Singing Infections And Old Martian Dreams

Truth is stranger than fiction and the universe is stranger than we can imagine but bacteria communicate through chemicals which means they have a form of language that we can one day learn so that we can speak to bacteria and teach them songs.

Somewhere in a twenty-year-old notebook I have a story about a tech billionaire who throws half his vast fortune at a fast-tracked forty-year plan to get a working Martian colony going because he wanted a notional granddaughter to email him on his 80th birthday from a .mars account. It amuses me to note that Elon Musk founded SpaceX 15 years ago.  Pointless to write the story now.  I just need to live another 25 years to see how it ends.

Perhaps an innumerable vastness of bacteria on the Martian regolith will sing “Starman” as the first colony ship lands.

 

RECENTLY READ: VOID BLACK SHADOW, Corey J White (UK) (US)

22C And The End Of The Future

I attended a talk the other week about the future of spaceflight.  One guy gave a long presentation about how Gerard O’Neill’s plans for orbiting space colonies from 1972 are now ripe to be actioned.  A guy in the audience – the “I don’t really have a question” type who realises he has a captive audience for his own statement — explained that sixty-four of the spent engine tanks floating between here and the moon could be recovered, linked up into a torus and spun at 2 rpm.  My friend Rachel Armstrong, floating genuinely new ideas about synthetic biology engineering and microbiome management in space, cut something of a lonely figure amongst the retrofutures.

I grew up with the O’Neil “Island One” stuff. Those are lovely stories, and there was fun art made of them.  But I am again reminded – I mentioned this somewhere the other day, too — of Bill Gibson’s recent observation that in the 20th Century we could talk of nothing but “life in the 21st Century” and here in the 21C we seem to have trouble of conceiving of anything past the end of next week, let alone the 22nd Century.  22C.

Sometimes I think there’s a mass conclusion that we shouldn’t be thinking about 22C because We’re Living In The Future and it should All Be Happening Now.  I think the future needs to be constantly invented and drawn down to us.  (Which phrase has just made me think of “Drawing Down The Moon.”)

22C should be a badge of honour for futures speculation, perhaps.

 

READING: New Dark Age: Technology, Knowledge and the End of the Future – James Bridle (UK) (US)

 

Biophotonic Fiction: THE SMOKE by Simon Ings

‘If bugs in a jar reproduce once every minute, and by midnight the jar is full, at what time is the jar half-full?’ This Stella had remembered. Familiar enough as I was with theriddle, it still took me an incredulous moment, a split-second of scepticism, before I confirmed the answer in all its enormity: ‘At one minute to midnight the jar is still only half-full.’

THE SMOKE, by Simon Ings, is a surrealist alternate history the likes of which I haven’t seen in some while, if ever. It is truly off its trolley, but written with superb control. There is a strain of alternate history that imagines the futures of things that weren’t true but were believed to be.  My own AETHERIC MECHANICS did some of that.  Ings goes off with Alexander Gurwitsch and his biophotonic rays and morphogenetic field theory. A world in which World War 2 didn’t happen, Gurwitsch’s theories are carried by the Jewish Bund to a Russian homeland and developed to the point where the people of the Bund speciate.

This is where the book begins to get uncomfortably tricky. The Bund become a global elite, playing on the readers’ conceptions of Silicon Valley techno-elites but also unavoidably raising the murky ghosts of Jewish world order paranoid delusions and racisms. They’ve speciated – they’re not homo sapiens any more, they’re more than human.

And, at its heart, this is a book about a love affair between a normal, “unaccomodated” man and a woman of the Bund.

But everything wrapped around that broken heart is… well, I’m having to rush this newsletter out, so let’s just say “mad.”  The protagonist is from the North of England, and what follows is the part that seemed to confuse a lot of reviewers.  The book, when in London, appears to be roughly contemporary.  (Though there are clues that it could be the1970s.)  But in the North of England, well, it’s grim oop north, and there are steam engines, and no televisions, and tin baths by the fire.  Time is broken. Something happened to the world and now it’s in splinters.

