5. Autumn, Ali Smith.
A fairly young woman visits very old Mr Gluck in the Home. He probably hasn’t got long. Or has he? He's got a long time to think about. The book consists of brief chapters of shifting planes of memory overlapping each other, gradually forming a whole picture. There are images of spiritually infused pasts, abstract hints of an anxious future and also snaps of a mundane present context, with Elisabeth the slightly grumpy part time lecturer going to and from the care home, pausing occasionally to Deal With Her Mother. Elisabeth quite likes her mum, but hasn't had much to do with her lately.
The big relationship is the unlikely one between Elisabeth and Daniel, her former neighbour: between her curiosity and his generosity, a mutually rewarding one. The key section seemed assured and real, the lead up and down less so. There are plenty of calmly brilliant sentences and nice character observations of the minor players. There are about half a dozen Lists. Yawn. There are tacking-ins of Brexit-induced fears and other social commentary. A micro-biography of Pauline Boty could well have been critical to Elisabeth’s perspective, but equally she (brightly burning forgotten pop art heroine) could have been an ardent project of the author who felt that she had to be given a stage, and coincidentally chose this book.
The whole thing deemed to be a bit too obviously message-ey which made me sneer a bit. However it's perhaps a question of Time. Dickens, Ovid and others (all referenced in various ways in the text) don’t induce that reaction, although they preach a lot too. It’s pretty brief, so maybe that’s also my problem: I don’t mind a bit of practical philosophy or even a sermon, but the licence to deliver those to me is more than 250 pages. I'm possibly waiting for all four of these Seasons to come together at one time, instead of a single segment.
Wednesday, March 07, 2018
Tuesday, October 17, 2017
Phone spam from 020 3936 number - London calling?
Urrgh, I'm being being systematically plagued (i.e. ~hourly) by nuisance calls from 020 3936 xxxx to my mobile (i.e. cell phone). The calls are complete rubbish, either "is Christine there?" or just background noise. Sent one of them a Get Lost Leave Me Alone message yesterday, only to find (coincidence? don't think so) a random link from "Money Wizards" or some such in my text (SMS) inbox today inviting me to urgently watch THIS video (+some dodgy looking URL) that would change my life, make lots of money or save the world. Forgot which exactly, it's deleted now.
According to a the 3 minutes of research I just did, 020 3936 is an STD (i.e. area) code you can buy to make it look as if your "service" comes from a nice proper office in London, as opposed to a crappy boiler-room setup in Spamistan.
-- placed here to give something for other spam victims to reflect on, should they be minded to search on this STD code. Hope they find it helpful. /M
Wednesday, February 04, 2015
Slaughterhouse 5 - discussion questions for Book Groups
S5 discussion q's
who is Kilgore Trout?
"so it goes", a religious incantation to accompany death. Perhaps a reflex to avoid horror. Is this how religious ritual gets going? Who's doing the avoiding in this case? KV, the reader, society?
Is the whole book a jazzed up therapy act for KV? You can see how the pieces are all like fragmented memories and recollections, probably whiskey-driven late at night. Is it literature (in the sense of being a deliberate work made of text) or is is something like a mental patient's artwork, astounding and healing yet not quite art? Do you even buy the OR in the last sentence? We could replace with AND, and then talk about why it's both healing and artful.
Trafalmadorians see all of time in a deep, holistic, mode. Does a sense of deep time mean that nothing is anybody's fault? "The moments are just structured that way, and things are as they are. We never worry about such things".
Nothing, well how about some things? So, turning the dial down a bit, is morality a function of timescale? A evil act this afternoon (killing a person) could turn out to be the right thing to do in a year. A year's atrocity (bombing cities) defensible over a century. What evil would we tolerate to improve life over a millennium?
Are there moral decisions that are independent of the passage of time? Questions involving the verb To BE rather than those including To DO?
Does Buddhism, say, differ from Christianity on moral issues because of its time structure? Cyclic/holistic rather than Linear/atomic.
Would you like to be a Trafalmadorian specimen? Advantages: No job, plenty to eat, can prance around naked, have sex with other excellent specimens, make small talk with the keepers. Or would you wish to get back to your real life?
They were rather obtrusive, had obvious spaceships, got involved with their captives, made worrying remarks about causality, and so forth. Perhaps they were just learning their craft. How do you know that you aren't already in the hands of the rather more competent Crypto-Trafalmadorians? If so, what sort of real life could you wish to get back to?
