He’s running so far and so fast, and his heart is pumping so proud, that his thumbs spontaneously bleed.
To pose a question Kundera might have: where is he running to? Of course he is a politician of the future, and he is late to a silicon rally.
The essence of plot is a man, determined to scale a giant mountain, ultimately foiled by a pebble in his shoe.
Used to smoke a joint, carefully fix a drink, and watch children’s movies in the den. That particular state allowed me to fixate autistically on the most basic details of image language, shot construction, and cut flow; the effect
was to make me, as an adolescent, yearn to express myself in drafting.
To Venus, young men— to its great methanous bars … ! It is always Friday night somewhere in this universe.
Everyone is free to play the game of utopian poetics with different rules and different results:
Working with tech jogs extropian thought experiments, like living in LA—with long summers, huge hills, open desert moments away— aroused luddite primitavist fantasies.
When something like Baricco’s City tugs my dick in both directions, I get the feeling that the two impulses are actually one and the same; that the particle is also a wave:
In the fictional city of Closingtown, my desire for wilderness is gratified at a level undreamt of in the most frontier SCI FI.
My favorite SCI FI is green, low energy, high information. I don’t believe in the pro/anti bolo’bolo techne of SF. But I do fantasize about the possibility of a more immediate and satisfactory culture through the scaling of economy and technology. It tickles my C-centers. (The genre is not important here. It works in both directions.)
Leone-style Rousseau- Westerns and good SF are equally dreams of autonomy:
A night, a week, a month of that autonomy would be worth more to me than a lifetime of nostalgia for the past or future.
If you can hear a voice within you shouting, ‘You are not a painter!’ then you must paint.
— Vincent Van Gogh, letter to Theo 1883
