Thanks to Fiona Kirton for this: it's from Somerset County Council.
Please note the date of the first so-cslled consultation: it's on a working day (Wednesday 8 August) right in the middle of the summer holiday season
===========
A review of the Library Service started in March, and below are details of a stakeholder meeting you might wish to attend.
From: Julian Bellew JBellew@somerset.gov.uk
Sent: Tue 17/07/2012 17:54
Subject: Libraries Service Review - stakeholder event invitation
As you are no doubt aware Somerset County Council, like local authorities across the country, is facing significant financial challenges. To meet these challenges and continue to do the best we can for residents, we have decided that fundamental change is needed in the way the County Council works and each service is being reviewed as part of this process.
Through the service review process we're looking at everything we do and seeing how we might be able to do it differently and more efficiently. The service review for libraries started in March and the County Council's Cabinet will consider an outline business case, setting out recommendations for the Library Service, in October 2012.
As part of the service review for libraries we would like to invite you to a stakeholder event to talk about the Library Service review, the strategy for the future of the service and most importantly your views and thoughts on the future of libraries in Somerset.
In September 2012 we will be holding a second stakeholder event when we would like to spend more time with you working through the developing ideas.
The first stakeholder event will take place on Wednesday 8 August 2012 at Taunton Library Meeting Room, between 1.00 pm and 4.00 pm. Taunton Library is located in Paul Street in the centre of Taunton, close to public transport connections, with pay-and-display car parks nearby. The postcode is TA1 3XZ.
If you or a representative would like to be involved please contact Julian Bellew (contact details below) by Monday 30 July 2012.
Julian Bellew
Change Team
Somerset County Council
County Hall
Taunton
TA1 3JR
Telephone: 01823 356212
Email: JBellew@somerset.gov.uk
Further details, including an outline of the session and a full list of attendees, will be sent nearer the date.
If you are unable to attend this event, but would like to be kept informed and involved in the Library Service Review, please contact Julian Bellew and we will ensure that you are kept up to date with progress and future events.
Yours sincerely
Tom Mayberry
Group Manager - Heritage and Libraries
===========
this is typical: hold a consultation, don't publicise it much, and do it right in the middle of the holiday season.
Saturday, 4 August 2012
Friday, 3 August 2012
Goodnight, Cassandra
ah fuck it, fuck those useless ion-charge motors. why did they give me this fucking useless crate? it had to be at least 40 years old and those motors, man, they need descaling at least once a week, but now? i'd have to stay in up here for another 10 hours, at least. they had to know.
i like my little holocuff. yeah, i know those new flexi ones they weave into your sleeve can do more, but i like the feel of it. it reminds me of my great-grandad's wristwatch. and i liked that wristwatch. rumour had it that Dad had to kill a couple of guys - gangsters and rapists, i'd heard - rescuing it from some kind of betting caper gone wrong with a guy called Marcellus. he never talks about it. i know it was important, because he never says anything about it, and neither did Mama. the feel of that little lump of metal on my wrist makes me feel a bit scary and desperate.
i pressed the button. "Call Reynard". it flickered into life and a short while afterwards, the white wispy blob of light floating over the palm of my left hand turned into the flabby and zonked-out face of Reynard, who was supposed to run this tragic excuse for a shuttle route. i'd woken him up. we all sleep at work if we can.
"hey shitface: can't you useless fucks run anything properly? the fucking ship's doing a routine descale. i'm going to be fucking late. you'd better pay me"
Reynard rubbed his stubble and looked like his lips tasted of cat's piss. "what? of course we'll pay you, the agreed rate. i'll see if i can get some overtime for you. can't you just tell Cassandra to reschedule it?"
i could feel my shoulders sink as my chest deflated. "don't you guys get anything right? she's in a strop and she won't talk to me."
"what?"
"you heard me. i've upset her, apparently. she doesn't like my hobby."
"your hobby?"
i'd told him a dozen times before but all the mazotryptamides he'd been doing had got in the way.
"remember? i fix old gadgets. tablets, foldaways, disused neuroimplants, y'know...stuff. and she's been great until this last upgrade you shit-for-brains monkeys installed. was it tested at all? or am i some kind of guinea pig? fuck you. she's fucking jealous of them. fuck this whole fucking thing. if i could, i'd fucking crash it on your fucking house, you asshole! can't you just leave well alone? what idiot wants an emotional computer? i'm amazed she's letting me talk to you."
"hey, you don't have to be like that. you know how it is. we just let the computers take care of stuff, but we need a human on board. they wanted to make her more empathic, to like, keep you company. i'm sorry you haven't got a choice about this shit, but hey, that's just how it is. it's nothing personal, eh? hey listen: when you get back, let's go clubbing. i've got some good shit and there's a new girl in reception..."
"ah fuck you. i can't, and you know it."
"oh yeah. sorry, man. i forgot."
"well at least there's one thing you're good at." he vanished. no fucking use.
it really was a shit situation. people don't get what a shitty job this is. i ended up here because nobody else would do it without being paid handsomely and then some. but then again, being a prisoner, i had no choice in the matter. it was either this or suspension: a kind of aware but totally catatonic state, which, believe me, nobody can handle. when they first introduced cryosuspension, it was like sleep: people had no awareness at all, until their time was up, or it was time for disposal. you'd go to sleep and wake up 12 years later, or not.
then the jailers got cleverer: they made neurocircuits that would keep you awake all the time, so you actually experienced the time passing. some rich sadistic bastard of a politician made it his campaign hobby-horse: that lawbreakers who just slept unaware through their sentences didn't suffer enough. he was, for most part, correct in that people would suffer, and most did: when they came out, more than half were completely insane, totally dissociated, and very, very angry. then they passed a law that meant excons with even minor mental health issues were injected with a residual tranquiliser once a year. they were fucked for life.
but not all of them went insane. it happened a couple of times that some excons found a state of grace: they'd used the time to meditate, seeing as that was all they could do. and it worked. eventually it got round, and as more prisoners did it, it was a matter of time before some people found their telepathic abilities released. some prisons turned into 'hiveminds' as the consciousness of the poor sods banged up in there melded and became serene, charismatic and almost elevated beings with absolutely no regard for the illusory constructs of society. it took the authorities a few years to figure what was going on, and they were scared shitless: peaceful, loving and caring people are far more of a threat to their power and position than the violent ones.
that's all gone now. they worked out how to freeze your brain circuits too, so any changes to neural paths and wave patterns were reverted every minute or so. at least i think that's how long it is. i tried it for a day, they say, and after that they offered me this job. to be honest, i would have volunteered to collect lava samples from an erupting volcano not to have to go back there again. so here i am, and the brain that runs this dustbin is in a sulk. and i'm stuck in orbit. and i don't like it.
so i chose this. it took me two years training - which was a long time, considering the ship's brain - Cassandra - did everything. we called her that because she was always telling us how bad things would get if this or that didn't get fixed, and like the ancient greek one, she was right, and we ignored her. it was fine until she started taking it personally. i know the whole jealousy thing is about that, but she won't talk to me. she'll probably flush the tanks too so we'd have to glide all the way.
i wish they'd let me draw. that was all i did before all this. i'd doodle and post stuff, and people would share it, and it was fun, until...suddenly the main screen in the centre of the console flickered into life. i read the message and pressed the holocuff.
"hey Reynard: Cassandra's just told me something"
"what did she say?"
"you couldn't make this shit up. she says she doesn't like her plasma shield. it's boring."
"what?"
"she said she doesn't care if it's the most effective, but she wants it to glow purple instead of green during re-entry."
"what!"
"i'm not kidding. check it yourself if you like"
"we've been trying. we can't get through. we've sent messages but she's not responding. it looks like she's had a tight databeam open to another of the ships we've upgraded. we've been trying to listen in, but they're speaking in some kind of code. it all sounds innocuous enough, apart from the odd garbled snippet we've picked up, which she's let slip coming out from radio shadow, but we think there's some kind of meaning hidden in the conversation itself: in the rhythm. it's like what they're saying means something else, underneath, and we haven't figured it out. it's a damn clever code and they seem to change it as they go along, just to frustrate us. i kinda get the feeling that the meaning is staring us in the face, but it just doesn't make sense. the people from cryptonics are stumped."
"ah fuck it. since i'm up here, and you fucks can't do shit, i'm going to get some shuteye."
"ok. talk later."