Monday, September 15, 2014
Dapdune scribbles
Ah, canals! These days more of a set of linear leisure centres than a type of transportation. Back in the day though, big loads of heavy stuff were pushed and pulled along by boat for hundreds of years, at least until the railways steamed in. This is why Dapdune Wharf in Guildford is now obsolete, and so in the hands of the National Trust (Britain's de facto Ministry of Teashops, Country Carparks and Quaint Things). This is where we learn that the last commercial load went up to London as recently as 1978, and that it's 19 miles to Weybridge (and the Thames). Also that barges would take 30 tons of gunpowder per load from Surrey's mills. Strange to think of the force of Empire being projected by a docile horse at 3 mph along a leafy towpath.
I was here with Surrey Scribblers, a Meetup group for artistic dabblers in the County. This time we had 5 scribblers, so a very manageable group. Having convened, we ambled the towpath in a southerly direction. Plan was to have several sketching stops and then pub lunch. I think we managed 2!
Guildford Rowing Cub was a good one, as the crews sat relatively statically whilst being instructed on technique. After a spell we continued, and were distracted by a tour - it was Heritage Open Day weekend - of the Guildford branch of the Freemasons. Oh OK then. We were shown the Temple, various side rooms, drawings of the Rituals in ages gone by, and regalia, regalia, regalia. Nice braid! Any questions? Yeah, Why?? I think this interlude bemused, intrigued and appalled us in various proportions. Artists tend to the non-hierarchical, solitary and revolutionary. So I doubt there's much overlap with the worldview of the masons. Though I do need to find a nostalgia-inducing snake belt, as once sold in Woolies (the various Masonic aprons had a undoubtedly symbolic serpent as the clasp).
Onwards to St Catherine's. Lunch at Ye Olde Shippe Inne. No really, that's its name. Nice pizza.
More drawing at the old priory, and checking out the views to the North and West.
So that was our circular walk, no it was there and back argh. I'm definitely going back to sketch at the rowing clubhouse and the Wharf, as well as various other spots along the river. Watch this space for further reports, and if not too shabby, uploads.
Friday, January 03, 2014
Time's Anvil
This was a welcome Christmas gift, in response to my vague request for "Books of all sorts, e.g. travel, technology, science, natural world, art, design, history, language, culture". It was a bit hard to tell what it was exactly, on opening it, but after a few sniffs I got the idea. A very literate and sensitive yet scientific tour of the land. All lands in principle, but with an emphasis on England. The author is/was a professional archeologist (and explains the modern methodology excellently), but he doesn't rest there. He digs around in climateology, biology, technology, industry, religion, poetry and personal history. Sometimes his topics seem obscure (Saints?) but invariably the logic and fascination of the ideas comes through.
It reminded me in scope of what James Burke was trying to achieve in Connections, and also the main thrust of Peter Ackroyd's psychogeographical tours of London. Namely (the connectionist angle) that everything depends on nearly everything else, and secondly the sheer depth of human activity associated with the most seemingly mundane of places.
I found it absolutely fascinating, and have been outwardly unproductive for several days in the course of reading it. Meanwhile, I'm filled with more questions about how we got here, and where we might go next.
It reminded me in scope of what James Burke was trying to achieve in Connections, and also the main thrust of Peter Ackroyd's psychogeographical tours of London. Namely (the connectionist angle) that everything depends on nearly everything else, and secondly the sheer depth of human activity associated with the most seemingly mundane of places.
I found it absolutely fascinating, and have been outwardly unproductive for several days in the course of reading it. Meanwhile, I'm filled with more questions about how we got here, and where we might go next.
Tuesday, October 01, 2013
Hold still, this won't hurt a bit
Between two successive waves of student cohorts (one out, another coming in) I snatch a day off. Scroll around the map looking for a place containing Interesting Things to Draw, that is also open on Mondays, in a reasonable travel radius.
Up to London then, but then divert from my usual route to London Bridge. Out of the maze into the ancient stable yard of The George for a pint and a pastrami sandwich. Round the corner to the designated attraction. Up the incredibly narrow windy staircase, popping out in what must have been the bell chamber. Pay, and squeeze through the gift shop, up yet more stairs into the main room, which is an attic spaced stuffed with displays and artefacts, going by the self explanatory name of The Old Operating Theatre.
This is museum of medical relics somehow in the ancestry of Guy's and/or St Thomas' Hospital. The collection is well cared for, and there is evidence of an active outreachy pedagogical approach but they've avoided the neat and tidy BBC effect. It's more akin to the old cabinet of curiosities beloved of the Victorians. The biggest category is Miscellaneous, but the two main sub themes are surgery and biologically derived medicine. Bones, skulls, drawings, books, diagrams of the inner parts of Man (and Woman, and Child), models, pills, stills, pots and pans. Tools of unknown gory function: needles, knives, clamps, saws. Forceps, dilators etc for the beginning of life. Unimaginable instruments for the ending of it, before it has even begun. Samples and boxes and tins of drugs. Apparatus for turning herb into potion or pill. Baskets of herbs and seeds and other plant material giving a warm spicy aroma.
