Showing posts with label separation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label separation. Show all posts

Thursday, June 1, 2017

Dystopian tales

laser: you utopia my dystopia


Trigger tales.

“That is what you have to do before you kill, I thought. You have to create an it, where none was before. ” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.

He's hunched over, body taut, automatic weapon loaded, trigger taught, ready to shoot on sight.

Blood splatters across the wall as his victim crumples under the impact of the bullets.

Another kill is notched up.

I can hear my son upstairs, whooping with joy.

Subversive tales.

“By telling you anything at all I'm at least believing in you, believe you're there, I believe you into being. Because I'm telling you this story I will your existence. I tell, therefore you are. So I will go on. So I will myself to go on.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.

"So what do you do then?" I ask them.

One, apparently the senior academic, chortles.

He nods his head to a silent partner across the table.

"So what do you do then?" he echoes.

"Subversive...huh? You have a lot in common with him." he adds.

His colleague, head down, speaks.

It's hardly more than a whisper.

"Well, there's a parallel system. If I like the guy and I want to help him out then I send a copy of my article freely."

Conversations flow naturally from academic pay walls, to walled gardens of VLE's,  to Berlin wall, to Trump wall, to Pink Floyd's Wall.

Surveillance tales.

“A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.

Here we are around the lunch table, talking of freedom to connect across frontiers, internet, social media, open education, the collapse of the Soviet Bloc, the Wild West East of capitalism, the rise of individualism, the threat to community, the greed, the misery, the miserlyness, the lack of care.

A guy from the STASI listening through walls to the lives of others.

A guy from Facebook collecting data on the interests, the emotions, the friendships, the movements, of others.

Tribal tales.

“Ignoring isn’t the same as ignorance, you have to work at it.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.


Here we were, separated by a generation and a computer screen, talking of our (dis)connected lives. Listening to him, I felt both ignorant, and lacking in imagination.

Who was the researcher, who was the teacher, who was the learner, who was the mentor?

He talked of the differences between playing online solo, online in network, offline together, together.

Am I missing something there?

Who will be having to revise the lesson?

He talked of heroes, leaders, tribes, communities, affinity groups, generations, clans, castes, crowds, students, teachers.

He talked of roller, skate, scooter, bmx.

Conflicts over wax on rails.

Invasions of space.

Am I missing something there?

Who will be having to revise the lesson?

Measured tales.

“Better never means better for everyone... It always means worse, for some.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.

She looked tired, she sounded downbeat.

Their ship had been swept away in the flood.

“I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.

Some guys had jumped ship.

Entire departments around the country had been wiped out.

Health services were up for sale to the highest bidder.

Cost cutting measures were on the agenda.

Debt schemes are being leveraged.

Wave after wave of management schemes had been sent to try the staff, to size them up, to cut numbers down to size.

Those in power lie as they breathe.

They have no care for care.

It's an economy measure.

Spreadsheets, efficiency, customer satisfaction.

Best practice no doubt.

"I feel no motivation whatever to work so that they can swan off around the world and be seen with the great and good."  

She said, to my unreliable memory.

Hand made tales.

“All you have to do, I tell myself, is keep your mouth shut and look stupid. It shouldn't be that hard.” 

"I almost left." He said, remembering those first months.

He wasn't to be bought.

He paid the price.

He almost left.

"I made you what are." came a thinly veiled  threat.

"You owe it all to me."  added the addition.

Silence.

Was there fear of power waning?

He stuck at it.

He learnt to navigate.

“We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.


Dystopian tales

“But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.

She shared her pain. 

She revealed the abuse.

She warned of vicious troll attacks.

Those words, those threats had cut deep.

She was vulnerable there in the open.

He talked of the joy of spreading fake rumours across the net.

"It's part of our culture, they've picked up on it."  he said.

How far, how fast will this fakery flow?

How much will it make a buzz?

Pooh Sticks. 

Broom Sticks.

Fidget Spinners.

Where the wild things go...

Sticks and stones may break our bones.

Words may forever mark us.

Does adolescence seems so far away?

I looked through the DVDs.

