The station platform is crowded. So crowded.
But it's an ordered crowd. Given the time, the clothing, the general observance of transport etiquette, you can tell the group is made up largely of commuters.
Everytime you are here, you dedicate a good percentage of your consciousness to suppressing claustrophobia.
[Look]
You are being swept gently along with the tide of human bodies. It is sweaty, gritty and soothing.
There is an escalator here.
To the north, is the train carriage - still regurgitating tired-looking passengers.
[Use escalator] - removes train carriage from available locations, changes this room to the station exterior.
You bide your time. You are Buddha. You are the reed. You are supple. You will bend, but not break.
The train carried you here.
The crowd carries you onto the escalator.
The escalator carries you to the station proper.
And now - nothing is left to carry you.
You are an individual. Responsible for your own actions.
Such a burden.
[Look]
You are standing in the body an inner-city train station.
There is a noticeable absence of rubbish bins. The threat of trash-concealed improvised explosive devices is obviously worthy of bin-removal.
Legitimate, official Police Officers assure that nobody jumps the ticket gates.
You are serious. Real gun-wielding police officers. Here. Dedicated to protecting a private corporation.
It must be some consolation to the man with his teeth knocked-out, the woman who has been pack-raped, the father stabbed in the queue at the kebab shop - that at least - in this chaotic world - train tickets are being properly paid-for.
The ticket gates stand smugly, awaiting your approach.
[Look at ticket gate]
You've encountered this before. Ticket in, Gate opens, Ticket out.
Conversely, you can squeeze through the gates.
The solitary perk of being a healthy individual amid veritable planets of public healthcare endorsed sows.
[Use ticket gate] - changes scene to city street
You line up behind an excessively-sized woman. Her bra-strap forces the formation of two distinct backs - an upper and a lower back.
Her flanks grind wetly against the sides of the gate as she labors to maintain inertia.
You prepare to place a helpful boot in the small of her back - for a gentlemanly push - but she makes it.
You move close to her and put your hand out, collecting an imaginary ticket.
She smells like icecream.
The police don't move.
You have just been positively-reinforced.
Ah, the outdoors. What a seething nightmare you are.
[Use ticket on gate] - changes scene to city street
You slip the ticket into the gate, and pass through. For a second, you yearn for the days of wagons and horses and shotguns.
You would definitely become a serial killer.
The city. You are a beast of gravel and unbelievable promiscuity. I love you so.
Showing posts with label Episode 2. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Episode 2. Show all posts
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Episode Two: Train Carriage
Trains used to cause you a high level of anxiety - the lack of control, the hurtling toward uncertain destinations at the whim of an unseen and potentially-questionable individual.
As you aged, that became a good thing - for a brief window of time, you relinquish control, and are thus innocent of any wrongdoing.
It's like being drunk.
[Look]
Let us enter the social quagmire!
The train carriage is divided into two aisles - an aisle of two-seat benches, and an aisle of three-seat benches.
You prefer the two-seat variety. Less human in your sphere of personal space, less logistics for entry and exit.
There is a free seat to the left. An entirely-free seat. A rarity.
To the north, the platform.
[Look at seat]
The seat is both empty, and covered in chalk graffiti.
You can't pinpoint when chalking seats became a practiced art - but you appreciate the sheer sociopathy involved. For the dark-suit wearing professional subset of the commuter market, it's a nightmare.
[Use seat] - blocks exit to north (platform).
You sit in the seat, and shuffle about until you reach a point of equilibrium.
The doors close, the train sighs, and inertia gently pushes a wave of blood to the back of your brain.
[Look]
Here you are, surging toward unknown shores. A bold adventurer. An intrepid explorer.
A bored commuter.
A young lady sits to your right.
An elderly man has taken a seat beside you.
A well-dressed young man sits in front of you, talking on his phone.
[Note: The next scene will not open until a defined amount of time has passed. Each action will move the individual closer to that amount of time]
[Look at lady]
An attractive young woman, in a white blouse with a grey dress.
She is wearing a pair of thick, rectangular-rimmed glasses, and her lipstick is slightly more bold than average.
Your internal category for these women is "Saucy secretary".
You understand the latent sexism in that category designation.
But you've never seen a woman wearing that outfit who wasn't a secretary.
And you can't ignore the power of observation.
You suspect that she is a complete animal.
[Look at old man]
The polo shirt - the uniform of the over-50s.
And the color scheme is largely pastels.
You assume that old people buy clothes in their 30's - clothes of bold, bright, enthusiastic colors - and they fade and loosen over the years until they become the loose-fitting, desaturated, grey/khaki/yellow affair you see today.
Don't look directly at him - he may just attempt to speak to you.
[Look at young man]
You can only see the back of his head, but you dislike what you see.
His hair is black or dark brown, but the tips have been bleached, and the whole affair has been styled into a pointy mess.
He has a thin plait running down his neck. It makes you shudder.
Apart from this, he is wearing a very nice suit - that looks to be in good condition.
So weighing the evidence:
Young man. Poor choice of subculture. Nice suit that has been worn rarely.
Hypothesis: This young man is on his way to a court appearance.
His obnoxious phone conversation lends credence to this:
"Yeah bro. Nah mate. Nah mate. Wot-de-fuck."
Something about a car. Something about a bitch. Something about his mother taking care of everything. Something about how tough he is.
