, with more than half of the six billion people alive today tracing their spiritual descent to him?
How probable is it that a tiny people, the children of Israel, known today as Jews, numbering less than a fifth of a per cent of the population of the world, would outlive every empire that sought its destruction? Or that a small, persecuted sect known as the Christians would one day become the largest movement of any kind in the world?
How probable is it that slavery would be abolished, that tyrannies would fall, that apartheid would end and that an African-American would be elected President of the US? Everything interesting in life, the Universe and the whole shebang is improbable, as Nicholas Taleb reminds us in The Black Swan, subtitled “The Impact of the Highly Improbable”. The book’s title is drawn from the fact that people were convinced that, since no one had ever seen a black swan, they did not exist — until someone discovered Australia.
One interesting improbability is that the man who invented probability theory, a brilliant young mathematician called Blaise Pascal, decided at the age of 30 to give up mathematics and science and devote the rest of his life to the exploration of religious faith.
Faith is the defeat of probability by the power of possibility. The prophets dreamt the improbable and by doing so helped to bring it about. All the great human achievements, in art and science as well as the life of the spirit, came through people who ignored the probable and had faith in the possible.
So the bus advertisement would be improved by a small amendment. Instead of saying “There’s probably no God”, it should read: “Improbably, there is a God”. "
Review: The World Is Not Flat - Self titled EP
Thanks to a few of my friends (who I love very much), I stumbled upon this incredible little English-American man-woman folk duo that recently recorded an EP with Oxford-based indie label Jam Jar records (http://jamjarrecords.co.uk/). I'm not a pretentious pitchfork media reviwer, so I'll try and keep this summary to an enjoyable minimum.
The record opens with 'Sixth Borough', a beautiful harmony-woven piece that conjures up the best of what you would imagine New York to be: leafy parks and rich tower buildings fixed into their aged grids, enlivened with the occasional peace that the city gets on one of its days off. Plinky acoustics lead us through the city and on to another famous city in 'Baker Street Station'.
The couple provide a small change in direction as they sing 'Earlgreylavender', a more intimate song, revealing relationships behind these enigmatic voices.
'Name' is probably the weakest on the 8-track EP, but it leads into 'The World is Not Flat', a sumptuous, if slightly cliched slice of Americana, that probably wouldn't feel out of place under SubPop.
Definitely the most moving, and most musically and lyrically inspired, song is 'Paradox', that gives us the wonderful
I've been saying that I love you for so long
and I'm wondering if it's dark that comes with the dawn.
This morning rooster keeps on crowing on and on and on
and I've been saying that I love you for so long.
We're then taken through the (unfortunately brief) 'Forest', to reach the swansong of the EP, 'Birdhouses', providing fruity, natural backing noise to complement another bout of haunting, airy female vocals.
A definite 4.5/5. I've not heard a better EP this year, but hey - nothing's perfect.
You can have a listen to some of it here: http://www.last.fm/music/The+World+Is+Not+Flat
love tom
The record opens with 'Sixth Borough', a beautiful harmony-woven piece that conjures up the best of what you would imagine New York to be: leafy parks and rich tower buildings fixed into their aged grids, enlivened with the occasional peace that the city gets on one of its days off. Plinky acoustics lead us through the city and on to another famous city in 'Baker Street Station'.
The couple provide a small change in direction as they sing 'Earlgreylavender', a more intimate song, revealing relationships behind these enigmatic voices.
'Name' is probably the weakest on the 8-track EP, but it leads into 'The World is Not Flat', a sumptuous, if slightly cliched slice of Americana, that probably wouldn't feel out of place under SubPop.
Definitely the most moving, and most musically and lyrically inspired, song is 'Paradox', that gives us the wonderful
I've been saying that I love you for so long
and I'm wondering if it's dark that comes with the dawn.
This morning rooster keeps on crowing on and on and on
and I've been saying that I love you for so long.
We're then taken through the (unfortunately brief) 'Forest', to reach the swansong of the EP, 'Birdhouses', providing fruity, natural backing noise to complement another bout of haunting, airy female vocals.
A definite 4.5/5. I've not heard a better EP this year, but hey - nothing's perfect.