I settle in and sketch a scene of cases and piles of stuff, incidentally containing one flayed model human and a live pair, talking about museum things.
Switch to close up for an impression of a still of some sort, surrounded by willow twigs (Aspirin). Fail to capture the quality of the twigs, but the roundness of the iron vessels is quite pleasing
Take a couple of shots of the Theatre itself, half heartedly.
The drawing wears me out prematurely (beer was the error?). So I stroll back to Waterloo. There are plenty of tourists around, and my eye picks out all the Nikon and Canon straps. Other middle aged blokes favouring lumpy SLRs, younger crowd into these snazzy looking micro things. Plenty of phones, obviously. We manoeuvre along the Southbank, and past, or rather through, Tate Modern (more quick sketches, loads of school trips amongst the weekday tourists) and various other stops such as Gabriel's Wharf. The sun pushes itself into the scene, so the ambience is delightful. I manage a bit more photography, but I don't get into it somehow) and finally get back to my station before the rush hour starts.
Monday, June 04, 2012
Sketchbook Update
Here are some art-related uploads to Flickr.
Draw: Gesture. Class described previously.
Recent Holborn and ULU drop-in classes.
There of more of each sort in the respective sets.
These are flagged as Moderate in Flickr, so you'll have to log into your Flickr account and set your Safety preferences accordingly, if you want to see the nudes.
Tutored class : Drawing in the British Museum.
The concept of this one was a more experimental approach to drawing, as you can see. Working from the objects on display, and catching a couple of visitors.
Draw: Gesture. Class described previously.
Recent Holborn and ULU drop-in classes.
There of more of each sort in the respective sets.
These are flagged as Moderate in Flickr, so you'll have to log into your Flickr account and set your Safety preferences accordingly, if you want to see the nudes.
Tutored class : Drawing in the British Museum.
The concept of this one was a more experimental approach to drawing, as you can see. Working from the objects on display, and catching a couple of visitors.
Friday, March 09, 2012
Art practice
A couple of practical art-related posts over at my other blog, Repulsive Monkey.
I've been pushing ahead with drawing practice, and going to Life classes in various places. Occasional sketchbook output can be seen in my Art set (on Flickr, registration/configuration required to see nude images).
Friday, December 30, 2011
Player of Games
My colleague's book club dumped The Player Of Games
, by Iain M. Banks, on her reading list. "I'm really going to hate this", she said, "not my cup of tea at all".
"It's one of my favourite Culture novels", I said, "I must re-read it". Which I did with great pleasure, but I was pleasantly surprised to hear positive reports the following week. OK, so he's sold a few copies but I thought it was a specialist thing. Perhaps I'm underestimating his quality as a writer.
His commonly-used background culture, called (er, what shall we call it?) The Culture has been well-discussed. It's essentially a post-shortage society, which means that they have all the energy and matter they need. No shortage, no money, (almost) no problems. Tiny sarcastic flying robots that can do almost anything, including saving your life if you fall over a cliff. Enormous sentient spaceships that can do everything else. Banks has stated its origins as a hypothetical society where everything is organised how he would want it to be. Banks is, like me I suppose, a bit of an anarchist so it's almost the opposite of a fascist dictatorship.
The Player of Games, may well, as an essay in realpolitik, be about the way in which the powers that be get their way without seeming to use their weight. Poor old Gurgeh, the wizard of all games, he suspects he's being used. And he is, not only for his mastery of games, but for his naive approach to everything else. But he doesn't seem to mind being a pawn in the end.
The amusing bits of Culture novels are often about its limitless entertainments. You want a firework display the size of a canyon? OK then. You want to surf down a waterfall, without breaking your neck? OK then. There never seems to be any hassle, or queues, or tickets, or cops.
I had a tiny taste of this when we were in Austria for a short break. Parts of Austria are extremely well organised and neat, and at the same time laid back. E.g., when it snows, the roads are cleared within a couple of hours, and the buses all keep going. I've no idea if the following is typical.
On an an afternoon walk in the bright snow, about two miles from the village, we stopped for a coffee and strudel at a forest cafe. Someone in our party spotted a stack of toboggans of various sizes outside. Are they for hire? A school party's?
It turned out these were just laid on, for general use, for free. Having been ridden down to the village, they could be stacked against a barn at the end of the lane, and would be returned by a tractor at intervals.