Reaffirmation: Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve.
[Use enthusiasm on lady]
You wait until you catch the lady's glance and - before she can look away with discomfort, you smile.
It clearly throws her reaction. She gives you an uncertain smile and looks away.
That should hold you for the rest of the day.
[Use confidence on lady]
You wait until the woman is looking in your direction and execute your patented - 'independent movement of eyebrows' technique.
It's always a longshot.
Today, it doesn't elicit a smile.
Tight-fisted whore.
[Use intelligence on lady]
You look at the lady. Pretty. Viable age. Obviously confident.
It's a mainstream attractiveness too. You wouldn't have been the only person to notice this.
You can therefore extrapolate...
She has been with many many partners, and if your 'saucy secretary' theory is correct - they may not have been of the most elevated socio-economic class.
She is commuting, so she may live in a more regional location than yourself.
The whole affair spells....
Chlamydia.
Your intelligence says: Leave that business.
[Use confidence on young man]
You prop yourself up a little, to allow yourself a bit of hip-torque.
When the man turns to look out the window, phone still glued to ear, mouth still violating the English language bitterly - you ram drive fist into his temple.
His neck goes limp for a second, and before he can reorient himself, you take a handful of his hair and smash his face into the window. Again and again, until the window is opaque with grease.
The pretty lady opposite you stands up. She is beaming. She gives you a long, deep kiss. Your heart is beating with pure joy. Your Father meets you on the platform. He is proud of you. You walk into the sunset, with the smell of the cool ocean in your nostrils.
Microsleep concluded. You turn to look out the window. Your adrenaline levels are uncomfortably high.
Your confidence is good, but not that good.
[Use book]
You read the first thirty pages of the book - Silas Marner, by George Eliot.
By page twenty, something bothers you about this novel.
By page thirty, you are certain that you can't read anymore.
There is something distinctly wrong with the style that Mr. George Eliot has approached this tale.
You have a suspicion.
You flip to the foreword and read a little about the author.
You cannot believe the scam you have just been involved with....
George Eliot is a woman!
It all makes sense now.
You've read many books in your life. Many, many books. And of those, a quarter were by women. And of those, you have only read one that you remotely enjoyed.
Your taste is not pure sexism - it's pure experience.
If we begin to ignore experience in order to apply equal rights, we'll be touching fire and petting snakes all day long.
Not all snakes are venomous, but it's unwise to assume individuals are not.
You feel so cheated.
[Use lady]
You stand up. Your heart is beating heavily. Forget about all of this nasty business - the rent, the power, the water, the documents, the email, the teamwork. Forget it.
You are a man. And this - this is a woman.
You move to her. She looks at you with innocent eyes. You have an unspoken bond. Her skin is flushed. You take her in your arms. The world slips away.
You get the call the next week - you are having a baby. You reserve a ticket to Denmark and throw your phone in the waste basket.
Your cynical worldview is applauded across the European Union. You are asked to host a guest lecture at Oxford.
Mid-lecture, a man stands up.
"Do you have a question?" - you dip your glasses.
"Father!" he cries.
You feel the bullet before you see the muzzle-flash.
Your last wish is that you had been less considerate.
Microsleep concluded.
You are on the train. You hope you hadn't been speaking aloud.
[Use your brain]
You think.
Maybe I could become a profitable musician?
Five years ago, it would have been 'a famous musician'.
But fame? Seems to be like 'popularity' or 'family' or 'professionalism'. All concepts requiring constant maintenance for a fickle cluster of people who will hen-peck your face clean off at the slightest provocation.
What could you do...
Maybe you could sing? Something that you could practice without equipment.
But then you would likely need to stop smoking. And rehearse. And the inevitable interpersonal challenges inherent in coordinating a group of people in order to achieve a goal.
And in this case, the goal is subjective, so you have the added challenge of an indistinct end-point.
You could probably earn more money by forcing your way into an apartment every month or so - torturing the occupant with a screwdriver and emptying their bank accounts, sealing them up in the bathroom while you eat their food.
Building a career is tricky.
[Use enthusiasm on lady] - repeat
You've sewed the seeds. The ball is in her court now.
That seemed so much like a euphemism. A cruder person than yourself could probably have twisted that into a joke.
[Use confidence on lady] - repeat
All romance is just the threat of violence painted in a delicate manner.
So what... manicure and a punch in the face?
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood - one is the road of the psychopath, one is the road of the socialite. The car is fuelled by confidence.
See the danger here?
[Use intelligence on lady] - repeat
If you think about anything too deeply it becomes obvious that it is a bad idea.
Nothing is a good idea, in reality.
Stand up - you will fall down.
Maybe you'll finally snap and just sit on this train forever, riding back and forth. The drivers will learn your name and bring you sandwiches.
On white bread!
That thought scares you straight.
[Use confidence on young man] - repeat
Every violent hypothetical brings you one step closer to forgetting the line between fantasy and reality. One step closer to that imaginary brick becoming a tangible brick, and the blood with quite literally fly.
And in that alternate timeline, you would be in the clinic every second day - checking on the progress of your AIDS test.
[Use book] - repeat
You understand the authoresses desire to suppress her gender identity. Given the time period she lived in, this may have been a fair move.
But in this - the age of equal rights and...
...everybody being just as good as everybody else and having no positive or negative characteristics that in any way differentiate them from every other person...