You can have a listen to some of it here: http://www.last.fm/music/The+World+Is+Not+Flat
love tom
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Do I really want to be a doctor?
Apparently (according to some boring online medicine thing I subscribe to) a large number of medical students seriously question whether they are doing the right thing or not. I know I definitely am questioning this, and definitely have in the past.
I decided to apply for medicine about a week before I handed in my UCAS form. It was an utterly bizarre decision - I think I was driven by that "if I can I might as well" attititude, which is ridiculous, because my three main passions are zoology, astronomy and creative writing. Now I do anything to pursue these.
But am I longing for these subjects because I am so irreversibly immersed in my current subject, or because they are my real callings? I'd be interested to hear what students of other subjects think - do you crave stimulation from new areas? I sure do.
I went on the Open University website to see how much it would be to study Astronomy with them. A lot, it turns out. You need a lot of money to do a degree. Ugh. And I'm doing one right now. Ugh x 2.
But right now? I just got a pang of homelessness for my native subjects because I'm writing this portfolio essay that I REALLY don't want to do. It's probably just a remnant of my disgusting teenage angst poking through. I don't like medicine right now. Whoever thought medicine would be all mediciney? It's getting in the way of me enjoying medicine. Medicine, medicine, medicine, medicine, medicine. That word is strange.
I decided to apply for medicine about a week before I handed in my UCAS form. It was an utterly bizarre decision - I think I was driven by that "if I can I might as well" attititude, which is ridiculous, because my three main passions are zoology, astronomy and creative writing. Now I do anything to pursue these.
But am I longing for these subjects because I am so irreversibly immersed in my current subject, or because they are my real callings? I'd be interested to hear what students of other subjects think - do you crave stimulation from new areas? I sure do.
I went on the Open University website to see how much it would be to study Astronomy with them. A lot, it turns out. You need a lot of money to do a degree. Ugh. And I'm doing one right now. Ugh x 2.
But right now? I just got a pang of homelessness for my native subjects because I'm writing this portfolio essay that I REALLY don't want to do. It's probably just a remnant of my disgusting teenage angst poking through. I don't like medicine right now. Whoever thought medicine would be all mediciney? It's getting in the way of me enjoying medicine. Medicine, medicine, medicine, medicine, medicine. That word is strange.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Laerdav Verses
So we arrive - the cold air greets us.
It washes over our hears and cools the space
behind us. Ruffles our hair.
For we are there.
The crystalline palace, built up by the people,
to worship their gods and honour
their masters: the crowned ones.
Worship the suns.
We share a fire to warm up the night
We cannot sleep under strange stars.
Sunlight in jars.
Weary, so far
on this faceted shard.
Ambassadors greet us, their faces welcoming,
but hiding their reasons. Sheltering us
they keep us for strange causes.
They ride horses.
And galloping home they tell their families
about us, the travellers. The vagrants
of Earth. The cosmic homeless.
Cold air caress.
We share a fire to warm up the night
We cannot sleep under strange stars.
Sunlight in jars.
Weary, so far
on this faceted shard.
We have alien faces
and skeleton bodies.
Unfamiliar to those
who greet us on this
new planet.
And I remember my wife
and the day I arrived.
-------
I've not thought about space for a while. The idea that civilizations exist elsewhere in the universe is so beautifully compelling to me that I have to acknowledge it. Who are they? What are they? Will we ever visit them? Time will let us know.
It washes over our hears and cools the space
behind us. Ruffles our hair.
For we are there.
The crystalline palace, built up by the people,
to worship their gods and honour
their masters: the crowned ones.
Worship the suns.
We share a fire to warm up the night
We cannot sleep under strange stars.
Sunlight in jars.
Weary, so far
on this faceted shard.
Ambassadors greet us, their faces welcoming,
but hiding their reasons. Sheltering us
they keep us for strange causes.
They ride horses.
And galloping home they tell their families
about us, the travellers. The vagrants
of Earth. The cosmic homeless.
Cold air caress.
We share a fire to warm up the night
We cannot sleep under strange stars.
Sunlight in jars.
Weary, so far
on this faceted shard.
We have alien faces
and skeleton bodies.
Unfamiliar to those
who greet us on this
new planet.
And I remember my wife
and the day I arrived.