This is perhaps a side-effect of the outdoor industries of the Tirol (all the serious neck-breakers are busy sking nearby, and the village knows the value of competing for entertainment), but can you imagine this in, say, in Surrey or Yorkshire? (Assuming regular snow). No insurance disclaimers. No Deposits. No chains and guard rails. No, er, chavs. Just good old playful fun:
, by Iain M. Banks, on her reading list. "I'm really going to hate this", she said, "not my cup of tea at all". "It's one of my favourite Culture novels", I said, "I must re-read it". Which I did with great pleasure, but I was pleasantly surprised to hear positive reports the following week. OK, so he's sold a few copies but I thought it was a specialist thing. Perhaps I'm underestimating his quality as a writer.
His commonly-used background culture, called (er, what shall we call it?) The Culture has been well-discussed. It's essentially a post-shortage society, which means that they have all the energy and matter they need. No shortage, no money, (almost) no problems. Tiny sarcastic flying robots that can do almost anything, including saving your life if you fall over a cliff. Enormous sentient spaceships that can do everything else. Banks has stated its origins as a hypothetical society where everything is organised how he would want it to be. Banks is, like me I suppose, a bit of an anarchist so it's almost the opposite of a fascist dictatorship.
The Player of Games, may well, as an essay in realpolitik, be about the way in which the powers that be get their way without seeming to use their weight. Poor old Gurgeh, the wizard of all games, he suspects he's being used. And he is, not only for his mastery of games, but for his naive approach to everything else. But he doesn't seem to mind being a pawn in the end.
The amusing bits of Culture novels are often about its limitless entertainments. You want a firework display the size of a canyon? OK then. You want to surf down a waterfall, without breaking your neck? OK then. There never seems to be any hassle, or queues, or tickets, or cops.
I had a tiny taste of this when we were in Austria for a short break. Parts of Austria are extremely well organised and neat, and at the same time laid back. E.g., when it snows, the roads are cleared within a couple of hours, and the buses all keep going. I've no idea if the following is typical.
On an an afternoon walk in the bright snow, about two miles from the village, we stopped for a coffee and strudel at a forest cafe. Someone in our party spotted a stack of toboggans of various sizes outside. Are they for hire? A school party's?
It turned out these were just laid on, for general use, for free. Having been ridden down to the village, they could be stacked against a barn at the end of the lane, and would be returned by a tractor at intervals.
This is perhaps a side-effect of the outdoor industries of the Tirol (all the serious neck-breakers are busy sking nearby, and the village knows the value of competing for entertainment), but can you imagine this in, say, in Surrey or Yorkshire? (Assuming regular snow). No insurance disclaimers. No Deposits. No chains and guard rails. No, er, chavs. Just good old playful fun:
Thursday, July 28, 2011
West Quay - SuperSampled
The previously mentioned Lomo SuperSampler, a cheap plastic camera that takes 4 sequential exposures on each 35 mm frame. Not as good as I'd hoped, but not bad either. More at the SuperSampler Tag.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Nice day out
Brighton looks so lovely in the sunshine, but the water looked too cold to get in. And then there are the pebbles.
We were lucky in our train connections, so had plenty of time to wander. Apart from staring at the sea and window shopping, we met up with our niece and nephew and their parents at the Marina end.
We ate at the Pagoda, and then poked around the shops, which are steadily building up in number at the Marina. I bought a print by Colleen Slater from the Eclectia Gallery, and tasted a few hot things at Fiery Foods, coming away with some great Brinjal (Aubergine) Pickle.
More of these Brighton photos on Flickr.
Oh, I've been playing around with the Lomo Supersampler. This was a present from Santa to me. I'm collecting my first reel of film today, that's been sitting in the camera since Christmas. Yes film!
I encouraged the kids to go wild with it. "Where's the screen??" They didn't finish the film, so I've got nothing to show from their games as yet, but watch this space. Meanwhile, here's a random selection from Flickr: Super Sampler.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The water's lovely
I was interested in participating in something called a Midsummer skinny dip, organised by, or at least in support of, Mary Curie Cancer Care. It turns out I won't be able to join in, but they've been sending me the bumpf.
This poster is not much to look at, but then I went on to the website of the Illustrator and started looking around at their watercolours. I did a couple of watercolours last weekend, and I know how difficult they are, so I've been looking around for technical inspiration. I don't exactly go for her girly whimsical style, but she has delightful brushwork. Check out the red onion in her sketchbook section.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Told you so, bring back luggage van
Hauled myself out of bed slightly later today, so I took the later train. Guess what, it's just as packed as the earlier ones. There is normally enough space for three bikes when I get on in the special bike compartment of this train, and they are all full arghh!
For the train nerds, this is a class 444, i.e. a Siemens Desiro.The advantage of my nine o'clock 444, apart from listening to Today at slightly more leisure, is that the seats are only four-pitch rather than five-pitch, so you get some elbow room. But there's nowhere to put my effing bike!