Why... the just seems out of keeping with the zeitgeist.
[Use lady] - repeat
You feel as if you should double-wrap your imagination before attempting this again.
Better to stop now.
Don't want the power of your mind giving you placebo-Gonorrhea or anything.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You think...
Do fat people have more nerve-endings on their enormous bodies?
Or, on a per-inch basis, are they less sensitive than a normal, healthy individual?
If the former - do they have more nerve-endings per inch if they lose weight drastically? And if so - do they become super-sensitive?
You will need to run an experiment.
If only there were a small subset of the population who were both stupid, frequently-unhealthy, and often fat - who would permit you - an individual with no ties to medicine or science - to do strange things to their bodies, in return for cash.
It's not a perfect world, you guess.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You have a headache. Without external input, thoughts just turn upon themselves.
That's paranoia.
The first assumption forms the basis of the second, which forms the basis of the third...
But without verification of the first, the entire effort is fundamentally incorrect.
[Look]
You have arrived!
No tingle of achievement. No sense of satisfaction.
You feel that an implied contract has been broken.
A line has formed for the door. You must carefully balance your good breeding with your inherent dislike of everything and everybody - and pick an opportune time to enter the queue.
To the north, the crowded-platform.
As you aged, that became a good thing - for a brief window of time, you relinquish control, and are thus innocent of any wrongdoing.
It's like being drunk.
[Look]
Let us enter the social quagmire!
The train carriage is divided into two aisles - an aisle of two-seat benches, and an aisle of three-seat benches.
You prefer the two-seat variety. Less human in your sphere of personal space, less logistics for entry and exit.
There is a free seat to the left. An entirely-free seat. A rarity.
To the north, the platform.
[Look at seat]
The seat is both empty, and covered in chalk graffiti.
You can't pinpoint when chalking seats became a practiced art - but you appreciate the sheer sociopathy involved. For the dark-suit wearing professional subset of the commuter market, it's a nightmare.
[Use seat] - blocks exit to north (platform).
You sit in the seat, and shuffle about until you reach a point of equilibrium.
The doors close, the train sighs, and inertia gently pushes a wave of blood to the back of your brain.
[Look]
Here you are, surging toward unknown shores. A bold adventurer. An intrepid explorer.
A bored commuter.
A young lady sits to your right.
An elderly man has taken a seat beside you.
A well-dressed young man sits in front of you, talking on his phone.
[Note: The next scene will not open until a defined amount of time has passed. Each action will move the individual closer to that amount of time]
[Look at lady]
An attractive young woman, in a white blouse with a grey dress.
She is wearing a pair of thick, rectangular-rimmed glasses, and her lipstick is slightly more bold than average.
Your internal category for these women is "Saucy secretary".
You understand the latent sexism in that category designation.
But you've never seen a woman wearing that outfit who wasn't a secretary.
And you can't ignore the power of observation.
You suspect that she is a complete animal.
[Look at old man]
The polo shirt - the uniform of the over-50s.
And the color scheme is largely pastels.
You assume that old people buy clothes in their 30's - clothes of bold, bright, enthusiastic colors - and they fade and loosen over the years until they become the loose-fitting, desaturated, grey/khaki/yellow affair you see today.
Don't look directly at him - he may just attempt to speak to you.
[Look at young man]
You can only see the back of his head, but you dislike what you see.
His hair is black or dark brown, but the tips have been bleached, and the whole affair has been styled into a pointy mess.
He has a thin plait running down his neck. It makes you shudder.
Apart from this, he is wearing a very nice suit - that looks to be in good condition.
So weighing the evidence:
Young man. Poor choice of subculture. Nice suit that has been worn rarely.
Hypothesis: This young man is on his way to a court appearance.
His obnoxious phone conversation lends credence to this:
"Yeah bro. Nah mate. Nah mate. Wot-de-fuck."
Something about a car. Something about a bitch. Something about his mother taking care of everything. Something about how tough he is.
Reaffirmation: Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve.
[Use enthusiasm on lady]
You wait until you catch the lady's glance and - before she can look away with discomfort, you smile.
It clearly throws her reaction. She gives you an uncertain smile and looks away.
That should hold you for the rest of the day.
[Use confidence on lady]
You wait until the woman is looking in your direction and execute your patented - 'independent movement of eyebrows' technique.
It's always a longshot.
Today, it doesn't elicit a smile.
Tight-fisted whore.
[Use intelligence on lady]
You look at the lady. Pretty. Viable age. Obviously confident.
It's a mainstream attractiveness too. You wouldn't have been the only person to notice this.
You can therefore extrapolate...
She has been with many many partners, and if your 'saucy secretary' theory is correct - they may not have been of the most elevated socio-economic class.
She is commuting, so she may live in a more regional location than yourself.
The whole affair spells....
Chlamydia.
Your intelligence says: Leave that business.
[Use confidence on young man]
You prop yourself up a little, to allow yourself a bit of hip-torque.
When the man turns to look out the window, phone still glued to ear, mouth still violating the English language bitterly - you ram drive fist into his temple.
His neck goes limp for a second, and before he can reorient himself, you take a handful of his hair and smash his face into the window. Again and again, until the window is opaque with grease.
The pretty lady opposite you stands up. She is beaming. She gives you a long, deep kiss. Your heart is beating with pure joy. Your Father meets you on the platform. He is proud of you. You walk into the sunset, with the smell of the cool ocean in your nostrils.