  • Maze Runner.
  • Hunger Games
  • Harry Potter
  • Divergent.
  • Matrix.
  • Inception.
We were on air. 

Virtually connecting, we were massive.

IN A GALAXY 
FAR FAR AWAY

"We are the good guys," he said, " The Jedi."

They were tiny specks on the stage.

Off air marked the exit.

"I am your father."


Does obsolescence seems so close?

“What I need is perspective. The illusion of depth, created by a frame, the arrangement of shapes on a flat surface. Perspective is necessary. Otherwise there are only two dimensions. Otherwise you live with your face squashed up against a wall, everything a huge foreground, of details, close-ups, hairs, the weave of the bedsheet, the molecules of the face. Your own skin like a map, a diagram of futility, criscrossed with tiny roads that lead nowhere. Otherwise you live in the moment. Which is not where I want to be.” 

Margaret Attwood. The Handmaid's Tales.

Image Credit

Laser: Your Utopia My Dsytopia.

Eddie Dangerous

https://www.flickr.com/photos/eddiedangerous/3141081281

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Immaterial.



"No permanence is ours; we are a wave that flows to fit whatever form it finds."
Herman Hesse


I am not sure how long to make this.


I have been skimming Keith Hamon's recent post:  
"The Viscosity of Rhizo14". 

I feel that I should excuse myself. 
SKIMMING 
across 
the 
surface.

WHY?

Should I be deep?

"Plus ça change - Plus c'est la même chose."

Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr

A
WORD
There are words...
OBJECT(S)
We are stuck on objects.
WORDS.
OBJECTS.

WE ARE STUCK ON OUR OUTLINES.
WE ARE STUCK ON THESE OUTLINES.
THESE WORDS.
THESE OBJECTS.

I was skimming a Mariana Funes' recent post on her DoubleMirror blog.

MIRROR

OPENNESS 
IN 
EDUCATION 
-
Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

I am fixed in an outline in a pool.

I feel that I should excuse myself. 
SKIMMING 
across 
the 
surface.

WHY?

Should I be deep?

"Plus ça change - Plus c'est la même chose."

Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr

“The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

"I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.” 



WE ARE FIXED 
IN
AN 
I
CON



VITRUVIAN MAN 
da VINCI

“I like the stars. 
It's the illusion of permanence, I think.
 I mean, they're always flaring up and caving in and going out. 
But from here, I can pretend...I can pretend that things last. 
I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. 
Gods come, and gods go. 
Mortals flicker and flash and fade. 
Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. 
But I can pretend...” 


THERE ARE NO OBJECTS
THERE ARE NO WORDS
THERE IS NO WEB

XYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXYXY

THISISIMMATERIAL.


Image Credit

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Only the bold.


















Preface

I have been wondering why some lines I write cry out to be bold. I never question, I just follow their commands. I have tried to condense my last post to feature only the bold. This is what came out. 

Having done this, a new title demanded attention. So here it is, a world exclusive:

I shall stand back and study and perhaps repeat the remix for more information.

Only the bold.

I reconciled myself to separation.

Numbers held a peculiar fear for me. 

1 2 3 4 5..."Don't forget the dots."

I stuffed Pandy down the side of the bed in the dormitory. 

'Baby,he's a baby.'

I decided that I had grown big.

I thought over the possibilities.

I decided that I should attempt, to the best of my imagination, to fit in.

They called me Dodger. 

Sunday best

I have no fear to join my dots aloud.

I know they are there. 

I know my friends are there. 

............................

I know my friends are there.

They are there.

Will Pandy make it to heaven?

"And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us."

Pablo Neruda






Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Heaven can wait.

I reconciled myself to separation.

There was no use weeping, that wouldn't change the sad fact that I had been abandoned to my lot.

Pandy, I can tell you that now, without the slightest embarrassment, has a particular smell.

Even though I haven't unpacked him yet from a box after moving house, I don't need his presence at my side to feel his straw stuffing against my face, and to recall by his peculiar smell, his presence.

Strange, how the objects that we become attached to seem to be able to be more alive than alive even when they are in a box somewhere (else).

Strange, how while sleeping, I could see a blur of pixels, and was amusing myself connecting dots into patterns.

