Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Feature Creep

At first, it had seemed like a peculiar technical problem – some slight hitch in the software, no doubt. The incidents were almost universally embarrassing, of course, but that was hardly surprising. The idea that there might be anything malicious behind it, however – how could there be? The effort required, if it were deliberate… and for what purpose?

The first time it happened, it was to a twenty-something graphic designer, who found himself in the enviable position of sitting opposite a rather beautiful young woman on the train, who kept looking at him and smiling – while Britney Spears lullabied Toxic into his ears.

The most publicised time it happened was to a high-school student, who just happened to find herself in the middle of a tram filled with the (somewhat conservative) North Brunswick Silver Foxes – who were on their way to blitz the Melbourne Bridge Club Congress for the fourth year running – while the Electric Six promulgated their desire to take her to a gay bar, gay bar, gay bar…

The worst part about it, really, was that the poor saps had no idea. When the iPhone’s speaker started blaring the music, it was, of course, perfectly in sync with the music that they were already listening to through the earbuds – so they didn’t notice it at all. Until, that is, the reactions of those around them gave it away.

And then it was mortifying.

Initially, everyone was certain that it was just an unfortunate glitch – but the incidents started to become more common, and they always seemed to be perfectly timed for maximum humiliation, and then a technology website decided to investigate a previously unidentified circuit found during a tear-down of the device… finally identifying it as a mischief chip.

Steve Jobs, it turned out, had a twisted sense of humour.

“What are they going to do?” he smiled impishly when interviewed on the subject “Stop buying iPhones?”

“Besides, it’s not a bug. It’s a feature.”

Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Ego

I am War, polishing his armour
I am Peace, dusting his mantle.
I am Love, brushing her hair
I am Hate, sharpening her nails
I am sky-fire, falling into the acid oceans of Titan
I am the irrepressible silence of the Moon
I am a thousand voiceless poets, chanting in silent harmony
I am a million squawking idiots, clamouring incessantly
I am Fate, weaving her thread
I am Chaos, knotting it
I am the personification of apathy
I am the antipathy of pathos
I am the day-star, setting
I am the night wind, howling.
I am.

How are you?

Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Future Archaeology

For those of you who have never heard of them before, I should clarify that there are two kinds of future-archaeologists – antespective and postpective. It is, of course, naturally impossible to meet a postpective future-archaelogist, for the simple fact that they do not exist. And, in much the same way that it will never be tomorrow, no-one will ever actually be a postpective future-archaeologist, except in relative terms. Naturally, then, my meeting was with an antespective future-archaeologist.

Dr Gradden was kind enough to show me around his laboratory, and, as I am sure you can imagine, it is much like most archaeology labs; scrupulously clean workspaces littered with an array of peculiar tools and deceptively unremarkable artefacts. He presents one of these to me: a seemingly uninteresting lump of metal.

“This is a piece of titanium from a dig site in the Ukraine. Part of a fairly rich deposit, actually. Like all the artefacts, it will, naturally, be returned once we’ve finished studying it. This particular piece will become part of the SS Godwin’s Law, one of the medium-cruisers in the 3rd Battalion fleet that will be launched in the closing days of the Second Moon War. A rather interesting conflict, actually. One of the first to perhaps truly defy that old adage that ‘all wars are but wars of trade’…” Gradden continued for some time on a fairly dry academic exposition of the causes of the war, from which I will spare you, before I could steer him back to the business of future-archaeology. I ask him how one goes about finding out the fate of an artefact.

“Well, there was a time that it required a certain amount of speculation, and, frankly, guesswork. There were of course, some embarrassing misinterpretations – the Australian Uranium deposit that Artner was convinced would be ignited over half the cities of the world during World War III, but which we now know will be the principal power source for the sky-city of New Sydney – which, in a way, makes him not entirely wrong. Then, of course, there was the clay deposit that Hammerstein was convinced would become the ceramic uber-computer powering the New-Earth Life-Exchange, but which is currently a series of toilets at the Watford Junction tube station. However, these days, technology allows us to be far more accurate – inverse carbon dating is fantastically precise. And, of course, there’s that.” He points to a small, sleek looking computer terminal in the corner of his lab.