-------
I've not thought about space for a while. The idea that civilizations exist elsewhere in the universe is so beautifully compelling to me that I have to acknowledge it. Who are they? What are they? Will we ever visit them? Time will let us know.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Opportunity Knocked
Squeezed by forces hidden,
tapped by fingers frozen,
degraded on the floor
sits my wooden reeded organ.
Glancing on the keys
and peering at the black ones
I collect my thoughts and
write upon the staves.
I remember back tonight
when the coloured minds took flight
and a mesmerising murmur
wrought its songs upon the world.
The fanciful forgotten
and the trodden down and rotten
were remembered by
the voice that sang to me.
Contemporary visions
and photographs of paintings
and intertwining harmonies
were weaved into a basket.
Placed inside were records, dreams
and pent up thoughts and memories
and my blank turquoise t-shirt
and my little wooden organ.
tapped by fingers frozen,
degraded on the floor
sits my wooden reeded organ.
Glancing on the keys
and peering at the black ones
I collect my thoughts and
write upon the staves.
I remember back tonight
when the coloured minds took flight
and a mesmerising murmur
wrought its songs upon the world.
The fanciful forgotten
and the trodden down and rotten
were remembered by
the voice that sang to me.
Contemporary visions
and photographs of paintings
and intertwining harmonies
were weaved into a basket.
Placed inside were records, dreams
and pent up thoughts and memories
and my blank turquoise t-shirt
and my little wooden organ.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
The Wrestler
Have you ever seen a one trick pony in the field so happy and free?
If you've ever seen a one trick pony then you've seen me
Have you ever seen a one legged dog makin' his way down the street?
If you've ever seen a one legged dog then you've seen me
(Then you've seen me) I come and stand at every door
(Then you've seen me) I always leave with less than I had before
(Then you've seen me) bet I can make you smile when the blood it hits the floor
Tell me friend can you ask for anything more
Tell me can you ask for anything more
Have you ever seen a scarecrow filled with nothing but dust and weeds?
If you've ever seen that scarecrow then you've seen me
Have you ever seen a one armed man punchin' at nothing but the breeze?
If you've ever seen a one armed man then you've seen me
(Then you've seen me) I come and stand at every door
(Then you've seen me) I always leave with less than I had before
(Then you've seen me) bet I can make you smile when the blood it hits the floor
Tell me friend can you ask for anything more
Tell me can you ask for anything more
These things that have comforted me I drive away
This place that is my home I cannot stay
My only faith is in the broken bones and bruises I display
Have you ever seen a one legged man tryin' to dance his way free
If you've ever seen a one legged man then you've seen me
-------
If you haven't already, go see The Wrestler. Mickey Rourke is absolutely fantastic in it. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll...hmm...something else. Go see it anyway.
If you've ever seen a one trick pony then you've seen me
Have you ever seen a one legged dog makin' his way down the street?
If you've ever seen a one legged dog then you've seen me
(Then you've seen me) I come and stand at every door
(Then you've seen me) I always leave with less than I had before
(Then you've seen me) bet I can make you smile when the blood it hits the floor
Tell me friend can you ask for anything more
Tell me can you ask for anything more
Have you ever seen a scarecrow filled with nothing but dust and weeds?
If you've ever seen that scarecrow then you've seen me
Have you ever seen a one armed man punchin' at nothing but the breeze?
If you've ever seen a one armed man then you've seen me
(Then you've seen me) I come and stand at every door
(Then you've seen me) I always leave with less than I had before
(Then you've seen me) bet I can make you smile when the blood it hits the floor
Tell me friend can you ask for anything more
Tell me can you ask for anything more
These things that have comforted me I drive away
This place that is my home I cannot stay
My only faith is in the broken bones and bruises I display
Have you ever seen a one legged man tryin' to dance his way free
If you've ever seen a one legged man then you've seen me
-------
If you haven't already, go see The Wrestler. Mickey Rourke is absolutely fantastic in it. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll...hmm...something else. Go see it anyway.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Amniosentience
i. The Escape
Asleep. Awake. I feel the clay.
The mud around my face: the choke.
The glue, the cloy. Holding. Asleep.
Awake, the mud still there. I’m held.