Microsleep concluded. You turn to look out the window. Your adrenaline levels are uncomfortably high.
Your confidence is good, but not that good.
[Use book]
You read the first thirty pages of the book - Silas Marner, by George Eliot.
By page twenty, something bothers you about this novel.
By page thirty, you are certain that you can't read anymore.
There is something distinctly wrong with the style that Mr. George Eliot has approached this tale.
You have a suspicion.
You flip to the foreword and read a little about the author.
You cannot believe the scam you have just been involved with....
George Eliot is a woman!
It all makes sense now.
You've read many books in your life. Many, many books. And of those, a quarter were by women. And of those, you have only read one that you remotely enjoyed.
Your taste is not pure sexism - it's pure experience.
If we begin to ignore experience in order to apply equal rights, we'll be touching fire and petting snakes all day long.
Not all snakes are venomous, but it's unwise to assume individuals are not.
You feel so cheated.
[Use lady]
You stand up. Your heart is beating heavily. Forget about all of this nasty business - the rent, the power, the water, the documents, the email, the teamwork. Forget it.
You are a man. And this - this is a woman.
You move to her. She looks at you with innocent eyes. You have an unspoken bond. Her skin is flushed. You take her in your arms. The world slips away.
You get the call the next week - you are having a baby. You reserve a ticket to Denmark and throw your phone in the waste basket.
Your cynical worldview is applauded across the European Union. You are asked to host a guest lecture at Oxford.
Mid-lecture, a man stands up.
"Do you have a question?" - you dip your glasses.
"Father!" he cries.
You feel the bullet before you see the muzzle-flash.
Your last wish is that you had been less considerate.
Microsleep concluded.
You are on the train. You hope you hadn't been speaking aloud.
[Use your brain]
You think.
Maybe I could become a profitable musician?
Five years ago, it would have been 'a famous musician'.
But fame? Seems to be like 'popularity' or 'family' or 'professionalism'. All concepts requiring constant maintenance for a fickle cluster of people who will hen-peck your face clean off at the slightest provocation.
What could you do...
Maybe you could sing? Something that you could practice without equipment.
But then you would likely need to stop smoking. And rehearse. And the inevitable interpersonal challenges inherent in coordinating a group of people in order to achieve a goal.
And in this case, the goal is subjective, so you have the added challenge of an indistinct end-point.
You could probably earn more money by forcing your way into an apartment every month or so - torturing the occupant with a screwdriver and emptying their bank accounts, sealing them up in the bathroom while you eat their food.
Building a career is tricky.
[Use enthusiasm on lady] - repeat
You've sewed the seeds. The ball is in her court now.
That seemed so much like a euphemism. A cruder person than yourself could probably have twisted that into a joke.
[Use confidence on lady] - repeat
All romance is just the threat of violence painted in a delicate manner.
So what... manicure and a punch in the face?
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood - one is the road of the psychopath, one is the road of the socialite. The car is fuelled by confidence.
See the danger here?
[Use intelligence on lady] - repeat
If you think about anything too deeply it becomes obvious that it is a bad idea.
Nothing is a good idea, in reality.
Stand up - you will fall down.
Maybe you'll finally snap and just sit on this train forever, riding back and forth. The drivers will learn your name and bring you sandwiches.
On white bread!
That thought scares you straight.
[Use confidence on young man] - repeat
Every violent hypothetical brings you one step closer to forgetting the line between fantasy and reality. One step closer to that imaginary brick becoming a tangible brick, and the blood with quite literally fly.
And in that alternate timeline, you would be in the clinic every second day - checking on the progress of your AIDS test.
[Use book] - repeat
You understand the authoresses desire to suppress her gender identity. Given the time period she lived in, this may have been a fair move.
But in this - the age of equal rights and...
...everybody being just as good as everybody else and having no positive or negative characteristics that in any way differentiate them from every other person...
Why... the just seems out of keeping with the zeitgeist.
[Use lady] - repeat
You feel as if you should double-wrap your imagination before attempting this again.
Better to stop now.
Don't want the power of your mind giving you placebo-Gonorrhea or anything.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You think...
Do fat people have more nerve-endings on their enormous bodies?
Or, on a per-inch basis, are they less sensitive than a normal, healthy individual?
If the former - do they have more nerve-endings per inch if they lose weight drastically? And if so - do they become super-sensitive?
You will need to run an experiment.
If only there were a small subset of the population who were both stupid, frequently-unhealthy, and often fat - who would permit you - an individual with no ties to medicine or science - to do strange things to their bodies, in return for cash.
It's not a perfect world, you guess.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You have a headache. Without external input, thoughts just turn upon themselves.
That's paranoia.
The first assumption forms the basis of the second, which forms the basis of the third...
But without verification of the first, the entire effort is fundamentally incorrect.
[Look]
You have arrived!
No tingle of achievement. No sense of satisfaction.
You feel that an implied contract has been broken.
A line has formed for the door. You must carefully balance your good breeding with your inherent dislike of everything and everybody - and pick an opportune time to enter the queue.
To the north, the crowded-platform.
Episode Two: Train Station - Platform
It smells like progress.
It smells like exhaust, yes. And human odor. And ink.
But progress, beyond all.