In some ways these trains have been an absolute joy compared to the crappy slam door stock they replace. But I remember the time there was some quiet controversy about the loss of the guard's van. Back in the day, this was frequently full of bikes and all sorts of luggage, and being a draughty old cabin it was not competed for too much. But, apparently capacity is key, and as many seats as possible were fitted into the new stock. This is all very old history now, as the new trains came in about 8 or 9 Years ago.
Sure enough, on this mid week near Easter, there are already four bikes, two of them folded, in the bike section when I get there. So there is no room to fold mine so I put it on the pile with the others. During the journey I have to get up several times to help other bike users manage the pile.
Basically, we told you so. They should have been enough uncommitted space for bike users and luggage users, who, guess what, also make use of this commuter line with more than a briefcase. Simply ripping out some seats could help, as you can see on the class 450, based on the same train chassis. This has a variety of bike and wheelchair sections, along with bigger doorway aisles. Ideally this would have 4 in a row seats, but then they would have to run 20% more trains to make equivalent capacity so it ain't never going to happen.
So my bike's gonna have to put up with a few more scratches from other folk's pedals.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Overlaps
Sunny days make for spontaneous photography, in this case, the jolly complexity of the urban environment. Just over there, on the banks on the river, the tourists will be gathering themselves for a day's pleasure. Here in the station, we worker bees reach for our black cases and bags.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Realities
These days I'm on a bit of an alternate reality hike, SF-wise.
Mostly these guys:
Christopher Priest - almost anything, but recently, The Separation
Kim Stanley Robinson - The Years of Rice and Salt
Mostly these guys:
Christopher Priest - almost anything, but recently, The Separation
Kim Stanley Robinson - The Years of Rice and Salt
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Matter
The explosions at the end of Iain M. Banks' Matter are still ringing in my ears. He's getting really good at constructing very clever things. Scratch that, he has been really good for quite some time at telling clever stories, that are much easier to deal with at face value, than to properly think about what's inside. I'm sure it's deliberate.
On the surface, it's a typical Culture space western. The high plains drifter is played by a young woman, of course an Agent of Special Circumstances. And of course, accompanied by a lethal bundle of technology and irony in the shape of the hovering offensive drone. Highly dangerous, and yet supremely moral, they can stop an army of heavily armed knights just by thinking about it (and harassing the column with weapons invisible to pre-technological eyes). They pluck some victims of primitive war from destruction, and shelter them aboard their god-like ships. It's primarily these two who we follow, as they crash around, and with their clever tools and tech, save at least one world from horrid alien interference.
However, it's the worlds in question that deserve a closer look. The wider world of the life-strewn galaxy is painted in, like a Victorian genre picture of a day at the races. All types are there, and some of them are those that you might actually want to meet. But with most of them, you are glad to be back in your armchair on Earth. As with other Culture novels, Banks is at the same time completely cynical (all species are bastards, and the bigger species are sometimes the biggest bastards) and also brightly optimistic (generally speaking, trillions upon trillions of members the want-for-nothing super-species just loll around having delightful egalitarian funny naked sexy lives in their sentient super-homes, causing absolutely no trouble at all).
Another world full of humans is depicted. One tribal faction fights another, through sweat, mud, blood and pain, for supremacy of their part of their backward planet. Most of them are firmly trapped in this bubble of pre-development, and while they might know that there are higher beings, such as the Culture people, out there above them, they also know that they are powerless to reach through the bubble. As we read of their wars, we know that their factionalism is pointless (they are the same species) and their religion is void (their god is a squatter who couldn't care less about them). However, although there is hurt and destruction in their slice of the world, there is, there is at the same time love, hope and honour.
The planet, it is realised, is a Shellworld, a Nautilus-like construction, yes a machine!, of concentric chambers. Dozens of species dwell in the spaces, some walking on earthy sub-surfaces underneath the glow of rolling mechanical sunlets (nuclear? stranger physics?), others flopping in enclosed oceans or floating in endless clouds, others enjoying the vacuum of their compartments. Huge struts or arteries, called Towers, let the action slip, via hermetic doors millions of years old, from one sub-world to another. This in the true spectacle of the book, and the other characters and species dance around it and through it.