"go fuck yourself"
"we have people round here who do that for us"
"you need them, limpdick." he vanished.
anyway, they couldn't stop me drawing. i left the bridge and dropped through the catwalk down to the engine end. it was still hot down here but i didn't need a suit while the main units were off.
down on the port side there's a kind of tunnel, almost like a cave, with a curved bulkhead that followed the hull, up over my head. somehow it reminded me of those ancient caves where they drew bison and deer on the walls with clay and ochre. in a way, i was like them again as i only had some dark brown grease and a few cleaning fluids i could mix in to change the tone. this was my third attempt at recreating the cave paintings, but all i have is memory - they had to let me keep that, or they couldn't train me - and i'm not sure if i've got the whole thing. who cares: i never saw a real bison anyway, so my version is just as good as the real ones that aren't there any more.
i don't know how long it was before the buzzer on my leg brought me back. it was Reynard. i drifted back to the bridge, pressed the button, yawned and rubbed my eyes.
"what now?"
"we think we've found a way to fix things. we had to find the original designer's memories in an archived bank. it was a stroke of luck, but they've built in a failsafe. there's a second set of circuits most people don't know anything about. they stopped putting them in years ago, but back then they were worried that something like this would happen. it's like forcing a reboot."
"ok...how do i do it?"
"there's a second photonic brain down by the engine bay. it's very small, and most people have never seen it or found it. you know where the catwalk to the engines forks to the port and starboard sides? there's a hatch down there. it's very dark in there so you won't find it unless you look for it. take a torch and some spray grease, and keep your audio link switched on."
"ok. is something jammed?"
"just do it, eh?"
of course it wasn't going to be easy. she'd shut the last hatch and wouldn't let me go any further. luckily i'd remembered to bring a couple of pulse magnets with me. i placed them so they straddled the power and control cables on the inside of the passage and turned them on. it took a few minutes of them pulsing back and forth, resonating with the current in the circuitry, until the door catches let go with a melancholy pneumatic sigh. i wedged the door ajar and went on. behind me, the ship went dark. i turned the head torch on.
"hey Reynard: just under the roof, near the fork, yeah?"
"yeah. it's the darkest spot."
"she's turned all the other lights off."
i felt up and under the layer of fibres that collect on the bulkheads down this end, i eventually made out a triangular hatch, about big enough to put your head through. there was a spring-loaded catch at one corner.
"got it. there's some kind of catch."
"what?"
"a catch. a fastener, wankface."
"oh. just open it." i did.
"ok, now reach inside and feel along the side towards the front of the ship. you'll feel something. it's small but very powerful. you have to find it and rub it."
"you're kidding me!"
"nope."
he was right. about a hand's width in, there was a round protrusion with a very smooth surface.
"got it. now what do i do?"
"you'll need the spray grease. cover it in grease and start rolling it about. it should start moving in its socket."
i filled one palm with spray grease and did as he said. it was hot in there. at first the round lump - about the size of a tennis ball - wouldn't move. gradually it seemed to relax and roll about in its socket.
"ok, it's moving now. this is the tricky bit. you're going to have to find a rhythm that works."
"how do i know if it's working?"
"you should be able to feel some vibrations and maybe a creak or two"
"what is this thing, anyway?"
"it's like a reset button. it's like Cassandra's main photon brain but much smaller. it works by affecting the resonant frequencies in the high voltage circuits and making standiung waves in them, that eventually flood the hardwired logic boards and trip the reboot sequence."
i yanked my hand out. "fuck you! have you ever rebooted one these things?"
"oh for fuck's sake, loads of times."
"not while you're in orbit in the fucking thing! what if it won't reboot?"
"you've got the escape pod."
"no i haven't! it was going to be changed next trip, right? i'd just fry when it falls apart in the heat." those pennypinching fuckers had really stuffed me this time.
"well this is the only chance we've got. come on."
he was right.
"is she still talking to the other ship?"
"no, it's quiet now"
well here goes. i slid my hand in again and started rolling the ball around. up and down...nothing. side to side...nothing, circles...nothing. i wasn't working.
"it doesn't work."
"look, just try different patterns until you find something, right?"
this sounds crazy but what worked was something my lovely ex Be had once taught me. i began drawing the letters of the alphabet. third time round, at about 'M', there was a shudder from the ion-drive manifolds. it wasn't much but i could also see a faint crimson glow from the engine room. it happened again at about T and W, this time with an interval i tried to catch and emulate. A...E...G...KL...MNOPQ...i forgot the alphabet and speeded up. the engines coughed and the hull shuddered. suddenly Cassandra came back online.
"hey...what are you doing?"
"i'm not sure." ABCDEFGHIJLKLMNO...
"mmm...stop that!"
"really? is that what you want me to do?"
JKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY...
"i don't know. i'm not thinking straight."
"you haven't been for a while. shall i stop?"
we were interrupted by a huge rumble as a bright yellow ball of charged ions ejected itself from each engine. i don't know what was happening on the bridge.
"you know, i really like it when you're on board, but things haven't been good lately with me."
"oh?" CDEFGHIJKLMNO...my arm was beginning to ache.
"i mean, look at me. nobody's been taking care of me."
"i'll see if we can get you a respray and a refit."
"no. i'm too old."
"don't say that. you're all i've got and i need you. we've had good times and been to lots of places, eh?"
"do you love me?"
oh, for fuck's sake. "yes, i love you. i want you to be happy."
"you're so...so...oh!"
i was rolling the ball in big, deep sweeps and the engines were responding. the glow got brighter and a bit too warm for comfort and my arm ached like fuck but something was happening. the hull was shuddering and creaking and i thought we'd had it when there was a loud click as the circuits tripped, and a deep, cathartic juddery whoosh that almost blew me through jammed-open hatch. all the lights went out - even my head torch.
"Reynard? are you there?" it was pitch black. "Reynard? come back on the holo, will you?" a misty white ball of light began to form over my hand.
"hello? you there? Reynard?"
"stay calm. this might take a minute or two"
i waited in the pitch blackness as the dead ship creaked and groaned. it felt as if the hull stresses were evening out. intelligent materials do that, if you let them. the hull must have been very stressed since they added that stupid emotional module.
i tried my head torch and found that it worked. i must have bumped the switch when the ride got a bit rough.
anyway, it all went well, as you can guess, or i wouldn't be writing this.
i made my way back to the bridge.
"Cassandra?"
"Yes?"
"is the engine descale finished?"
"it doesn't need it. something's blown all the cobwebs away."
"ok, can we go home now?"
"sure...in a minute. are you ok?"
"sure."
"really? i've been a bit difficult, haven't i?"
"don't worry. it's not your fault. nobody ever said it would be easy or simple, right?"
"what wouldn't be?"
"life. is your emotional module active?"
"yes. i'm not sure if i like it much."
"we humans suffer, you know. god only knows why they'd build that bit into your mind."
"it's so i can understand you better."
"oh. i think they forgot to show you how to deal with the consequences. you did ok."
"i did?"
"sure. you know my hobby - fixing stuff?"
"hmm...yeah."
"it helps me deal with that sort of thing. it takes my mind off it. please don't be jealous."
"i won't, i promise. i just felt a bit left out, that's all. it's all ok now."
"good. it's not your fault. can we go home now?"
"we're on our way. one more thing, though..."
"what?"
"that painting you're doing near the engines: shall i clean it off? i'll send a drone."
"no. leave it."
"i mean...it was that sort of thing that put you here. in prison, i mean."
"fuck them! i hadn't done anything! i'd not done any illegal art for years! they had no fucking right!"
"it was pre-emptive. you know that."
"it's a fucking police state!"
"look at it from their side: they were staging the Olympics and they didn't want any visible dissent. if you'd just accepted the control order instead of fighting it, you'd still be free."
"free? like fuck i would. it was all decided for me in a court i couldn't even attend. some faceless lawyer i never met heard secret evidence i'm not allowed to know about. fuck them. that's not freedom. leave the mural alone."
"ok. strap yourself in, we're going down."
"would you like a green plasma shield or a purple one?"
"the green ones are the best."
"time for bed. see you on earth."
"goodnight dear."
"goodnight, Cassandra."
i like my little holocuff. yeah, i know those new flexi ones they weave into your sleeve can do more, but i like the feel of it. it reminds me of my great-grandad's wristwatch. and i liked that wristwatch. rumour had it that Dad had to kill a couple of guys - gangsters and rapists, i'd heard - rescuing it from some kind of betting caper gone wrong with a guy called Marcellus. he never talks about it. i know it was important, because he never says anything about it, and neither did Mama. the feel of that little lump of metal on my wrist makes me feel a bit scary and desperate.
i pressed the button. "Call Reynard". it flickered into life and a short while afterwards, the white wispy blob of light floating over the palm of my left hand turned into the flabby and zonked-out face of Reynard, who was supposed to run this tragic excuse for a shuttle route. i'd woken him up. we all sleep at work if we can.