You've ascribed it a certain ... romantic quality. You know it.
At any second a great industrialist - suit jacket rolled to forearms, great iron wrench in one fist - schematics in the other - is going to storm the platform. A bronze steam locomotive will roll to a halt.
"Efficiency!" he will cry - "Performance!" he will shout - "Purpose!"
And the socialists will cry into their beards.
But the pensioners are massing for an optimum seat, and the single-parents are nudging you with their prams.
Public transport.
[Look]
You are standing on your local train platform. It is relatively clean - a hot breeze sweeps the platform at regular intervals.
A crowd of senior citizens stands at the centre of the platform.
Parents and children are locked in domestic warfare at sporadic locations.
For a place that commuters are obliged to linger in for extended periods of time, there is a limited amount to look at. The advertisements are uninspired and dull.
To the north, are the gates.
To the south, a train awaits passengers. Anxiously. Jittering.
[Look at advertisements]
Aftershave, insurance, legal advice, distance education.
The market segment research is in:
Unhappy with direction in life, paranoid, victimised, source of foul odors.
That could be anybody! Talk about your cold reading scams.
[Look at seniors]
You can't assume they are ignorant of social decorum. You can only assume they no longer care.
There's still a smoldering desperation there - but you assume that most of them are spiritually D.N.R
[Look at parents]
What a choice. What - a - choice.
Still... make a poor choice today - a poor, life-creating, life-altering choice today - and expect society to shoulder the results tomorrow.
After all... it's only fair.
Speaking of which, I'm thinking of building a bomb....
[Look at children]
That - is the future.
What is the average life expectancy again?
Not too long.
You scoff. Doesn't look like THAT future is YOUR problem.
[Look at train]
Some creative individual has written something illegible along the breadth of the nearest carriage.
If you have a message to convey to society, that's just fine.
And if you feel the need to damage other people's property in order to convey it... well... it must be urgent...
But given that urgency - one would assume the resulting message would be legible.
Unless it's a weird piece of reverse-viral-socio-advertisement...
"Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve..."
[South]
It smells like exhaust, yes. And human odor. And ink.
But progress, beyond all.
You've ascribed it a certain ... romantic quality. You know it.
At any second a great industrialist - suit jacket rolled to forearms, great iron wrench in one fist - schematics in the other - is going to storm the platform. A bronze steam locomotive will roll to a halt.
"Efficiency!" he will cry - "Performance!" he will shout - "Purpose!"
And the socialists will cry into their beards.
But the pensioners are massing for an optimum seat, and the single-parents are nudging you with their prams.
Public transport.
[Look]
You are standing on your local train platform. It is relatively clean - a hot breeze sweeps the platform at regular intervals.
A crowd of senior citizens stands at the centre of the platform.
Parents and children are locked in domestic warfare at sporadic locations.
For a place that commuters are obliged to linger in for extended periods of time, there is a limited amount to look at. The advertisements are uninspired and dull.
To the north, are the gates.
To the south, a train awaits passengers. Anxiously. Jittering.
[Look at advertisements]
Aftershave, insurance, legal advice, distance education.
The market segment research is in:
Unhappy with direction in life, paranoid, victimised, source of foul odors.
That could be anybody! Talk about your cold reading scams.
[Look at seniors]
You can't assume they are ignorant of social decorum. You can only assume they no longer care.
There's still a smoldering desperation there - but you assume that most of them are spiritually D.N.R
[Look at parents]
What a choice. What - a - choice.
Still... make a poor choice today - a poor, life-creating, life-altering choice today - and expect society to shoulder the results tomorrow.
After all... it's only fair.
Speaking of which, I'm thinking of building a bomb....
[Look at children]
That - is the future.
What is the average life expectancy again?
Not too long.
You scoff. Doesn't look like THAT future is YOUR problem.
[Look at train]
Some creative individual has written something illegible along the breadth of the nearest carriage.
If you have a message to convey to society, that's just fine.
And if you feel the need to damage other people's property in order to convey it... well... it must be urgent...
But given that urgency - one would assume the resulting message would be legible.
Unless it's a weird piece of reverse-viral-socio-advertisement...
"Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve..."
[South]
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Episode Two: Train Station Exterior
[South]
Train stations are composed of three tones of stain.
The grey stain. Indeterminate liquid. Usually... coffee, cola.
The mustard stain. Vomit. Always.
The brown stain. Congealed blood. Always.
But you must pass through this place twice daily - so you have to rationalize:
The tiles are slippery, they tripped and fell.
The rails are crooked, they must have motion sickness.
But YOU know - YOU know.
[Look]
Once-white tiles, once-blue trims; four promotional posters for this - the sole rail corporation in the state.
As transport staging-areas go - it's certainly not glorious. But you've been here for at least thirty seconds, and your teeth are still intact- so you feel this has been an even-handed review.
A heavily-vandalised ticket machine stands against the wall.
A metal waste bin stands in the corner.
To the south - waist-high ticket gates lead to the platform.
[Look at ticket machine]
Say what you like about the dehumanization of society - you certainly like vending machines.
Coin in for dinner, coin in for conversation, coin in for procreation, coin in for burial.
This isn't the most noble argument for your technocentric philosophy, but it still beats shouting through pockmarked plastic at a station attendant with limited capacities.
Its operation is relatively straightforward. Cash in, ticket out.