I see the black: it’s all around.
I try to look beyond the deep.
I dive. I delve. I reach. I search.
I see a bright, a hue, a light.
I grab and take a hold of this,
this new below, this new around.
Asleep. Awake. I search again.
Again I take my blinded hold.
I pull. I pull and now it’s here.
The light is in my face. I see.
Asleep. Awake. The dirt slides off.
I observe. I observe. The pink.
Asleep. Awake. I feel the clay.
The mud around my face: the choke.
The glue, the cloy. Holding. Asleep.
Awake, the mud still there. I’m held.
I see the black: it’s all around.
I try to look beyond the deep.
I dive. I delve. I reach. I search.
I see a bright, a hue, a light.
I grab and take a hold of this,
this new below, this new around.
Asleep. Awake. I search again.
Again I take my blinded hold.
I pull. I pull and now it’s here.
The light is in my face. I see.
Asleep. Awake. The dirt slides off.
I observe. I observe. The pink.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A tasty dish
Yeah, ok, third post today, but I just made a really nice meal:
Dice a chicken breast.
In a cup, mix:
2 tbsp tomato puree
2 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp dijon mustard
2 tbsp runny honey
1 tbsp olive oil.
Mix the chicken into this, and leave it for about half an hour. I guess you could leave it overnight in the fridge for extra flavour!
Heat up a pan, and plop the mix in.
The chicken should take about 15 mins to cook through.
Add mange tout peas for extra cruchiness (and fun!).
Serve with rice.
Eat.
Burp.
Dice a chicken breast.
In a cup, mix:
2 tbsp tomato puree
2 tbsp soy sauce
2 tbsp dijon mustard
2 tbsp runny honey
1 tbsp olive oil.
Mix the chicken into this, and leave it for about half an hour. I guess you could leave it overnight in the fridge for extra flavour!
Heat up a pan, and plop the mix in.
The chicken should take about 15 mins to cook through.
Add mange tout peas for extra cruchiness (and fun!).
Serve with rice.
Eat.
Burp.
How to pass exams
People are afraid of the unknown. Mankind has been afraid of the dark since the dawn of time. Normal people hate swimming in murky or deep water. People panic about exams.
I think one of the key features of exam worry is the fact that the exam is an unknown variable. You don't really know what to expect. So, the way to combat this? Be confident in yourself. Be confident in what you know, and feel prepared for what the exam could throw at you. Do practice questions. If something throws you in a mock question, revise it.
It's hard to learn something new a few days before an exam. So I find the best thing to do in the preceding days is to just casually read over what you should know, confirming in your head things that you're confident about. And again, if something comes up that you don't know, just try and quietly absorb it - don't stress!
I can't emphasise that enough. Don't stress :)
I think one of the key features of exam worry is the fact that the exam is an unknown variable. You don't really know what to expect. So, the way to combat this? Be confident in yourself. Be confident in what you know, and feel prepared for what the exam could throw at you. Do practice questions. If something throws you in a mock question, revise it.
It's hard to learn something new a few days before an exam. So I find the best thing to do in the preceding days is to just casually read over what you should know, confirming in your head things that you're confident about. And again, if something comes up that you don't know, just try and quietly absorb it - don't stress!
I can't emphasise that enough. Don't stress :)
Sunday, January 18, 2009
My vinyl want list
Ok, I've got a short list of the records I would love on vinyl and will now attempt to pursue.
Cross by Justice
Discovery by Daft Punk
blue album by Weezer
London Calling by the Clash
Legend by Bob Marley + the Wailers
Deloused in the Comatorium - the mars volta
In the Aeroplane Over the Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel
Wincing the Night Away - The Shins
These are the core ones at the moment. Now, to the money-saving mobile!
Cross by Justice
Discovery by Daft Punk
blue album by Weezer
London Calling by the Clash
Legend by Bob Marley + the Wailers
Deloused in the Comatorium - the mars volta
In the Aeroplane Over the Sea - Neutral Milk Hotel
Wincing the Night Away - The Shins
These are the core ones at the moment. Now, to the money-saving mobile!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Music. Again.