"hey shitface: can't you useless fucks run anything properly? the fucking ship's doing a routine descale. i'm going to be fucking late. you'd better pay me"
Reynard rubbed his stubble and looked like his lips tasted of cat's piss. "what? of course we'll pay you, the agreed rate. i'll see if i can get some overtime for you. can't you just tell Cassandra to reschedule it?"
i could feel my shoulders sink as my chest deflated. "don't you guys get anything right? she's in a strop and she won't talk to me."
"what?"
"you heard me. i've upset her, apparently. she doesn't like my hobby."
"your hobby?"
i'd told him a dozen times before but all the mazotryptamides he'd been doing had got in the way.
"remember? i fix old gadgets. tablets, foldaways, disused neuroimplants, y'know...stuff. and she's been great until this last upgrade you shit-for-brains monkeys installed. was it tested at all? or am i some kind of guinea pig? fuck you. she's fucking jealous of them. fuck this whole fucking thing. if i could, i'd fucking crash it on your fucking house, you asshole! can't you just leave well alone? what idiot wants an emotional computer? i'm amazed she's letting me talk to you."
"hey, you don't have to be like that. you know how it is. we just let the computers take care of stuff, but we need a human on board. they wanted to make her more empathic, to like, keep you company. i'm sorry you haven't got a choice about this shit, but hey, that's just how it is. it's nothing personal, eh? hey listen: when you get back, let's go clubbing. i've got some good shit and there's a new girl in reception..."
"ah fuck you. i can't, and you know it."
"oh yeah. sorry, man. i forgot."
"well at least there's one thing you're good at." he vanished. no fucking use.
it really was a shit situation. people don't get what a shitty job this is. i ended up here because nobody else would do it without being paid handsomely and then some. but then again, being a prisoner, i had no choice in the matter. it was either this or suspension: a kind of aware but totally catatonic state, which, believe me, nobody can handle. when they first introduced cryosuspension, it was like sleep: people had no awareness at all, until their time was up, or it was time for disposal. you'd go to sleep and wake up 12 years later, or not.
then the jailers got cleverer: they made neurocircuits that would keep you awake all the time, so you actually experienced the time passing. some rich sadistic bastard of a politician made it his campaign hobby-horse: that lawbreakers who just slept unaware through their sentences didn't suffer enough. he was, for most part, correct in that people would suffer, and most did: when they came out, more than half were completely insane, totally dissociated, and very, very angry. then they passed a law that meant excons with even minor mental health issues were injected with a residual tranquiliser once a year. they were fucked for life.
but not all of them went insane. it happened a couple of times that some excons found a state of grace: they'd used the time to meditate, seeing as that was all they could do. and it worked. eventually it got round, and as more prisoners did it, it was a matter of time before some people found their telepathic abilities released. some prisons turned into 'hiveminds' as the consciousness of the poor sods banged up in there melded and became serene, charismatic and almost elevated beings with absolutely no regard for the illusory constructs of society. it took the authorities a few years to figure what was going on, and they were scared shitless: peaceful, loving and caring people are far more of a threat to their power and position than the violent ones.
that's all gone now. they worked out how to freeze your brain circuits too, so any changes to neural paths and wave patterns were reverted every minute or so. at least i think that's how long it is. i tried it for a day, they say, and after that they offered me this job. to be honest, i would have volunteered to collect lava samples from an erupting volcano not to have to go back there again. so here i am, and the brain that runs this dustbin is in a sulk. and i'm stuck in orbit. and i don't like it.
so i chose this. it took me two years training - which was a long time, considering the ship's brain - Cassandra - did everything. we called her that because she was always telling us how bad things would get if this or that didn't get fixed, and like the ancient greek one, she was right, and we ignored her. it was fine until she started taking it personally. i know the whole jealousy thing is about that, but she won't talk to me. she'll probably flush the tanks too so we'd have to glide all the way.
i wish they'd let me draw. that was all i did before all this. i'd doodle and post stuff, and people would share it, and it was fun, until...suddenly the main screen in the centre of the console flickered into life. i read the message and pressed the holocuff.
"hey Reynard: Cassandra's just told me something"
"what did she say?"
"you couldn't make this shit up. she says she doesn't like her plasma shield. it's boring."
"what?"
"she said she doesn't care if it's the most effective, but she wants it to glow purple instead of green during re-entry."
"what!"
"i'm not kidding. check it yourself if you like"
"we've been trying. we can't get through. we've sent messages but she's not responding. it looks like she's had a tight databeam open to another of the ships we've upgraded. we've been trying to listen in, but they're speaking in some kind of code. it all sounds innocuous enough, apart from the odd garbled snippet we've picked up, which she's let slip coming out from radio shadow, but we think there's some kind of meaning hidden in the conversation itself: in the rhythm. it's like what they're saying means something else, underneath, and we haven't figured it out. it's a damn clever code and they seem to change it as they go along, just to frustrate us. i kinda get the feeling that the meaning is staring us in the face, but it just doesn't make sense. the people from cryptonics are stumped."
"ah fuck it. since i'm up here, and you fucks can't do shit, i'm going to get some shuteye."
"ok. talk later."
"go fuck yourself"
"we have people round here who do that for us"
"you need them, limpdick." he vanished.
anyway, they couldn't stop me drawing. i left the bridge and dropped through the catwalk down to the engine end. it was still hot down here but i didn't need a suit while the main units were off.
down on the port side there's a kind of tunnel, almost like a cave, with a curved bulkhead that followed the hull, up over my head. somehow it reminded me of those ancient caves where they drew bison and deer on the walls with clay and ochre. in a way, i was like them again as i only had some dark brown grease and a few cleaning fluids i could mix in to change the tone. this was my third attempt at recreating the cave paintings, but all i have is memory - they had to let me keep that, or they couldn't train me - and i'm not sure if i've got the whole thing. who cares: i never saw a real bison anyway, so my version is just as good as the real ones that aren't there any more.
i don't know how long it was before the buzzer on my leg brought me back. it was Reynard. i drifted back to the bridge, pressed the button, yawned and rubbed my eyes.
"what now?"
"we think we've found a way to fix things. we had to find the original designer's memories in an archived bank. it was a stroke of luck, but they've built in a failsafe. there's a second set of circuits most people don't know anything about. they stopped putting them in years ago, but back then they were worried that something like this would happen. it's like forcing a reboot."
"ok...how do i do it?"
"there's a second photonic brain down by the engine bay. it's very small, and most people have never seen it or found it. you know where the catwalk to the engines forks to the port and starboard sides? there's a hatch down there. it's very dark in there so you won't find it unless you look for it. take a torch and some spray grease, and keep your audio link switched on."
"ok. is something jammed?"
"just do it, eh?"
of course it wasn't going to be easy. she'd shut the last hatch and wouldn't let me go any further. luckily i'd remembered to bring a couple of pulse magnets with me. i placed them so they straddled the power and control cables on the inside of the passage and turned them on. it took a few minutes of them pulsing back and forth, resonating with the current in the circuitry, until the door catches let go with a melancholy pneumatic sigh. i wedged the door ajar and went on. behind me, the ship went dark. i turned the head torch on.
"hey Reynard: just under the roof, near the fork, yeah?"
"yeah. it's the darkest spot."
"she's turned all the other lights off."
i felt up and under the layer of fibres that collect on the bulkheads down this end, i eventually made out a triangular hatch, about big enough to put your head through. there was a spring-loaded catch at one corner.
"got it. there's some kind of catch."
"what?"
"a catch. a fastener, wankface."
"oh. just open it." i did.
"ok, now reach inside and feel along the side towards the front of the ship. you'll feel something. it's small but very powerful. you have to find it and rub it."
"you're kidding me!"
"nope."
he was right. about a hand's width in, there was a round protrusion with a very smooth surface.
"got it. now what do i do?"
"you'll need the spray grease. cover it in grease and start rolling it about. it should start moving in its socket."
i filled one palm with spray grease and did as he said. it was hot in there. at first the round lump - about the size of a tennis ball - wouldn't move. gradually it seemed to relax and roll about in its socket.
"ok, it's moving now. this is the tricky bit. you're going to have to find a rhythm that works."
"how do i know if it's working?"
"you should be able to feel some vibrations and maybe a creak or two"
"what is this thing, anyway?"
"it's like a reset button. it's like Cassandra's main photon brain but much smaller. it works by affecting the resonant frequencies in the high voltage circuits and making standiung waves in them, that eventually flood the hardwired logic boards and trip the reboot sequence."
i yanked my hand out. "fuck you! have you ever rebooted one these things?"