[Look at posters]
The posters are reassuring you that - by using their services - you are less likely to endure personal harm, loss of property or major inconvenience than if you had have employed other - nondisclosed - services.
Conversely - the posters inform you that, if you fail to purchase a ticket, put your feet on the seats, fail to stand for an elderly passenger, fail to look away awkwardly when you meet another commuters eyes - you will be punished swiftly, harshly, and disproportionately.
[Look at gates]
Impotent, dead-eyed sentries, operating mainly via two systems of obstruction:
System a) A card in / card out system whereby the gate will verify that you are semi-honest, and allow you to pass through.
System b) A system of cultural and insidious fear, by which the potential user is frightened into believing that one to many omnipotent agencies - including both God and Government, are aware of their every move - and will punish and reward arbitrarily and excessively.
Ironically, both systems are defeated with a simple spring of the ankles.
[Look at bin]
A metal bin. The majority of its intended contents seem to have missed the opening, and are piled around it.
A faint haze is emanating from the bin. Likely a smoldering cigarette.
[Use ticket machine]
You punch in your destination, your age, your weight, your political affiliations, orientation, martial status - and the machine displays a government-mandated price that is deemed fair for an individual from your background.
You are glad you live in a fair and equitable society.
The ticket-machine awaits payment expectantly.
[Use cash on ticket machine]
You enter your requirements, click your tongue at the expected cash amount, and enter coin after coin into the insatiable slot.
A ticket appears.
The system works - In a manner of speaking.
[Look at ticket]
A slip of cardboard - an apparantely-magnetic strip.
Estimated lifespan: Less than a day, in a standard wallet.
[Take ticket]
You take the ticket, snap it in your palm, and feel as if you are part of some brave endeavour.
[Use bin]
You catiously lean over the bin. A brightly-colored tube sits atop a pile of... myriad organic material.
[Look at tube]
It seems to be... a can of spray paint. Red. Bright red.
[Take tube]
You take the can of spray paint, and give it a gentle shake. There are perhaps ten politically-ignorant visual comments left in the bottle.
[Use paint on posters]
You shake the can and draw a red 'X' across each poster.
No commentary required. You disagree. An 'X' should convey that.
Ironically, the paint will likely attract more attention to the posters.
You have just, unwittingly, assisted in the persistence of propaganda.
[Look at posters]
A set of simply-defaced posters. Where once stood passive-aggressive corporate branding, now stands ... Corporate branding struck-through.
[Use paint on posters]
You look at the posters... the red X may be too subtle. You need to give it some context. This work needs more of the creator in it.
You write: 'Nothing good is happening'.
You think that summarises your feelings.
We can leave that one to history now.
[Use paint on posters]
The work belongs to the world now.
If you were to change it now - that would be vandalism.
And that would be bad.
[South]
You'll need to navigate those gates in some manner first.
[Use gate]- changes scene to platform
You put a hand on either side of the gate, and jump the turnstile.
You feel a twinge, but you doubt there is a God.
[Use ticket on gate] - changes scene to platform
You feed the ticket into the gate. It rolls it around, observes the mantle, gentle bouquet - a spicy little number!
The gate opens, you reclaim your ticket.
The affair feels empty without a hollow 'Thankyou, good day'.
Train stations are composed of three tones of stain.
The grey stain. Indeterminate liquid. Usually... coffee, cola.
The mustard stain. Vomit. Always.
The brown stain. Congealed blood. Always.
But you must pass through this place twice daily - so you have to rationalize:
The tiles are slippery, they tripped and fell.
The rails are crooked, they must have motion sickness.
But YOU know - YOU know.
[Look]
Once-white tiles, once-blue trims; four promotional posters for this - the sole rail corporation in the state.
As transport staging-areas go - it's certainly not glorious. But you've been here for at least thirty seconds, and your teeth are still intact- so you feel this has been an even-handed review.
A heavily-vandalised ticket machine stands against the wall.
A metal waste bin stands in the corner.
To the south - waist-high ticket gates lead to the platform.
[Look at ticket machine]
Say what you like about the dehumanization of society - you certainly like vending machines.
Coin in for dinner, coin in for conversation, coin in for procreation, coin in for burial.
This isn't the most noble argument for your technocentric philosophy, but it still beats shouting through pockmarked plastic at a station attendant with limited capacities.
Its operation is relatively straightforward. Cash in, ticket out.
[Look at posters]
The posters are reassuring you that - by using their services - you are less likely to endure personal harm, loss of property or major inconvenience than if you had have employed other - nondisclosed - services.
Conversely - the posters inform you that, if you fail to purchase a ticket, put your feet on the seats, fail to stand for an elderly passenger, fail to look away awkwardly when you meet another commuters eyes - you will be punished swiftly, harshly, and disproportionately.
[Look at gates]
Impotent, dead-eyed sentries, operating mainly via two systems of obstruction:
System a) A card in / card out system whereby the gate will verify that you are semi-honest, and allow you to pass through.
System b) A system of cultural and insidious fear, by which the potential user is frightened into believing that one to many omnipotent agencies - including both God and Government, are aware of their every move - and will punish and reward arbitrarily and excessively.
Ironically, both systems are defeated with a simple spring of the ankles.
[Look at bin]
A metal bin. The majority of its intended contents seem to have missed the opening, and are piled around it.