The clue is that one of the characters is developing a tv show that is literally Gerry Anderson’s UFO, which made me laugh a lot. But it’s called D.A.R.E., like Dan Dare. (Which ties into the subplot about the British Space Force launching their first interplanetary rocket, which is a Project Orion nuclear pulse propulsion job.)  These are late entries in the legends of Britain, simple futures from this tired old island. (Which, it turns out, is the point.) There are other legends of Britain here, or things that feel like it – a biophotonic experiment during World War 1 leads to a race of “sub-men” who embody thedark mischief of pixies, Puck and spriggans.

I make it sound like a mess, I know, because it’s hard to get your arms around the whole thing, especially without spoiling it.  I will say that the book is structured so carefully that it all holds together.  A lot of questions it raises go unanswered, and you may find yourself thinking about them for a long time after you finish the book.  But it also feels complete.

(I also have to note that there’s a syntactical trick, a switch between second and first person, that made me curse in admiration at Ing’s wit and sleight of hand.)

It’s a difficult, twisty book.  But it’s that kind of book I love – the sort that has five other books jammed into it. It is deeply strange, with a strong sense of the wyrd, and yet at times feels powerfully grounded in real life.  THE SMOKE is a singular, uncompromising achievement.

THE SMOKE, Simon Ings  (UK) (US)

 

(Taken from the most recent edition of my newsletter, which you can subscribe to here)

 

New Phone Who Dis

 

In which I realise while travelling that 1) the new phone did not copy over my WordPress app login details 2)  the password is somehow nowhere on my phone and in fact tacked up to my office wall.

Reading this Buzzfeed story on “influencers” and it occurs to me that a snafu like the one above would cost these poor bastards thousands.

As someone who invented a variant on professional bloggers in science fiction in the 1990s, I feel terrible that these people have fallen into a future that is not only just partially built and tested (like all futures) but barely even sketched out, even by the early warning stations of sf and speculative design.  I worry that there’s a 21 year old guy out there with a phone in one hand and the Snap Spectacles he borrowed money for in the other hand, wondering what the fuck happened to the future he secured a loan on.  But, you know, these days, I worry for everybody.

Just read: THE SMOKE, Simon Ings  (UK) (US)

Fifty

Yeah, I turned fifty last week.  Might as well memorialise it here in my journal.  Below is the photo I took that day as I walked into town for a glass of wine and a stop at the food hall.  Which, I guess, looks as bleak as most of the photos I take.  But the air was crisp and clean, and the sky was nigh cloudless and the sun was bright and hard.  Reminded of that line (and many others) from Cohen’s “Tower Of Song” –  standing by the window, where the light is strong.  It’s a song I identify with more and more as I age.  Or, at least, understand more.

Fifty doesn’t feel too bad.  Although I feel compelled to mention the extremely mild barely-there recurring headache I’ve had for a couple of weeks, to strike that doomy foreshadowing note if it turns out to be a brain tumour.

See?  I can still make jokes.  Not dead yet.

Or, as the other guy said “Well… yes, and here we go again.”

 

BLACK EDGE

BLACK EDGE, by Sheelah Kolhatkar, is the story of Steve Cohen, financial wizard and insider-trading pirate, his weird life and the strange, damaged people who fell into his wake because of the riches he brought with him.  And the fucked-up financial policing system in America.

Ever watch that show BILLIONS?  You know, the one which opened with Paul Giamatti being pissed on by his dominatrix?  This is the real story.  It is both less lurid – no obvious piss play — and more fucked up.  Yes, it’s fun to see Paul Giamatti looking for new things to shout at while Damien Lewis smiles his weird little smile, but there is nothing in that show like the howling human void that is trader Matthew Martoma, whose story becomes the centre stone of this carefully assembled liar’s house.

With clear explanations of the financial shenanigans for people like me who are all but mathematically bind, and exquisite pen-portraits of all the characters involved  – the brief sketch of the demented informant known as “Winnie The Pooh” was an especial favourite — BLACK EDGE manages to be entertaining as well as rich and, of course, quite chilling. Totally recommended.