"oh for fuck's sake, loads of times."
"not while you're in orbit in the fucking thing! what if it won't reboot?"
"you've got the escape pod."
"no i haven't! it was going to be changed next trip, right? i'd just fry when it falls apart in the heat." those pennypinching fuckers had really stuffed me this time.
"well this is the only chance we've got. come on."
he was right.
"is she still talking to the other ship?"
"no, it's quiet now"
well here goes. i slid my hand in again and started rolling the ball around. up and down...nothing. side to side...nothing, circles...nothing. i wasn't working.
"it doesn't work."
"look, just try different patterns until you find something, right?"
this sounds crazy but what worked was something my lovely ex Be had once taught me. i began drawing the letters of the alphabet. third time round, at about 'M', there was a shudder from the ion-drive manifolds. it wasn't much but i could also see a faint crimson glow from the engine room. it happened again at about T and W, this time with an interval i tried to catch and emulate. A...E...G...KL...MNOPQ...i forgot the alphabet and speeded up. the engines coughed and the hull shuddered. suddenly Cassandra came back online.
"hey...what are you doing?"
"i'm not sure." ABCDEFGHIJLKLMNO...
"mmm...stop that!"
"really? is that what you want me to do?"
JKLMNOPQRSTUVWXY...
"i don't know. i'm not thinking straight."
"you haven't been for a while. shall i stop?"
we were interrupted by a huge rumble as a bright yellow ball of charged ions ejected itself from each engine. i don't know what was happening on the bridge.
"you know, i really like it when you're on board, but things haven't been good lately with me."
"oh?" CDEFGHIJKLMNO...my arm was beginning to ache.
"i mean, look at me. nobody's been taking care of me."
"i'll see if we can get you a respray and a refit."
"no. i'm too old."
"don't say that. you're all i've got and i need you. we've had good times and been to lots of places, eh?"
"do you love me?"
oh, for fuck's sake. "yes, i love you. i want you to be happy."
"you're so...so...oh!"
i was rolling the ball in big, deep sweeps and the engines were responding. the glow got brighter and a bit too warm for comfort and my arm ached like fuck but something was happening. the hull was shuddering and creaking and i thought we'd had it when there was a loud click as the circuits tripped, and a deep, cathartic juddery whoosh that almost blew me through jammed-open hatch. all the lights went out - even my head torch.
"Reynard? are you there?" it was pitch black. "Reynard? come back on the holo, will you?" a misty white ball of light began to form over my hand.
"hello? you there? Reynard?"
"stay calm. this might take a minute or two"
i waited in the pitch blackness as the dead ship creaked and groaned. it felt as if the hull stresses were evening out. intelligent materials do that, if you let them. the hull must have been very stressed since they added that stupid emotional module.
i tried my head torch and found that it worked. i must have bumped the switch when the ride got a bit rough.
anyway, it all went well, as you can guess, or i wouldn't be writing this.
i made my way back to the bridge.
"Cassandra?"
"Yes?"
"is the engine descale finished?"
"it doesn't need it. something's blown all the cobwebs away."
"ok, can we go home now?"
"sure...in a minute. are you ok?"
"sure."
"really? i've been a bit difficult, haven't i?"
"don't worry. it's not your fault. nobody ever said it would be easy or simple, right?"
"what wouldn't be?"
"life. is your emotional module active?"
"yes. i'm not sure if i like it much."
"we humans suffer, you know. god only knows why they'd build that bit into your mind."
"it's so i can understand you better."
"oh. i think they forgot to show you how to deal with the consequences. you did ok."
"i did?"
"sure. you know my hobby - fixing stuff?"
"hmm...yeah."
"it helps me deal with that sort of thing. it takes my mind off it. please don't be jealous."
"i won't, i promise. i just felt a bit left out, that's all. it's all ok now."
"good. it's not your fault. can we go home now?"
"we're on our way. one more thing, though..."
"what?"
"that painting you're doing near the engines: shall i clean it off? i'll send a drone."
"no. leave it."
"i mean...it was that sort of thing that put you here. in prison, i mean."
"fuck them! i hadn't done anything! i'd not done any illegal art for years! they had no fucking right!"
"it was pre-emptive. you know that."
"it's a fucking police state!"
"look at it from their side: they were staging the Olympics and they didn't want any visible dissent. if you'd just accepted the control order instead of fighting it, you'd still be free."
"free? like fuck i would. it was all decided for me in a court i couldn't even attend. some faceless lawyer i never met heard secret evidence i'm not allowed to know about. fuck them. that's not freedom. leave the mural alone."
"ok. strap yourself in, we're going down."
"would you like a green plasma shield or a purple one?"
"the green ones are the best."
"time for bed. see you on earth."
"goodnight dear."
"goodnight, Cassandra."
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
when shit is worth money, the poor will be born without bumholes
it's songwriting time again :)
(sort-of to the tune of that song by Elvis that starts "if you're looking for trouble")...you know, this one
========
i'm banking it
the streets were all empty
the stores were all closed
people without a penny
in their ragged old clothes
but then you see some movement
near the breadline down town
but when you took a look
it spun your head around
it was a banker
spelt B-A-N-K-E-R
he was a banker
and he's getting rich while you're getting poor
he was all rich and fancy
in his thousand-pound suit
and he had a policeman
with some mean-looking boots
he held a sack open
showed it to the line
and he shouted "give it to me!
your money's all mine!"
cos i'm a banker
my middle name is usury
i'm a banker
why don't you get a loan from me?
well most of the folks there
just gave him their bread
one of 'em made trouble
cos it made him see red
the cop called a van
and they dragged the man in
and since that day
that man, he never worked again
because of bankers
spelt B-A-N-K-E-R
there was a banker
and he's getting rich, while you're getting poor
you do business with bankers
and you can bet
you gotta be strong
to stay out of their debt
they got the lords and the commons
they got your house too
and one way or another
they'll get their hooks into you
because they're bankers
their middle name is usury
yes they're bankers
why don't you get a loan from me?
(sort-of to the tune of that song by Elvis that starts "if you're looking for trouble")...you know, this one
========
i'm banking it
the streets were all empty
the stores were all closed
people without a penny
in their ragged old clothes
but then you see some movement
near the breadline down town
but when you took a look
it spun your head around
it was a banker
spelt B-A-N-K-E-R
he was a banker
and he's getting rich while you're getting poor
he was all rich and fancy
in his thousand-pound suit
and he had a policeman
with some mean-looking boots
he held a sack open
showed it to the line
and he shouted "give it to me!
your money's all mine!"
cos i'm a banker
my middle name is usury
i'm a banker
why don't you get a loan from me?
well most of the folks there
just gave him their bread
one of 'em made trouble
cos it made him see red
the cop called a van
and they dragged the man in
and since that day
that man, he never worked again
because of bankers
spelt B-A-N-K-E-R
there was a banker
and he's getting rich, while you're getting poor
you do business with bankers
and you can bet
you gotta be strong
to stay out of their debt
they got the lords and the commons
they got your house too
and one way or another
they'll get their hooks into you
because they're bankers
their middle name is usury
yes they're bankers
why don't you get a loan from me?
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
letter to the local paper about the town's controversial - and pretty useless - wifi system
Dear Sir
With regard to the Glastonbury WiFi system
As an IT professional since 1996, I was sceptical when the town WiFi
system was installed. Due to the extraordinarily long time between
inception and delivery (three years, which is an age in the world of
IT) there were only a few possible outcomes: it would be obsolete,
overpriced, or both.
By the time it was turned on in 2008, many cafes had already installed
free WiFi for their customers; and the price of broadband connections
had plummeted. It was therefore unlikely that the town WiFi system
would offer improved access to the internet for residents or visitors.
We simply didn't need it.
Although few usage figures have been released - despite promises made
at the initial public meeting in 2008 - it is clear from the low usage
that there is little or no demand for this service, which is paid for
out of one public purse or another. Given that there are health risks
associated with the kind of radiation emitted by these masts, isn't it
time to accept that even the slightest risk isn't worth taking when it
offers so little benefit?
In short: nobody uses it, it costs us money, and it might make you
ill. Please, just turn it off.
With regard to the Glastonbury WiFi system
As an IT professional since 1996, I was sceptical when the town WiFi
system was installed. Due to the extraordinarily long time between
inception and delivery (three years, which is an age in the world of
IT) there were only a few possible outcomes: it would be obsolete,
overpriced, or both.
By the time it was turned on in 2008, many cafes had already installed
free WiFi for their customers; and the price of broadband connections
had plummeted. It was therefore unlikely that the town WiFi system
would offer improved access to the internet for residents or visitors.
We simply didn't need it.