A faint haze is emanating from the bin. Likely a smoldering cigarette.
[Use ticket machine]
You punch in your destination, your age, your weight, your political affiliations, orientation, martial status - and the machine displays a government-mandated price that is deemed fair for an individual from your background.
You are glad you live in a fair and equitable society.
The ticket-machine awaits payment expectantly.
[Use cash on ticket machine]
You enter your requirements, click your tongue at the expected cash amount, and enter coin after coin into the insatiable slot.
A ticket appears.
The system works - In a manner of speaking.
[Look at ticket]
A slip of cardboard - an apparantely-magnetic strip.
Estimated lifespan: Less than a day, in a standard wallet.
[Take ticket]
You take the ticket, snap it in your palm, and feel as if you are part of some brave endeavour.
[Use bin]
You catiously lean over the bin. A brightly-colored tube sits atop a pile of... myriad organic material.
[Look at tube]
It seems to be... a can of spray paint. Red. Bright red.
[Take tube]
You take the can of spray paint, and give it a gentle shake. There are perhaps ten politically-ignorant visual comments left in the bottle.
[Use paint on posters]
You shake the can and draw a red 'X' across each poster.
No commentary required. You disagree. An 'X' should convey that.
Ironically, the paint will likely attract more attention to the posters.
You have just, unwittingly, assisted in the persistence of propaganda.
[Look at posters]
A set of simply-defaced posters. Where once stood passive-aggressive corporate branding, now stands ... Corporate branding struck-through.
[Use paint on posters]
You look at the posters... the red X may be too subtle. You need to give it some context. This work needs more of the creator in it.
You write: 'Nothing good is happening'.
You think that summarises your feelings.
We can leave that one to history now.
[Use paint on posters]
The work belongs to the world now.
If you were to change it now - that would be vandalism.
And that would be bad.
[South]
You'll need to navigate those gates in some manner first.
[Use gate]- changes scene to platform
You put a hand on either side of the gate, and jump the turnstile.
You feel a twinge, but you doubt there is a God.
[Use ticket on gate] - changes scene to platform
You feed the ticket into the gate. It rolls it around, observes the mantle, gentle bouquet - a spicy little number!
The gate opens, you reclaim your ticket.
The affair feels empty without a hollow 'Thankyou, good day'.
Episode Two: Retail Center
How one small neighbourhood could require so many hairdressers, fried-chicken stores and euphemistic nail-artists is completely beyond your comprehension.
But here you are. And here they are.
It's reality, you just have to swallow it.
[Look]
You are on a street lined with small stores. Only a small percentage is convenient or useful. You have no idea who is occupying the demanding niche market that supports the others.
To the south, the train station.
To the north - the long road to your apartment.
[Look at shops]
Let's break it down - micro-economics style:
Four nail salons. Also providing waxing!
Three hair dressers. Two barbers.
Two bakeries.
Two real estate agents.
A video store.
Four fried-chicken stores.
Two fruit stores.
An indian take-away.
To summarise:
Food. The management of keratin. Audio visual entertainment and sleazy property-slinging.
None of which you desire at present.
[Look at video store]
Upcoming releases....
One man shoots, and learns to love.
One man loves, and learns to shoot.
A man and a woman overcome their differences, adversity, and learn to love.
A 3D animated bowling ball and a group of bowling pins teach us - via allegory, that anything is possible with the power of love.
Tagline: You'll love it!
[Look at chicken store]
It's like some poultry Auschwitz. Chicken Dachau.
In one hundred years, we'll be headed toward a barnyard reconciliation. Enshrining the rights of poultry within the constitution. Every business must meet a goose-hiring quota. A rooster for President in 3011!
"Yes - we cluck."
[Look at fruit store]
Bananas, apples. They're the staples.
Oranges, mandarins... drink a juice. They're really too labor-intensive.
Anything with a seed capable of choking an adolescent.... keep walking.
And spines? That's not even a fruit. It's a tree-borne insult.
[Look at real estate]
"You will be happy here"
There is something ominous about that statement. You imagine dark hoods painted with luminous smiling faces - they wear blood spattered smocks. You wake with a start but it's too late.
You've never met an estate agent that you didn't want to see chopped-up.
Statistically - that's either owing to your lack of experience, or the fact that estate agents are generally fodder.
You'll reserve judgement until you establish a good sample size.
[Look at bakery]
Refined flour. Refined sugar. Ironically, there is nothing refined about the people who enjoy this business.
Occasionally.... once a year, you will eat an eclair. Before the fact, you will think: I'm sure they're great. It's a dessert. It should be great.
After the fact, you will think: I cannot believe I have committed the next few hours of my life to digesting this business.
[Look at hairdresser]
Short back and sides. Leave the top a little longer than average. No product. No water. Ten dollars.
You can summarise the way the industry should operate in a few simple directives.
But, that's scarcely the reality.
You - you have turned to kitchen scissors.
It bothers you that hairdressers don't tend to wear gloves. You couldn't be paid enough to touch some stranger's greasy hair.
[Look at nail artist]
You look at your nails. You look at the posters. Back to your nails. Back to the posters.
You don't understand the nail aspect. That's a given.
You're reasonably sure that Strippers are the majority supporters of the nail salon, fake tan, baby wipe and faux-leather coat industries.
Resources - Tourism - Banking - Stripping. The four pillars of the economy!
But here you are. And here they are.