The humans are effectively pets of the local alien overlords (there are several to choose from), who happen to be floating, slightly smelly, multilegged and hilariously ungrammatical. The turf war is fought out with carbines, swords and lances, and the occasional mounted creature. The faction having recently discovered steam power (probably informed by the spindly wotists or perhaps the stinky blobules) gains the upper hand, and forges an empire. However, there is bittereness. Not only do thousands die in the wars of occupation, but the rightful king is sneakily deposed by an obviously evil schemer. Our heroes are royal splinters in this struggle (and the SC agent is a sister to them). Meanwhile, the world's systems (naturally, it's got an infinity of software and embedded mechanisms) are being interfered with by who-knows-who, and there are these strange movements of starships. It's a little like a quest to restore Narnia in a far-off galaxy. SC drones play the fauns and forest creatures, and a sentient ship plays an Aslan.
So Hoorah when the protagonists not only restore order, but also intervene to stop the whole concentric world from destruction. And then Aahh, when orphans are all given hearths and homes beneath the peaceful rolling anti-gravity ceiling blobs.
But there's doubt, just as Banks intended I'm sure. Just who controlled who in the chain of rebellion and chaos? Did we really just sympathise with the suicide bomber in service of the primitive monarchy? What was the true function of the mechanical world? Not for living in, that's obvious, and purpose of the colossal mechanisms at its centre remains obscure. Why did the eons-frozen egg/bomb/demon so want to destroy it? Was it lying when it said the Shellworlds were a timebomb, an environmental threat of their own? Perhaps the happy-ending pulled from tragedy is really a disguise for a further sinking into a sea of doom.
Perhaps, as for the humans trapped down in level 8, there is much more above and below than we can reliably process. And if we can do anything about it then fine, but if not, then we may as well enjoy ourselves.
On the surface, it's a typical Culture space western. The high plains drifter is played by a young woman, of course an Agent of Special Circumstances. And of course, accompanied by a lethal bundle of technology and irony in the shape of the hovering offensive drone. Highly dangerous, and yet supremely moral, they can stop an army of heavily armed knights just by thinking about it (and harassing the column with weapons invisible to pre-technological eyes). They pluck some victims of primitive war from destruction, and shelter them aboard their god-like ships. It's primarily these two who we follow, as they crash around, and with their clever tools and tech, save at least one world from horrid alien interference.
However, it's the worlds in question that deserve a closer look. The wider world of the life-strewn galaxy is painted in, like a Victorian genre picture of a day at the races. All types are there, and some of them are those that you might actually want to meet. But with most of them, you are glad to be back in your armchair on Earth. As with other Culture novels, Banks is at the same time completely cynical (all species are bastards, and the bigger species are sometimes the biggest bastards) and also brightly optimistic (generally speaking, trillions upon trillions of members the want-for-nothing super-species just loll around having delightful egalitarian funny naked sexy lives in their sentient super-homes, causing absolutely no trouble at all).
Another world full of humans is depicted. One tribal faction fights another, through sweat, mud, blood and pain, for supremacy of their part of their backward planet. Most of them are firmly trapped in this bubble of pre-development, and while they might know that there are higher beings, such as the Culture people, out there above them, they also know that they are powerless to reach through the bubble. As we read of their wars, we know that their factionalism is pointless (they are the same species) and their religion is void (their god is a squatter who couldn't care less about them). However, although there is hurt and destruction in their slice of the world, there is, there is at the same time love, hope and honour.
The planet, it is realised, is a Shellworld, a Nautilus-like construction, yes a machine!, of concentric chambers. Dozens of species dwell in the spaces, some walking on earthy sub-surfaces underneath the glow of rolling mechanical sunlets (nuclear? stranger physics?), others flopping in enclosed oceans or floating in endless clouds, others enjoying the vacuum of their compartments. Huge struts or arteries, called Towers, let the action slip, via hermetic doors millions of years old, from one sub-world to another. This in the true spectacle of the book, and the other characters and species dance around it and through it.
The humans are effectively pets of the local alien overlords (there are several to choose from), who happen to be floating, slightly smelly, multilegged and hilariously ungrammatical. The turf war is fought out with carbines, swords and lances, and the occasional mounted creature. The faction having recently discovered steam power (probably informed by the spindly wotists or perhaps the stinky blobules) gains the upper hand, and forges an empire. However, there is bittereness. Not only do thousands die in the wars of occupation, but the rightful king is sneakily deposed by an obviously evil schemer. Our heroes are royal splinters in this struggle (and the SC agent is a sister to them). Meanwhile, the world's systems (naturally, it's got an infinity of software and embedded mechanisms) are being interfered with by who-knows-who, and there are these strange movements of starships. It's a little like a quest to restore Narnia in a far-off galaxy. SC drones play the fauns and forest creatures, and a sentient ship plays an Aslan.
So Hoorah when the protagonists not only restore order, but also intervene to stop the whole concentric world from destruction. And then Aahh, when orphans are all given hearths and homes beneath the peaceful rolling anti-gravity ceiling blobs.