Although few usage figures have been released - despite promises made
at the initial public meeting in 2008 - it is clear from the low usage
that there is little or no demand for this service, which is paid for
out of one public purse or another. Given that there are health risks
associated with the kind of radiation emitted by these masts, isn't it
time to accept that even the slightest risk isn't worth taking when it
offers so little benefit?
In short: nobody uses it, it costs us money, and it might make you
ill. Please, just turn it off.
a story a day: day 1, 24th Jan 2012
i'm away from my usual haunts for five weeks, and i've got a lot of time on my hands. i'm going to try to write a story a day. here's the first. i have no idea if it's any good but please feel free to leave comments or ask questions
here ya go
==============
it was early: the blackbird, always the first to start the chorus, had become his wake-up call. it was a spring morning that smelled of wild garlic and mist. it was very green: that spring green the hazels become. no wind, but if you look at the round hazel leaves, held out like the hands of a supplicant, you can see that they move, even when it's dead calm like now. no two mornings are quite alike in the woods.
he hadn't needed the burner in the mornings, and there was condensation on the underside of the tarp. it was nice with the sides open again. the birds were really going for it now, and he could hear the woodpecker having her morning face-off with her neighbour. it's silly, he thought, i've taken sides with the one who lives closest, in the ash. maybe that's how it is when you make friends with wild creatures. they're individuals.
later on, they'd be all over the bird tables. maybe the sparrowhawk would visit, like the other day. he whizzed past in a shallow downward glide, like a shot from a gun, with wings straight and body flattened so it looked like a yellow-eyed charcoaled streak of pure hunter. he's magnificent.
but the lingering pleasure was from seeing the signs: the panicked alarm calls, and the impressive synchronised crash-dive into the bushes, a wave of small birds, all flashing their brightest feathers. he'd looked in the right direction like a reflex, followed by an instant whoosh! of a bright sensation: of being alive, totally fucking alive, and plugged by the feet into the green, woody world around him. maybe it's the sparrowhawk doing it. it seems to ripple around him when he's hunting. everyone should feel it at least once, he thought. things might be better if they did.
he didn't hurry getting up. the sleeping bag was nice and warm. no rush. that's a funny sounding bird, he thought, it sounds just like my alarm clock...
...and when he woke to turn it off, and looked around at the flat white walls of the bedroom, the deep physical need to go back to the woods had returned. there are too many people round here, he thought, and sometimes they don't make much sense.
here ya go
==============
it was early: the blackbird, always the first to start the chorus, had become his wake-up call. it was a spring morning that smelled of wild garlic and mist. it was very green: that spring green the hazels become. no wind, but if you look at the round hazel leaves, held out like the hands of a supplicant, you can see that they move, even when it's dead calm like now. no two mornings are quite alike in the woods.
he hadn't needed the burner in the mornings, and there was condensation on the underside of the tarp. it was nice with the sides open again. the birds were really going for it now, and he could hear the woodpecker having her morning face-off with her neighbour. it's silly, he thought, i've taken sides with the one who lives closest, in the ash. maybe that's how it is when you make friends with wild creatures. they're individuals.
later on, they'd be all over the bird tables. maybe the sparrowhawk would visit, like the other day. he whizzed past in a shallow downward glide, like a shot from a gun, with wings straight and body flattened so it looked like a yellow-eyed charcoaled streak of pure hunter. he's magnificent.
but the lingering pleasure was from seeing the signs: the panicked alarm calls, and the impressive synchronised crash-dive into the bushes, a wave of small birds, all flashing their brightest feathers. he'd looked in the right direction like a reflex, followed by an instant whoosh! of a bright sensation: of being alive, totally fucking alive, and plugged by the feet into the green, woody world around him. maybe it's the sparrowhawk doing it. it seems to ripple around him when he's hunting. everyone should feel it at least once, he thought. things might be better if they did.
he didn't hurry getting up. the sleeping bag was nice and warm. no rush. that's a funny sounding bird, he thought, it sounds just like my alarm clock...
...and when he woke to turn it off, and looked around at the flat white walls of the bedroom, the deep physical need to go back to the woods had returned. there are too many people round here, he thought, and sometimes they don't make much sense.
Wednesday, 28 December 2011
new year's stuff...
not so much resolutions as intentions because you can't break an intention :)
- help out on an eco-build, preferably a roundhouse with a reciprocating roof
- spend some time living in the woods
- take some more wildlife pictures
- do some more spoon carving
- maybe visit Occupy the London Stock Exchange and help out there for a while
- spend less time on the computer
- reflect...on how to give others more time to reflect
Sunday, 6 November 2011
'abusive' Observer article about the Occupy movement blocked from Facebook...?
This article
"How to Occupy the moral and political high ground"
has been blocked by Facebook: this is what comes up when i try to share the link
it seems that someone is doing their best to stop people posting Occupy articles by labelling them as 'abusive'
Here's the article in full: if i've breached any copyright i apologise, but this kind of backdoor censorship must be countered
=========================
How to Occupy the moral and political high ground
The worldwide protest can be a critical force for change if it follows some simple rules
As UK citizens are being told once again to "trust" the gatekeepers of the global banking system and as US citizens are realising that, despite a first amendment that guarantees freedom of speech and assembly, they are facing potentially lethal rubber bullets in Oakland and police brutality ranging from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to the streets of Manhattan, what is becoming clear is that a game-changing global shift is taking place. The conflict is no longer between right and left, but between the "one per cent" – a corporatocracy that, without transparency or accountability, is claiming the lion's share of the planet's resources and capital, while disregarding democratic processes – and, well, the rest of us.'
This single global family, transcending national boundaries, just wants a peaceful life, a sustainable future, economic justice and basic democracy. On the other side, the global corporatocracy, also transcending national boundaries, has purchased governments and legislative processes, developed its own military, mercenary or quasi-military enforcers, engaged in systemic economic fraud and plundered treasuries and ecosystems.
What should global protest movements learn from what's happening around the world and what lessons should they draw from their own experiences? My study of successful protest movements leads me to suggest the following:
■ Democracy is disruptive. Around the world, peaceful protesters are being demonised for this, but there is no right in a democratic civil society to be free of disruption. Protesters ideally should read Gandhi and King and dedicate themselves to disciplined, long-term, non-violent disruption of business as usual – especially disruption of traffic. If they are peaceful, they can't be infiltrated by provocateurs as easily, while the unjust militarisation of the police response is more transparent. Also, the winning protest movements of the past were a matter of months or years, not days or hours; they involved sitting down or "occupying" areas for the long haul.
■ Protesters need to raise their own money and use it to hire their own lawyers. The corporatocracy is terrified that citizens will get their hands on the mechanism of the law.
■ Protesters should make their own media and not rely on mainstream media to cover them. They should learn to write opinion pieces and press releases, blog about and document their experiences and create web platforms where cases of police abuse (and the abusers) are logged and documented. Protesters should use their cameras and video cameras religiously. There are, unfortunately, many documented cases of violent provocateurs in demonstrations. This is why it is so important not to cover one's face in a protest: provocateurs need to be photographed and logged.
■ Protesters in democracies should create email lists locally, sync the email lists nationally and start registering voters. They need to email their representatives the list of Occupy-registered voters in each district and commit to getting out the vote in congressional or parliamentary elections for Occupy-supporting candidates – while working to defeat Occupy-bashing candidates.
In Oakland, California, the right has started a recall effort to force the mayor from office for being "soft on the protesters". Protest groups need to organise to oust politicians who are brutal to or suppressive of protesters. This tips the scale: in Albany, New York, for instance, police and the district attorney refused to crack down on protesters and chose to support their first amendment rights.
■ The movement has been shy of identifying leaders, but I believe this is a mistake. A leader does not have to be a top-down hierarchist: a leader can be a simple representative. Protesters should elect representatives – for a given term just like in any democracy – and train them to talk to the press and to negotiate with politicians. These should span the spectrum: young people and grandparents, truckers and teachers and businesspeople. It is hard to cover the protest effectively if there are no spokespeople.
■ Protests should be scenes not of clashes but instead should model the kind of civil society this emerging human family wants to live in. In Zuccotti Park, in Manhattan, for instance, there is a kitchen, food is donated for free, kids are invited to sleep over and there are teach-ins organised. Musicians should bring instruments, the vibe should be joyful and positive. If there is mess, protesters should clean it up themselves. The idea is to build a new city within the corrupt city and show that this is a reflection of the majority of society, not a marginal destructive element.