So, I just watched High Fidelity. Again. I love that film to bits, and reccommend anyone who likes music, comedy, John Cusack, Jack Black or pretentiousness to watch it. It really is great. For those of you who haven't seen it, the film revolves around the main character (Cusack) revisiting his past girlfriends to work out why his current relationship is failing. Cusack's character runs an indie record shop, and his life centres heavily on not only his encyclopaedic knowledge of music, but also his mahoooosive record collection. And this is where I go on a tangent.
This film, whenever I watch it, always makes me want to buy vinyl. And this time, I think I'll do it. I'll keep the CDs that I really really like, sell the rest, and start buying records. My rationale? CDs are essentially defunct for me, and a lot of other people. What happens when I buy a CD? I rip it to my computer, sync it to my iPod, then put the CD on a shelf. And when I want to listen to that CD on a speaker system, I play it through my computer, or plug it into speakers in the lounge that can connect with iPods. CDs are going to go very soon. In fact, so is all analogue media. You might as well just throw out all your clothes. Soon we'll all be wearing glasses that paints clothes onto other people's naked bodies so we don't have to see their nakedness, as opposed to the other way around, as it is currently.
You dig? You dig.
This film, whenever I watch it, always makes me want to buy vinyl. And this time, I think I'll do it. I'll keep the CDs that I really really like, sell the rest, and start buying records. My rationale? CDs are essentially defunct for me, and a lot of other people. What happens when I buy a CD? I rip it to my computer, sync it to my iPod, then put the CD on a shelf. And when I want to listen to that CD on a speaker system, I play it through my computer, or plug it into speakers in the lounge that can connect with iPods. CDs are going to go very soon. In fact, so is all analogue media. You might as well just throw out all your clothes. Soon we'll all be wearing glasses that paints clothes onto other people's naked bodies so we don't have to see their nakedness, as opposed to the other way around, as it is currently.
You dig? You dig.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
A little bit simpler
Staying out in the Borders is exactly what I needed. A break from the media.
Although I have the opportunity to use computers in the library etc, it is a breath of fresh air (sometimes literally) to be living in a room with no screen in it.
At home, I find that my computer is a constant distraction - and one I don't even enjoy that much. I find I'm a lot happier reading a book or writing than staring at a monitor, the latter giving me the occasional (loud) laugh, but aside from that, I think it boils down to this: internet addiction.
I don't think it's that bad that it's causing my life to deteriorate, but I'm sure a lot of you others could sympathise with me that it's so easy to check your emails, facebook, amazon etc. nowadays that there seems to be no reason not to.
So, aside from moving to a different house with no computer - can anyone reccommend any procrastination-beating tips? I try switching my computer off, but as soon as I need to look something up on google, I end up reading Wikipedia for half an hour!
Although I have the opportunity to use computers in the library etc, it is a breath of fresh air (sometimes literally) to be living in a room with no screen in it.
At home, I find that my computer is a constant distraction - and one I don't even enjoy that much. I find I'm a lot happier reading a book or writing than staring at a monitor, the latter giving me the occasional (loud) laugh, but aside from that, I think it boils down to this: internet addiction.
I don't think it's that bad that it's causing my life to deteriorate, but I'm sure a lot of you others could sympathise with me that it's so easy to check your emails, facebook, amazon etc. nowadays that there seems to be no reason not to.
So, aside from moving to a different house with no computer - can anyone reccommend any procrastination-beating tips? I try switching my computer off, but as soon as I need to look something up on google, I end up reading Wikipedia for half an hour!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Your input highly valued
I'm going through a big thing right now thinking about what specialities to go into etc. I know it's still years away, but it'd be great to choose something now so I can prepare for it!
But I can't decide what to do.
I want to:
- do a job where I see lots of people (so not lab work...)
- develop relationships with patients (so not A+E...)
- have a varied job (pretty much everything)
- have opportunity for clinical research
- do something that's just a lot of craic and banter.
So, any ideas? I'd quite like to go on an adventure. Like most days.
But I can't decide what to do.
I want to:
- do a job where I see lots of people (so not lab work...)
- develop relationships with patients (so not A+E...)
- have a varied job (pretty much everything)
- have opportunity for clinical research
- do something that's just a lot of craic and banter.