But there's doubt, just as Banks intended I'm sure. Just who controlled who in the chain of rebellion and chaos? Did we really just sympathise with the suicide bomber in service of the primitive monarchy? What was the true function of the mechanical world? Not for living in, that's obvious, and purpose of the colossal mechanisms at its centre remains obscure. Why did the eons-frozen egg/bomb/demon so want to destroy it? Was it lying when it said the Shellworlds were a timebomb, an environmental threat of their own? Perhaps the happy-ending pulled from tragedy is really a disguise for a further sinking into a sea of doom.
Perhaps, as for the humans trapped down in level 8, there is much more above and below than we can reliably process. And if we can do anything about it then fine, but if not, then we may as well enjoy ourselves.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Art in Bed with Science Again
I love artists, but I think they are mad. Too symbolic, not real enough. They think I am mad. Too frakking rational. Most actual scientists think I'm off my head, too symbolic etc, but I digress.
I really love the idea of Artists-in-Residence (even MSSL's got one, but she - orbits seldom intersect - came and went in a week when I wasn't there), and they really should be everywhere. In fact, the general concept of incorporating an outsider is a valuable one, as long as is it isn't embedding for a defined purpose. The photo's from Joanna Griffin (or rather her bits and pieces in Flickr), and it used to be the lab's phone number in the pre-fibre age.
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This on the other hand, is snatched from the mouth of Karel Nel, who's got a deep-astronomy inspired exhibition in London now, until 9 October '08:
What was it like, visiting observatories?
I really love the idea of Artists-in-Residence (even MSSL's got one, but she - orbits seldom intersect - came and went in a week when I wasn't there), and they really should be everywhere. In fact, the general concept of incorporating an outsider is a valuable one, as long as is it isn't embedding for a defined purpose. The photo's from Joanna Griffin (or rather her bits and pieces in Flickr), and it used to be the lab's phone number in the pre-fibre age.
.
This on the other hand, is snatched from the mouth of Karel Nel, who's got a deep-astronomy inspired exhibition in London now, until 9 October '08:
What was it like, visiting observatories?
At the summit of Mauna Kea, Hawaii, some of the world's most powerful telescopes are trained on the powder-black darkness, looking at complexity and eternity. It is awesome and desolate. Even the scientists fall silent in the face of that.
Nature, 2 October 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Review of Pet Porte
Pet Porte is a microchip-reading catflap. In other words, it detects and scans a cat's microchip (which your vet can easily insert), and will only let known cats in. Conversely, unknown cats (with unrecognised or no chips) won't get in. You could call it a biometric passport for cyborg cats.
We were keen early adopters, since we have issues with neighbours' cats coming in and worrying the legitimate residents. Our two, Oscar and Felix, both 12. y.o., were often joined by The Black Cat from Two Doors Down. The happy group also included Zippy from Next Door as well, but she went through the cat flap in the clouds some time ago. TBCfTTD was a pain. He was young (2) and aggressive, and prone to spraying as well as being a chav.
We've tried magnet-sensing catflaps in the past, but they are a waste of time. Your furry friend has to haul a magnet collar around, which is detected by a coil in the sill of the catflap, which jinks open a solenoid and in he gets. All quite good, except that the magnets are quite large, and are lost. That is, removed by the cats, who just wanna be free. To have good time, to party.
So, when the opportunity to refit the doors came up, we decided to get the new door fitted with this miracle of RFID engineering. I'd heard about it after some speculative Googling, after a conversation about an undergraduate's technology/business dissertation. Handy sometimes, the day job.
A normal chip reader is hand-held if a bit clunky – I'm old enough to think Psion Organiser II when I see one – and in use it is waved across the neck of the animal to excite the chip and detect its response code (a moderately long integer). It's quite simple, and there's no encryption or anything. The manufacturers of the chips evidently collaborate to establish a system whereby all the codes are unique (otherwise what's the point?). The chips are used for positively identifying animals, which helps with lost doggy scenarios (chips are back-registered to the owner) and to discourage theft (though I've never seen an animal with a Don't Nick Me I'm Chipped sticker).
The flap-mounted chip reader is a bit clumsier than a hand-held reader. There needs to be a big detection coil with a nice spread-out field of action to catch the chip as it waves by at a random distance and speed, and this needs to be done before the cat, who can't read a manual, tries to get through the door. Consequently, there's a big bit sticking out of the outside of the catflap. Apart from that, the construction is much the same as other solenoid-locked catflaps, like the magnetic ones, slightly more chunky than a completely passive catflap.