■ Finally, we should understand that it is not a "list of demands" that is so profound about any of these protest movements; it is the very infrastructure of a common humanity that is being created. For decades, the global family has been told to keep its head down and leave leadership to the elites; in wealthy countries, to zone out in front of TV or at the mall; in the rest of the world, to submit to poverty and drudgery. What is transformative about the protest movement is that people are emerging and encountering one another face to face and remembering the habits of freedom: face to face, they build new institutions, new relationships and new organisations.
And, I hope, pass laws sooner rather than later to demilitarise the police; ban Tasers and rubber bullets; criminalise police and politician violence against free speech activities; demand prosecutions for financial fraud; compel the corporate books that unaccountably swallow billions in tax revenue to be audited; investigate torturers; bring home soldiers from corporate wars of choice – and rebuild society, this time from the grassroots up, accountably, lawfully and democratically.
=========================
"How to Occupy the moral and political high ground"
has been blocked by Facebook: this is what comes up when i try to share the link
it seems that someone is doing their best to stop people posting Occupy articles by labelling them as 'abusive'
Here's the article in full: if i've breached any copyright i apologise, but this kind of backdoor censorship must be countered
=========================
How to Occupy the moral and political high ground
The worldwide protest can be a critical force for change if it follows some simple rules
As UK citizens are being told once again to "trust" the gatekeepers of the global banking system and as US citizens are realising that, despite a first amendment that guarantees freedom of speech and assembly, they are facing potentially lethal rubber bullets in Oakland and police brutality ranging from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to the streets of Manhattan, what is becoming clear is that a game-changing global shift is taking place. The conflict is no longer between right and left, but between the "one per cent" – a corporatocracy that, without transparency or accountability, is claiming the lion's share of the planet's resources and capital, while disregarding democratic processes – and, well, the rest of us.'
This single global family, transcending national boundaries, just wants a peaceful life, a sustainable future, economic justice and basic democracy. On the other side, the global corporatocracy, also transcending national boundaries, has purchased governments and legislative processes, developed its own military, mercenary or quasi-military enforcers, engaged in systemic economic fraud and plundered treasuries and ecosystems.
What should global protest movements learn from what's happening around the world and what lessons should they draw from their own experiences? My study of successful protest movements leads me to suggest the following:
■ Democracy is disruptive. Around the world, peaceful protesters are being demonised for this, but there is no right in a democratic civil society to be free of disruption. Protesters ideally should read Gandhi and King and dedicate themselves to disciplined, long-term, non-violent disruption of business as usual – especially disruption of traffic. If they are peaceful, they can't be infiltrated by provocateurs as easily, while the unjust militarisation of the police response is more transparent. Also, the winning protest movements of the past were a matter of months or years, not days or hours; they involved sitting down or "occupying" areas for the long haul.
■ Protesters need to raise their own money and use it to hire their own lawyers. The corporatocracy is terrified that citizens will get their hands on the mechanism of the law.
■ Protesters should make their own media and not rely on mainstream media to cover them. They should learn to write opinion pieces and press releases, blog about and document their experiences and create web platforms where cases of police abuse (and the abusers) are logged and documented. Protesters should use their cameras and video cameras religiously. There are, unfortunately, many documented cases of violent provocateurs in demonstrations. This is why it is so important not to cover one's face in a protest: provocateurs need to be photographed and logged.
■ Protesters in democracies should create email lists locally, sync the email lists nationally and start registering voters. They need to email their representatives the list of Occupy-registered voters in each district and commit to getting out the vote in congressional or parliamentary elections for Occupy-supporting candidates – while working to defeat Occupy-bashing candidates.
In Oakland, California, the right has started a recall effort to force the mayor from office for being "soft on the protesters". Protest groups need to organise to oust politicians who are brutal to or suppressive of protesters. This tips the scale: in Albany, New York, for instance, police and the district attorney refused to crack down on protesters and chose to support their first amendment rights.
■ The movement has been shy of identifying leaders, but I believe this is a mistake. A leader does not have to be a top-down hierarchist: a leader can be a simple representative. Protesters should elect representatives – for a given term just like in any democracy – and train them to talk to the press and to negotiate with politicians. These should span the spectrum: young people and grandparents, truckers and teachers and businesspeople. It is hard to cover the protest effectively if there are no spokespeople.
■ Protests should be scenes not of clashes but instead should model the kind of civil society this emerging human family wants to live in. In Zuccotti Park, in Manhattan, for instance, there is a kitchen, food is donated for free, kids are invited to sleep over and there are teach-ins organised. Musicians should bring instruments, the vibe should be joyful and positive. If there is mess, protesters should clean it up themselves. The idea is to build a new city within the corrupt city and show that this is a reflection of the majority of society, not a marginal destructive element.
■ Finally, we should understand that it is not a "list of demands" that is so profound about any of these protest movements; it is the very infrastructure of a common humanity that is being created. For decades, the global family has been told to keep its head down and leave leadership to the elites; in wealthy countries, to zone out in front of TV or at the mall; in the rest of the world, to submit to poverty and drudgery. What is transformative about the protest movement is that people are emerging and encountering one another face to face and remembering the habits of freedom: face to face, they build new institutions, new relationships and new organisations.
And, I hope, pass laws sooner rather than later to demilitarise the police; ban Tasers and rubber bullets; criminalise police and politician violence against free speech activities; demand prosecutions for financial fraud; compel the corporate books that unaccountably swallow billions in tax revenue to be audited; investigate torturers; bring home soldiers from corporate wars of choice – and rebuild society, this time from the grassroots up, accountably, lawfully and democratically.
=========================
Thursday, 22 September 2011
Farcebook's latest changes: some thoughts
Facebook's recent evolution mirrors the evolution of lots of other software, including websites: here's what happens
- someone gets a great idea that makes something easier and/or generic, which was otherwise difficult and/or specific
- it becomes a success because it does exactly what it says on the tin and the users build a consistent mental model of how it works. the people who developed the idea do a good job because they're the ones who use it, so they know what works
- the marketeers see an opportunity: but because they have a mindset that sees money and markets, they add features and increase complexity to the point where the mental model is becomes inconsistent and opaque to the end user, mainly because it's not the end user's needs that are being met, but the needs of ambitious people in the business
- people start complaining and looking for alternatives
- then someone gets a great idea that does just what it says on the tin and provides a consistent, non-annoying experience. the first company then collapses
they're also going against one of the most basic rules of the web: it's a road, not a train on rails. the user is in the driving seat and they can choose to follow any path they like. Facebook is in some ways attempting to put the user on rails, with more limited and pre-defined options, rather than simply a set of signposts they can follow if they wish. that's a big failure and many, many other sites have suffered, because the basic rule of the web is one of active user choice. i reckon that in a boxing match, Marshall McLuhan would trounce Zuckerberg every time :)
i don't care whether facebook survives or not: but it does surprise me that they haven't learned from the mistakes people have made in the past. however, i can tell from Google's evolution that they have learned this lesson: that's exactly how they took a massive market share from Altavista in the late 90s.
btw: does anyone remember Altavista? it was once the search engine everyone used :)
- someone gets a great idea that makes something easier and/or generic, which was otherwise difficult and/or specific
- it becomes a success because it does exactly what it says on the tin and the users build a consistent mental model of how it works. the people who developed the idea do a good job because they're the ones who use it, so they know what works
- the marketeers see an opportunity: but because they have a mindset that sees money and markets, they add features and increase complexity to the point where the mental model is becomes inconsistent and opaque to the end user, mainly because it's not the end user's needs that are being met, but the needs of ambitious people in the business
- people start complaining and looking for alternatives
- then someone gets a great idea that does just what it says on the tin and provides a consistent, non-annoying experience. the first company then collapses
they're also going against one of the most basic rules of the web: it's a road, not a train on rails. the user is in the driving seat and they can choose to follow any path they like. Facebook is in some ways attempting to put the user on rails, with more limited and pre-defined options, rather than simply a set of signposts they can follow if they wish. that's a big failure and many, many other sites have suffered, because the basic rule of the web is one of active user choice. i reckon that in a boxing match, Marshall McLuhan would trounce Zuckerberg every time :)
i don't care whether facebook survives or not: but it does surprise me that they haven't learned from the mistakes people have made in the past. however, i can tell from Google's evolution that they have learned this lesson: that's exactly how they took a massive market share from Altavista in the late 90s.
btw: does anyone remember Altavista? it was once the search engine everyone used :)
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
The Hunter - a story
"I think there's one just down the road, dear." I'm sure she used that sardonic tone to irritate me. It's a matter of seconds if you want to get a good score and she knows how seriously i take it. If she could get her eyes off that handheld, with its incessant stream of inane gossip...ah fuck it. Thats' where she got the tip, no doubt. I rushed out onto the balcony.