BLACK EDGE, Sheelah Kolhatkar 

 

REQUIREMENTS 18feb18

  • Figuring out a way to make LinkedIn rebuild and expand my network and contacts list, i.e. the only thing it was ever good for
  • Learning how to see the future again
  • A Hunter satchel from Peg & Awl.  (I don’t require one, but they look awfully nice, and I don’t currently have a good day bag)
  • I need to get my schedule to land so that I can plan some travel. Europe is calling.
  • Batching my email, probably. I’m at Inbox 39, which, for me, is criminal. I need to get back on my shit with replying and dealing with stuff and setting reminders.  This year started so fast that I didn’t have the usual few weeks in January to review my habits, practise and mechanics.
  • Hammer a fucking earphone jack into this stupid fucking new iPhone I had to get because an audio device without an earphone jack is like a car without fucking doors
  • also maybe work on my blood pressure some more

 

Recent Quotes 17feb18

Xefirotarch makes vampire architecture. The reasons for this go beyond the now well-known series of incidents at the group’s recent SF MoMA show, during which, over consecutive days in the spring of 2006, several children were left bleeding and traumatized by their encounters with the installation. Each claimed to have been “bitten” by its forms, but more likely the children had fallen upon one of its dangerous, fang-like angles, and left punctured by the sharp contours. One boy was hospitalized for nearly a week because of his injuries. The linear gash in his abdomen is now healing, but he remains adamant that the work lunged at him and not the other way around.

Dispute Plan to Prevent Future Luxury Constitution, Benjamin H. Bratton (UK) (US)

Cohen got up early and studied the market at home before being driven to the office by 8 A.M. by a bodyguard in a gray Maybach. He arrived to find a bowl of hot oatmeal wrapped in cellophane waiting on his desk. His station at the center of the trading floor resembled a cockpit, with twelve monitors mounted in front of him.

Black Edge: Inside Information, Dirty Money, and the Quest to Bring Down the Most Wanted Man on Wall Street, Sheelah Kolhatkar (UK) (US)

‘We see the same stars, the sky is shared by all, the same world surrounds us. What does it matter what wisdom a person uses to seek for the truth?’

– The ‘pagan’ author Symmachus

The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World, Catherine Nixey  (UK) (US)

 

Recent Quotes 26jan18

We are the robots for future insects.

and also:

To redesign the city in response to the terrorist attack on to the city is to escalate the state of emergency into an endlessly vertiginous assignment. …

Dispute Plan to Prevent Future Luxury Constitution, Benjamin H. Bratton (UK) (US)

Ships were more than merely transportation: in Scandinavian culture they carried a symbolic role greater even than that of Britain’s eighteenth-century ‘wooden walls’: they were named, famed, celebrated in song and verse as sea steeds riding the whale road.

Aelfred’s Britain: War and Peace in the Viking Age, Max Adams (UK) (US)

 

“We live and die by the media. Every time we’re launching a book, I’ll build a battle map that literally breaks down by category every headline we’re going to place, every op-ed Peter’s going to publish. . . . Getting our message embedded in mainstream outlets is what gets us the biggest blast radius.”

Devil’s Bargain: Steve Bannon, Donald Trump, and the storming of the presidency, Joshua Green (UK) (US)

 

Reblog, Or: Little Radio Stations In The Night

On my newsletter last weekend, I wrote this:

Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to go full-bore blog again, like in the old days. Twitter’s only real use is as a notification system, after all, so you’d just pump out post links to it from your blog.  You know, the way people used to, when having a place for your own voice and your own thoughts was a good thing.

When I was in the swing of it, way back when, it was like the world’s most minimalist radio station. A Station Ident post to start the day, a Night Music or Closedown post at the end of the day, littered with whatever strangeness and wonder passed my screen in between.

I miss that long moment when the web seemed full of people doing the same thing, or thinking in public.  It happens in the Republic Of Newsletters, now. But it was nice to have all those little radio stations broadcasting in the night.

Yesterday, Reza Negarestani emerged with a website called Toy Philosophy, whose first post was entitled Returning to the Age of Blogging.

Now, my RSS feeds never went quiet.  I linked to a friend’s blog post the other day and he told me half the reason he posted it was to see if anyone was still using RSS!

I’ve seen the idea circulating for a while: come off the streams, own your own platform for your own voice and your own complete statements.  It seems like a reactionary step, from some angles. But maybe that great river, The Conversation, was, like every river followed to its source, a dead end. The resurgence of the Republic Of Newsletters may be one aspect of a return to the ocean, dotted with little pirate radio stations broadcasting through the night again.