There were the connect the dot patterns, that I remember as a child.

I liked the reassuring order of discovering a familiar form.

I hated the maths.

Numbers hold a peculiar fear for me. 

I find counting tiresome.

Connecting dots after all can be such a deadly activity.

My brother and sister had a teacher in primary school who, it was said, punished children for not first drawing dots, and then connecting them precisely in pre-ordained shapes to form numbers.

I can't remember her name, she wasn't my teacher.

She must be dead now.

Strange, to think that this lady lives on in our stories only because of an obsessional compulsion to force children to connect dots her way.

1 2 3 4 5..."Don't forget the dots."

I was connecting dots, just before I got up, to write this.

There were hearts, and elephants (that's not true, I am making that one up).

There were classes of students, universities of people, nodes in networks, communities, hashtags, football matches, picnics, images of people, and then, quite suddenly, Pandy came back to me.

I stuffed Pandy down the side of the bed in the dormitory. 

He represented a connection with my parents, or to be more accurate with my mother.

That close connection, at present, I wanted to hide, to keep private, to make secret for fear of having it destroyed in child-cruel ridicule.

'Baby,he's a baby.'

He had been with me since I couldn't remember, a friend constant, while babysitters had been fleeting.

I decided that I had grown big.

I decided that my massively mature age of nine years old meant that I was now to put up a strong front, to pretend no longer to cry, to pretend to be tough, to pretend to be....

I wasn't quite sure what I should pretend to be.

I thought over the possibilities.

I didn't want to be identified as:

1) a cry-baby
2) my brother's brother
3) a son of a clergyman
4) different.

I decided that I should attempt, to the best of my imagination, to fit in.

Buoyed by boyish sportyness and a keen eye for picking a fight, I resolved myself to taking on a new persona.

While small in stature (the now ex-smallest boy in an all-boys boarding school became inexplicably my best friend over-night),

I wasn't scared of :
1) A fight
2) Tackling boys in British bulldogs
3) Dodging tackles of boys in British bulldogs

They called me Dodger. 

I sort of liked to be known as Dodger (as in artful), it was sort of cool as nick-names go.

I rather preferred Dodger to Snot (as one unfortunate got stuck with).

He became my armour, my Zorro.

Those who know me as Simon, don't really know that I am in fact - Dodger.

And those who don't know my real personality - watch out.

Sunday best

My parents religiously sent me a letter every Sunday.

I can still see their writing, I can still remember the mixed feelings I had on opening their latest missives.

My father's fountain-pen font was the tiniest scrawl that I can ever remember seeing.

Whilst I may be now incapable of reading his dreamt letters without my glasses, I love the form of that dark blue connected script...signed Daddy xxx.

My mother had a particular way of writing a capital D.

I spent many hours on a Sunday morning copying her D.

Lines, and lines and lines of D's.

I eventually managed to reproduce her D.

It became the connector between S and A in my signature. That is a secret code. Noone would guess.

When I sign a cheque, nobody would know that it says...Mummy.

I treasure the letters in my dreams that I no longer have to throw away...to be Dodger.

I have no fear to join my dots aloud.

Joining dots, even in absence, they...they are there.

Strange how boarding school was a marvellous preparation for dealing with 'virtual presence' online.

I knew my parents were there.

I had proof, they sent me letters.

One letter, rolled into another, into another, a stylised Harry Potterish pile of loss, separation...connection.

I know they are there. 

I know they are in a box somewhere in Somerset.

That is an illusion.

Boxes are for bric a brac which one forgets, meaningless junk.

They speak to me all the time, sometimes without me listening.

I know my friends are there. 

............................

I know my friends are there.

I can zoom in on a dot.

I see their avatar, I remember tweets, RT's, I can jump, hop into other chats, documents, hangouts, communities, in and out of boxes...

They are there.

I see myself fading in a cloud of dots, I am there, for them.

I am a Panda stuck in a box. We are Panda's stuck in boxes.

Will Pandy make it to heaven?

He reconciles himself with a little boy called Dodger.

He wanted to keep him secret.

He forgives me.

You are my witness.

My friends.

"And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us."

Pablo Neruda