There he was: two blocks down, in the Harper building, looking out from the open platform on the 23rd floor. I could see him without binoculars or the scope on the P22. Jumping platforms aren't strictly legal, by the way, but the landlords always found a way around that by putting a few bins there and making up something about them needing to be open because of the smell. This was going to be a tough shot: the sun reflects off those windows at this time of day. I'm a serious player so I don't use that auto-filtering crap and a self-aimer like a lightweight. It's a matter of honour and nobody in the main Ladder (yours truly is now in 79th place and rising) would be caught using one. Good points to be had here.
I shouldered the P22 and took a closer look. Male, underweight (I'd say a BMI of about 32) and ready to go, by the looks of things. He'd got the usual twitches and tics and he must have hit hard times because there's no shortage of Averin and it was only about 30 creds for a week's supply, unless you'd been mixing it with Zero-Cola. They say the high's good, but what goes up, must come down, and when your intake rises tenfold every two weeks, I reckon it would bankrupt most ordinary people within a year. So you stop...and when you do, most people end up jumping. There are other ways, of course, but at least this way, you go out quickly and your loved ones get some creds. We always have a whip-round and while it's not compulsory to contribute, nobody who wants to be taken seriously on the Ladder would dream of not helping out. It helps the sport, after all.
The polariser on the scope kicked in and cut out the reflections. Here he goes...to the edge: I took up first pressure. I'll take him when he's level: i reckon about 20 feet of lead. Too high and he's too easy a target, too low and someone else will get him. Some people buy their way to a good score by renting apartments on the lower levels, which means plenty of time, but there's no artistry in that. Anyone with the money can get a south-side low-level in the Valleys - Christ knows there are enough empty offices, after the computers took over the trading floor. Money and the right connections can get you a weapon with all sorts of fancy automatic shit but there's no art in that. Manual is where's it's at: anything more than an aimer and you won't get any kind of rank, but it's mostly about self-respect. That's why it's important to get a flat shot rather than a high or low one: it's about the angles. While the jumper's high up, they're a small target, for sure, but they're not crossing your field of vision very fast and you've got plenty of time. Likewise with the low ones, except for the time - and anyway, someone further up will get them first, if they're any good. A flat shot gets you a better score (and more respect) than anything else: they're moving fast past you and even the best aimbot would be no use because you can't keep up. That's where the real skill lies. You've got to shoot on instinct.
Of course you could always use a smart round - well, we all do, but not that kind. The kind of smart flechette the military uses that can go round six corners, through a concrete wall, and into a target's neck without even spraying blood on their pillow would do the job, for sure. Anyone could do that. The only approved round is a Hawking round and that's that. Anything else and we'd be either half-arsed or shut down right away. All it does is disintegrate within a metre of anything that isn't made of flesh and moving fast. They say it was that wheelchair guy who figured out the principle - I'm damned if I know how they work - but we couldn't do this if they didn't do that. There'd be no windows in the Manhattan Valley blocks and the sport would not exist. We're on the edge of illegal as it is but nobody has ever been successfully prosecuted for shooting someone who'd just jumped to their death. Even so, if it weren't for a bit of pressure from the landlords, who live quite nicely on the rents they can get downtown for defunct office buildings, we'd be fucked and there'd be no ladder. I'd have to go back to hunting deer a couple of times a year, and to be honest, i never liked the exercise and the cold.
He was moving to the edge: it couldn't be long now. I could see the usual blank stare they get when the Averin wears off but God only knows what's going on in his head. The arms and shoulders were twitching and I could see him sway back and forth as I held first pressure. There's no laser on this sight but it's 220 yards to that platform. I knew the settings by heart for all seven I could see from my balcony. Zoom out with a frame-in-frame. I don't know if my heart can take this kind of excitement much longer...
Small frame: there he goes! He was a falling silhouette against the mirror glass and there were a couple of cracks followed by self-destructed puffs of dust as a couple of noobs had a go and missed. It was too early for my main rival Bucky: this guy was mine, for sure. I let one go - only one - as he passed the eleventh and i saw him spin with the impact. The spin continued for a few milliseconds and then he was free game for the rest: they'd waited too long, as usual. Fucking losers...anyway, before he hit the ground, there wasn't much left. They wouldn't get the score. I was already uploading the vid to the Ladder and this one was mine. Bucky wasn't there, but this was a classic, so even if I don't advance, I'll get the kudos. The angle of the sun made for a really good sequence and it'll confirmed as a matter of course. One of those dumb fucks on the forum will start bleating about saying prayers for his immortal soul, but we have to tolerate the fuckers because they help keep our guns legal. I just wish they'd shut up.
She was still sitting reading that celebrity crap while she chatted on Twype. At least she had the good sense to let me know one was ready but then again the widget i'd put on her handheld would snitch if she'd known and hadn't said.
Oh well...back to work. I switched the machines off auto and there'd been no alerts, probably because Indonesia was still fast asleep. Working from home is one of the perks of being a drone pilot.
==========
The Hunter is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
There he was: two blocks down, in the Harper building, looking out from the open platform on the 23rd floor. I could see him without binoculars or the scope on the P22. Jumping platforms aren't strictly legal, by the way, but the landlords always found a way around that by putting a few bins there and making up something about them needing to be open because of the smell. This was going to be a tough shot: the sun reflects off those windows at this time of day. I'm a serious player so I don't use that auto-filtering crap and a self-aimer like a lightweight. It's a matter of honour and nobody in the main Ladder (yours truly is now in 79th place and rising) would be caught using one. Good points to be had here.
I shouldered the P22 and took a closer look. Male, underweight (I'd say a BMI of about 32) and ready to go, by the looks of things. He'd got the usual twitches and tics and he must have hit hard times because there's no shortage of Averin and it was only about 30 creds for a week's supply, unless you'd been mixing it with Zero-Cola. They say the high's good, but what goes up, must come down, and when your intake rises tenfold every two weeks, I reckon it would bankrupt most ordinary people within a year. So you stop...and when you do, most people end up jumping. There are other ways, of course, but at least this way, you go out quickly and your loved ones get some creds. We always have a whip-round and while it's not compulsory to contribute, nobody who wants to be taken seriously on the Ladder would dream of not helping out. It helps the sport, after all.
The polariser on the scope kicked in and cut out the reflections. Here he goes...to the edge: I took up first pressure. I'll take him when he's level: i reckon about 20 feet of lead. Too high and he's too easy a target, too low and someone else will get him. Some people buy their way to a good score by renting apartments on the lower levels, which means plenty of time, but there's no artistry in that. Anyone with the money can get a south-side low-level in the Valleys - Christ knows there are enough empty offices, after the computers took over the trading floor. Money and the right connections can get you a weapon with all sorts of fancy automatic shit but there's no art in that. Manual is where's it's at: anything more than an aimer and you won't get any kind of rank, but it's mostly about self-respect. That's why it's important to get a flat shot rather than a high or low one: it's about the angles. While the jumper's high up, they're a small target, for sure, but they're not crossing your field of vision very fast and you've got plenty of time. Likewise with the low ones, except for the time - and anyway, someone further up will get them first, if they're any good. A flat shot gets you a better score (and more respect) than anything else: they're moving fast past you and even the best aimbot would be no use because you can't keep up. That's where the real skill lies. You've got to shoot on instinct.
Of course you could always use a smart round - well, we all do, but not that kind. The kind of smart flechette the military uses that can go round six corners, through a concrete wall, and into a target's neck without even spraying blood on their pillow would do the job, for sure. Anyone could do that. The only approved round is a Hawking round and that's that. Anything else and we'd be either half-arsed or shut down right away. All it does is disintegrate within a metre of anything that isn't made of flesh and moving fast. They say it was that wheelchair guy who figured out the principle - I'm damned if I know how they work - but we couldn't do this if they didn't do that. There'd be no windows in the Manhattan Valley blocks and the sport would not exist. We're on the edge of illegal as it is but nobody has ever been successfully prosecuted for shooting someone who'd just jumped to their death. Even so, if it weren't for a bit of pressure from the landlords, who live quite nicely on the rents they can get downtown for defunct office buildings, we'd be fucked and there'd be no ladder. I'd have to go back to hunting deer a couple of times a year, and to be honest, i never liked the exercise and the cold.
He was moving to the edge: it couldn't be long now. I could see the usual blank stare they get when the Averin wears off but God only knows what's going on in his head. The arms and shoulders were twitching and I could see him sway back and forth as I held first pressure. There's no laser on this sight but it's 220 yards to that platform. I knew the settings by heart for all seven I could see from my balcony. Zoom out with a frame-in-frame. I don't know if my heart can take this kind of excitement much longer...