We got ours direct from the manufacturers in Jersey. There's a lot that's clearly Version 1.o about the product. To me, it seems over-engineered in some places, and under-developed in others. It's also not that cheap. Do we really need to paw- and moon-shaped lights for example? A single LED could probably have sufficed. It may have been a requirement of the chip reader, but does it absolutely need a power supply? Other locking catflaps seem to make do with a 9 V battery.
Fitting is not different to any other catflap, with the added complication of ensuring that the Porch (the housing that contains the chip-reading antenna coil) is mounted and weatherproof.
With a cooperative cat, linking the reader to the chip is easy. If the cat doesn't have chip, there's a chip-free mode available.
Our cats were well used to catflaps, so this was barely any difference. There seems to be a slight delay before opening, but I think after a day or two most cats will adapt. I guess after a while they will listen for the click of the latch before really pushing.
Overall, a success.
We were keen early adopters, since we have issues with neighbours' cats coming in and worrying the legitimate residents. Our two, Oscar and Felix, both 12. y.o., were often joined by The Black Cat from Two Doors Down. The happy group also included Zippy from Next Door as well, but she went through the cat flap in the clouds some time ago. TBCfTTD was a pain. He was young (2) and aggressive, and prone to spraying as well as being a chav.
We've tried magnet-sensing catflaps in the past, but they are a waste of time. Your furry friend has to haul a magnet collar around, which is detected by a coil in the sill of the catflap, which jinks open a solenoid and in he gets. All quite good, except that the magnets are quite large, and are lost. That is, removed by the cats, who just wanna be free. To have good time, to party.
So, when the opportunity to refit the doors came up, we decided to get the new door fitted with this miracle of RFID engineering. I'd heard about it after some speculative Googling, after a conversation about an undergraduate's technology/business dissertation. Handy sometimes, the day job.
A normal chip reader is hand-held if a bit clunky – I'm old enough to think Psion Organiser II when I see one – and in use it is waved across the neck of the animal to excite the chip and detect its response code (a moderately long integer). It's quite simple, and there's no encryption or anything. The manufacturers of the chips evidently collaborate to establish a system whereby all the codes are unique (otherwise what's the point?). The chips are used for positively identifying animals, which helps with lost doggy scenarios (chips are back-registered to the owner) and to discourage theft (though I've never seen an animal with a Don't Nick Me I'm Chipped sticker).
The flap-mounted chip reader is a bit clumsier than a hand-held reader. There needs to be a big detection coil with a nice spread-out field of action to catch the chip as it waves by at a random distance and speed, and this needs to be done before the cat, who can't read a manual, tries to get through the door. Consequently, there's a big bit sticking out of the outside of the catflap. Apart from that, the construction is much the same as other solenoid-locked catflaps, like the magnetic ones, slightly more chunky than a completely passive catflap.
We got ours direct from the manufacturers in Jersey. There's a lot that's clearly Version 1.o about the product. To me, it seems over-engineered in some places, and under-developed in others. It's also not that cheap. Do we really need to paw- and moon-shaped lights for example? A single LED could probably have sufficed. It may have been a requirement of the chip reader, but does it absolutely need a power supply? Other locking catflaps seem to make do with a 9 V battery.
Fitting is not different to any other catflap, with the added complication of ensuring that the Porch (the housing that contains the chip-reading antenna coil) is mounted and weatherproof.
With a cooperative cat, linking the reader to the chip is easy. If the cat doesn't have chip, there's a chip-free mode available.
Our cats were well used to catflaps, so this was barely any difference. There seems to be a slight delay before opening, but I think after a day or two most cats will adapt. I guess after a while they will listen for the click of the latch before really pushing.
- Features: good.
- Price: fair.
- Installation: slightly fiddly. Requires a constant power supply, i.e. uses 10 Watts and 1 socket.
- Other: antenna housing sticks out, this is a bit fragile and sticks out such that it may get struck by human legs and feet.
- Compatibility with cats behaviour: good (sometimes Oscar wants us to open doors, but that's probably normal).
- Keeps the Wrong Cats out: certainly.
Overall, a success.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Utilitarianism
Felix is not gaining great happiness, and indeed is accumulating unhappiness. Although he numbers only one, this equation bothers us highly. What would Jeremy say? He's dead of course, and so are we all eventually.
Sorry to get legalistic and philosophical, but we need air support at times like these. Hand to hand moral battles are tough.
As his carers on Earth, we have certain ultimate powers. We've made a decision, and it is due to be enacted today. Please remember Felix as he was, not as he is now, or whatever he will be hence.
Sorry to get legalistic and philosophical, but we need air support at times like these. Hand to hand moral battles are tough.
As his carers on Earth, we have certain ultimate powers. We've made a decision, and it is due to be enacted today. Please remember Felix as he was, not as he is now, or whatever he will be hence.
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