I ask him what it is, and he responds as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “A Haecceitic spectrum analyser, of course. Most important tool in a future-archaeologist’s arsenal.”

I ask him to explain what it does. “The core idea comes from the 13th century philosopher, Duns Scotus – Haecceity is the essence of something, those bits of it which make it it, and not something else. As Leibniz subsequently surmised, an object’s Haecceity ‘includes once for all everything which can ever happen to it…‘ all the analyser does, then, is find those parts of the object in question’s Haecceity which include its future, as opposed to its past; which is what most people see when they look at something. If you imagine a paint tin, with a few spots of rust on it – most people would say it was just that; the Haecceitic analyser, however – if it could talk – would say that it saw rust, with a bit of paint-tin still stuck to it. The rust is the future of the paint-tin, and so, to the analyser, the principal object. Humans, on the other hand, see things in the reverse – to us, it is the past object which is the principal.” When I ask him how it works, however, he is less certain. He shrugs. “Something to do with quantum. No one really knows. I suppose we can ask the man who invented it – he’ll be born next spring.”

Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Turn

One day, I shall travel
to the centre of the Earth
and find the man
whose stationary bike
turns the world.
Bleary eyed,
I shall utter only
“6:30 a.m.”
And then I shall hit him
so hard
That all the clocks will be stuck
at 3:17 in the afternoon
for a week and a half.

Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Blue Prince

I tried to build a temple of my love
but the columns were improbable,
nonsensical, and structurally impossible.
I tried to build a temple of my love
but the thousand windows,
each with aspects of you,
rarely caught the sun.
I tried to build a temple of my love
but the insulation,
which consisted entirely of the warmth of your arms,
and the heat of your kisses,
has now been stripped away.
I tried to build a temple of my love
but the light-switches were too fanciful,
the work-surfaces too porous,
the arches too erotic,
the door-handles too affectionate.
I tried to build a temple of my love
but now, I see,
I should have been a poet,
to articulate
that
which architecture cannot express.

Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – On Largeness

You have adorned the meta-space
of my aether
for so very, very long,
aspatial, atemporal, ideal.
So perfectly beautiful,
so undefinable.
So it breaks my heart to say this,
I am sorry my darling, I truly am,
but infinite egg, you simply cannot be.

Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Diagnosis

His symptoms were maddeningly vague, and over time, gradually changing. Test after test revealed nothing, and each week he would return with a similar complaint, with subtle variations hinting at something new, something different. Endless possibilities were considered and discarded, until finally his doctor became convinced that there was only one plausible diagnosis – hypochondria. Several psychological evaluations later, however, it was concluded that, too, was not the problem.

Still the symptoms persisted. And so, like every other Thursday, the doctor listened to his complaints, speculated on a few possibilities, made an examination and, unable to find anything, sent him once more on his way. The doctor followed him to reception and collected the next patient, not noticing the little smile he flashed the very pretty receptionist, just like he did every week.

Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “Frogs”

At the bus stop
Scattered red frogs
All over the ground
All over the road
What has happened here?
Candy man?
Candy man?
Candy…
Oh god.

Disptaches from the wilds of Proseambique – “Rent 2″

It catches on, this nomad thing. Train cars start looking more like capsule hotels, capsule hotels start looking more like palaces. iPods replace home theatres. People start using their library cards. Radio enjoys a brief resurgence before people discover TV on their mobile phones. Cityscapes get redesigned; less roads, more shunting-yards. Companies start noticing and replace office space with wireless internet and Skype headsets. Conferences take place on deserted platforms. The line between suits and sleepwear blurs. Empty skyscrapers reverberate above the unceasing river of steel. The whole city rolls now; a metropolis on wheels – none of it going anywhere at all.

Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – “The unknown”

You could ride the busy Sydney trains for years
and not learn,
until that one, late trip to Thirlmere
when the cool dark of night cloaks the empty world outside,
when the silent emptiness of the carriage wraps around your throat,
when it feels as though you are riding the edge of the void,
that, like buses,
they too have a “stop” button.