Small frame: there he goes! He was a falling silhouette against the mirror glass and there were a couple of cracks followed by self-destructed puffs of dust as a couple of noobs had a go and missed. It was too early for my main rival Bucky: this guy was mine, for sure. I let one go - only one - as he passed the eleventh and i saw him spin with the impact. The spin continued for a few milliseconds and then he was free game for the rest: they'd waited too long, as usual. Fucking losers...anyway, before he hit the ground, there wasn't much left. They wouldn't get the score. I was already uploading the vid to the Ladder and this one was mine. Bucky wasn't there, but this was a classic, so even if I don't advance, I'll get the kudos. The angle of the sun made for a really good sequence and it'll confirmed as a matter of course. One of those dumb fucks on the forum will start bleating about saying prayers for his immortal soul, but we have to tolerate the fuckers because they help keep our guns legal. I just wish they'd shut up.
She was still sitting reading that celebrity crap while she chatted on Twype. At least she had the good sense to let me know one was ready but then again the widget i'd put on her handheld would snitch if she'd known and hadn't said.
Oh well...back to work. I switched the machines off auto and there'd been no alerts, probably because Indonesia was still fast asleep. Working from home is one of the perks of being a drone pilot.
==========
The Hunter is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
why i don't like this ad
i recently had an altercation on a social networking website - you can guess which one - about this advertisement:
some people assumed that i was offended by it, but in fact i was more disturbed than offended: disturbed by the way otherwise intelligent people could be manipulated, as that's what advertising is - often very clever manipulation
it seems to appeal to women in the same way Nuts magazine and the like appeal to some men: and it seems to me that women who fall for the appeal of the man in it are basically the same type who whoop and slaver in the front row of a Chippendales performance. what surprises me is that the woman i fell out with would be one of the first to condemn mags like Nuts and Loaded but is somehow unaware of how she's fallen for the same 'sex sells' trick, just with her as the target audience. she'd posted it on her wall and when i challenged her about the sexist attitude within it - sexism in women towards men - she defended it on the grounds that it was a parody of sorts. that's one reason why it's so clever and effective: it packages a poison pill of attitudes to sexuality and body image in a pretty sugar coating
and then there's the use of images, which are cleverly juxtaposed with the text in order to sweeten the pill. it's a fact that images are much more effective than speech or text when it comes to getting a message across: a picture tells a thousand words, as the saying goes, and those words can be deceiptful and manipulative in just as high a degree as a cleverly constructed text. the difference in this case is that while text and speech can be reflected upon and dissected easily by most, a video image is delivered within a timeline which enables some clever manipulation via juxtaposition and less obvious signals. in this case, a body ideal is sneaked in beneath the critical faculties by the use of some very clever video effects which, on their own, would be very appealing, if it not for the fact that the point of this whole thing is to sell Old Spice (which i happen to like very much, by the way...and always have, ever since i used to nick a splash of my dad's when i was young).
the attitude within it, designed to get under the radar of otherwise sensible people's critical faculties, is pretty much overtly stated in the first part: be dissatisfied with yourself and/or your husband. the irony of the narrative and imagery mask this by making it look as if it's not projecting a certain kind of image. it's very clever. the marketing and advertising companies don't employ psychologists at high rates of pay for nothing!
am i the only person around here who can see the problem? we've got generations of women who know and understand how damaging the projection of similar female images can be to especially girls and young women. am i the only one who can see that the marketing of cosmetics and suchlike to men is taking a similar path? as the Story of Stuff creator Annie Leonard puts it so well: "Advertising basically says 'You Suck'" and how better to create that deep dissatisfaction with one's own body image than to bombard people with sexually appealing images of something unattainable? i'm 52 and grew up in a world where marketing wasn't anywhere as clever as it is today. these days, many people actually find ads entertaining (and it's no surprise, as there's often more money spent on the 30 second ad than on an hour's TV). maybe one day, they'll get people to enjoy the taste of arsenic on their cornflakes?
eating disorders are on the increase amongst men and boys. anyone who has had eating disorders at close hand knows what suffering and pain they cause and my heart goes out to anyone who suffers from one, either themselves or in their loved ones. i'm not saying that this kind of imagery is the sole or even the prime cause of such problems, but it's part of the picture and the problem too. dissatisfaction with one's own body is probably the most common factor in eating disorders
the woman who posted this on her wall wouldn't approve of something which used similar female imagery, even if it's wrapped in something which is supposedly humorous. she seems to have fallen for it anyway. i find that as depressing as when i hear of young women getting into porn and lapdancing believing that it' an expression of their own empowerment. commodification of sex, which surely is one of the greatest and most beautiful expressions of love and tenderness (and which can also be a great healer) disturbs me deeply: and that, to me, is what this is about too. i find this unhealthy on so many levels
i know that this is only a simple and hurried look at something which is more complex: hopefully we can continue the discussion and i can become wiser along the way
btw: i'm far from being prude, as anyone who knows me well will tell you. i feel that sex is most at home within a sphere of intimacy...
some people assumed that i was offended by it, but in fact i was more disturbed than offended: disturbed by the way otherwise intelligent people could be manipulated, as that's what advertising is - often very clever manipulation
it seems to appeal to women in the same way Nuts magazine and the like appeal to some men: and it seems to me that women who fall for the appeal of the man in it are basically the same type who whoop and slaver in the front row of a Chippendales performance. what surprises me is that the woman i fell out with would be one of the first to condemn mags like Nuts and Loaded but is somehow unaware of how she's fallen for the same 'sex sells' trick, just with her as the target audience. she'd posted it on her wall and when i challenged her about the sexist attitude within it - sexism in women towards men - she defended it on the grounds that it was a parody of sorts. that's one reason why it's so clever and effective: it packages a poison pill of attitudes to sexuality and body image in a pretty sugar coating
and then there's the use of images, which are cleverly juxtaposed with the text in order to sweeten the pill. it's a fact that images are much more effective than speech or text when it comes to getting a message across: a picture tells a thousand words, as the saying goes, and those words can be deceiptful and manipulative in just as high a degree as a cleverly constructed text. the difference in this case is that while text and speech can be reflected upon and dissected easily by most, a video image is delivered within a timeline which enables some clever manipulation via juxtaposition and less obvious signals. in this case, a body ideal is sneaked in beneath the critical faculties by the use of some very clever video effects which, on their own, would be very appealing, if it not for the fact that the point of this whole thing is to sell Old Spice (which i happen to like very much, by the way...and always have, ever since i used to nick a splash of my dad's when i was young).
the attitude within it, designed to get under the radar of otherwise sensible people's critical faculties, is pretty much overtly stated in the first part: be dissatisfied with yourself and/or your husband. the irony of the narrative and imagery mask this by making it look as if it's not projecting a certain kind of image. it's very clever. the marketing and advertising companies don't employ psychologists at high rates of pay for nothing!
am i the only person around here who can see the problem? we've got generations of women who know and understand how damaging the projection of similar female images can be to especially girls and young women. am i the only one who can see that the marketing of cosmetics and suchlike to men is taking a similar path? as the Story of Stuff creator Annie Leonard puts it so well: "Advertising basically says 'You Suck'" and how better to create that deep dissatisfaction with one's own body image than to bombard people with sexually appealing images of something unattainable? i'm 52 and grew up in a world where marketing wasn't anywhere as clever as it is today. these days, many people actually find ads entertaining (and it's no surprise, as there's often more money spent on the 30 second ad than on an hour's TV). maybe one day, they'll get people to enjoy the taste of arsenic on their cornflakes?
eating disorders are on the increase amongst men and boys. anyone who has had eating disorders at close hand knows what suffering and pain they cause and my heart goes out to anyone who suffers from one, either themselves or in their loved ones. i'm not saying that this kind of imagery is the sole or even the prime cause of such problems, but it's part of the picture and the problem too. dissatisfaction with one's own body is probably the most common factor in eating disorders
the woman who posted this on her wall wouldn't approve of something which used similar female imagery, even if it's wrapped in something which is supposedly humorous. she seems to have fallen for it anyway. i find that as depressing as when i hear of young women getting into porn and lapdancing believing that it' an expression of their own empowerment. commodification of sex, which surely is one of the greatest and most beautiful expressions of love and tenderness (and which can also be a great healer) disturbs me deeply: and that, to me, is what this is about too. i find this unhealthy on so many levels
i know that this is only a simple and hurried look at something which is more complex: hopefully we can continue the discussion and i can become wiser along the way
btw: i'm far from being prude, as anyone who knows me well will tell you. i feel that sex is most at home within a sphere of intimacy...
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