So, any ideas? I'd quite like to go on an adventure. Like most days.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Seriously
There are too many razors. I went to Boots today to buy one and there are just far too many. Seriously, you guys. Stop making them. I spent about 2 minutes actually looking at the display - it was so big I had to tilt my head in different directions to see the whole thing. I think there's about 3 ladies' razors. That's it. I think. Don't ask me - I've never looked.
I went for the disposable ones - I always do. But somehow today I was thinking, "Maybe I'll branch out and get a Gillette Mach 4 Turbo Lightning Baby-Powered Faceshredder." But there were too many. I couldn't decide whether to go for one of them, or go for the Bics, the former probably being less wasteful than buying 20 bits of plastic you throw out each week.
Maybe I should do the Josiah thing and just not shave. Save the whales. Actually, no, screw whales. They're probably pretty tasty. Otherwise why would people eat them?
I went for the disposable ones - I always do. But somehow today I was thinking, "Maybe I'll branch out and get a Gillette Mach 4 Turbo Lightning Baby-Powered Faceshredder." But there were too many. I couldn't decide whether to go for one of them, or go for the Bics, the former probably being less wasteful than buying 20 bits of plastic you throw out each week.
Maybe I should do the Josiah thing and just not shave. Save the whales. Actually, no, screw whales. They're probably pretty tasty. Otherwise why would people eat them?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Yeah, you love it
I got something special for Christmas.
It's a sweater vest.
Call it what you like: sweater vest, tank top, woolen drape with no arms. Whatever. The point is, it's very very cool. And it's green. And recently, ever since I've been wearing it, I've noticed something interesting. I look out for other people wearing them.
In fact, this doesn't just cover sweater vests. It covers the whole genre of sweaters. Patterned Cosbyesque jumpers, eye-catching V-necks, or even the subtler, thinner models of today's generation. They're all good, and I respect their wearers even more now. Just today I was walking through the Meadows, and I saw a guy, he must have been in his 50s, strolling across the street with a great, verdant green sweater on. I had to contain myself against running up to him and shaking his hand, having an intellectual conversation about newspapers or, dare I even say it, hugging him.
Perhaps this is a manifestation of my heightened maturity ever since recognising the epitomy of style. Or perhaps this is a sociological demonstration of looking out for one's brothers. Whatever it is, I know what it means: look out Edinburgh, the sweater vest is here to stay.
It's a sweater vest.
Call it what you like: sweater vest, tank top, woolen drape with no arms. Whatever. The point is, it's very very cool. And it's green. And recently, ever since I've been wearing it, I've noticed something interesting. I look out for other people wearing them.
In fact, this doesn't just cover sweater vests. It covers the whole genre of sweaters. Patterned Cosbyesque jumpers, eye-catching V-necks, or even the subtler, thinner models of today's generation. They're all good, and I respect their wearers even more now. Just today I was walking through the Meadows, and I saw a guy, he must have been in his 50s, strolling across the street with a great, verdant green sweater on. I had to contain myself against running up to him and shaking his hand, having an intellectual conversation about newspapers or, dare I even say it, hugging him.
Perhaps this is a manifestation of my heightened maturity ever since recognising the epitomy of style. Or perhaps this is a sociological demonstration of looking out for one's brothers. Whatever it is, I know what it means: look out Edinburgh, the sweater vest is here to stay.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
New things
I encourage you to enjoy the picture, then read the poem. I think they work well together.
The Daughter
She was all that
the simple man kept
close to his heart.
For material goods
rot and are stolen.
Her soul will live.
Her soul will glide,
her soul will be a songstress
to his sinking visage.
He lays on his bed.
For breathing is hard.
Weeds lie in the fields.
She bends to his face
and kisses his eyes.
Her soft, warm lips
bring life to his body
for golden moments
then he glimpses her countenance,
and drifts from this plane.
The Daughter
She was all that
the simple man kept
close to his heart.
For material goods
rot and are stolen.
Her soul will live.
Her soul will glide,
her soul will be a songstress
to his sinking visage.
He lays on his bed.
For breathing is hard.
Weeds lie in the fields.
She bends to his face
and kisses his eyes.
Her soft, warm lips
bring life to his body
for golden moments
then he glimpses her countenance,
and drifts from this plane.
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