It's reality, you just have to swallow it.
[Look]
You are on a street lined with small stores. Only a small percentage is convenient or useful. You have no idea who is occupying the demanding niche market that supports the others.
To the south, the train station.
To the north - the long road to your apartment.
[Look at shops]
Let's break it down - micro-economics style:
Four nail salons. Also providing waxing!
Three hair dressers. Two barbers.
Two bakeries.
Two real estate agents.
A video store.
Four fried-chicken stores.
Two fruit stores.
An indian take-away.
To summarise:
Food. The management of keratin. Audio visual entertainment and sleazy property-slinging.
None of which you desire at present.
[Look at video store]
Upcoming releases....
One man shoots, and learns to love.
One man loves, and learns to shoot.
A man and a woman overcome their differences, adversity, and learn to love.
A 3D animated bowling ball and a group of bowling pins teach us - via allegory, that anything is possible with the power of love.
Tagline: You'll love it!
[Look at chicken store]
It's like some poultry Auschwitz. Chicken Dachau.
In one hundred years, we'll be headed toward a barnyard reconciliation. Enshrining the rights of poultry within the constitution. Every business must meet a goose-hiring quota. A rooster for President in 3011!
"Yes - we cluck."
[Look at fruit store]
Bananas, apples. They're the staples.
Oranges, mandarins... drink a juice. They're really too labor-intensive.
Anything with a seed capable of choking an adolescent.... keep walking.
And spines? That's not even a fruit. It's a tree-borne insult.
[Look at real estate]
"You will be happy here"
There is something ominous about that statement. You imagine dark hoods painted with luminous smiling faces - they wear blood spattered smocks. You wake with a start but it's too late.
You've never met an estate agent that you didn't want to see chopped-up.
Statistically - that's either owing to your lack of experience, or the fact that estate agents are generally fodder.
You'll reserve judgement until you establish a good sample size.
[Look at bakery]
Refined flour. Refined sugar. Ironically, there is nothing refined about the people who enjoy this business.
Occasionally.... once a year, you will eat an eclair. Before the fact, you will think: I'm sure they're great. It's a dessert. It should be great.
After the fact, you will think: I cannot believe I have committed the next few hours of my life to digesting this business.
[Look at hairdresser]
Short back and sides. Leave the top a little longer than average. No product. No water. Ten dollars.
You can summarise the way the industry should operate in a few simple directives.
But, that's scarcely the reality.
You - you have turned to kitchen scissors.
It bothers you that hairdressers don't tend to wear gloves. You couldn't be paid enough to touch some stranger's greasy hair.
[Look at nail artist]
You look at your nails. You look at the posters. Back to your nails. Back to the posters.
You don't understand the nail aspect. That's a given.
You're reasonably sure that Strippers are the majority supporters of the nail salon, fake tan, baby wipe and faux-leather coat industries.
Resources - Tourism - Banking - Stripping. The four pillars of the economy!
Episode Two: Street
The road is almost perfectly straight, lined with cars, flanked by sidewalk, by low bushes, trees, mail-slots in blonde-brick walls, and balconies - proudly displaying their damp clothes on drying racks.
Still suburbia. Still existent.
[Look]
You are on the footpath. No matter how many years you live here, how many times you walk the path - every day you exclaim to yourself: "I have never noticed that x before".
To the north lies your apartment block.
To the south, the street continues.
[South]
This street is a wonder of ideological symmetry, you can say that with certainty.
You remember, in art class at school - you would create brown paint by mixing every other color together.
Inelegant? Yes.
This street-scene, it reminds you of that little anecdote.
[Look]
The street is grey, the sky is blue, the clouds are white, the trees are dusty, the cars likewise.
A long-silent construction area has been fenced-off to the right. At some stage somebody has decided to construct an apartment block, and... pre-completion, the project had just petered out.
You imagine they're at home, constructing toy railways or... playing with slotcars.
Their wife walks in... "Honey, are you ever going to finish that apartment?"
A silence. He stares into space.
"Oh. I don't know. Maybe".
Back to the slot cars.
To the north, the street approaches your apartment.
To the south, there is a small cluster of stores.
[Look at building site]
Building sites are universally dark places. Windows had been fitted, now all but shattered by bored adolescents.
A pile of loose stones and chunks of brick rests against a makeshift wall of timber.
[Look at pile]
The stones are roughly the size of golf-balls. But dense.
You wonder if they were a side-effect of the construction effort, or a side effect of the desire to smash the windows. Somebody seems to have stockpiled them either way. This is definitely a manufactured effort.
[Take brick]
You take a chunk of brick from the pile.
[Look at brick]
A quarter house-brick, in a burnt-orange color.
[South]
Still suburbia. Still existent.
[Look]
You are on the footpath. No matter how many years you live here, how many times you walk the path - every day you exclaim to yourself: "I have never noticed that x before".
To the north lies your apartment block.
To the south, the street continues.
[South]
This street is a wonder of ideological symmetry, you can say that with certainty.
You remember, in art class at school - you would create brown paint by mixing every other color together.
Inelegant? Yes.
This street-scene, it reminds you of that little anecdote.
[Look]
The street is grey, the sky is blue, the clouds are white, the trees are dusty, the cars likewise.
A long-silent construction area has been fenced-off to the right. At some stage somebody has decided to construct an apartment block, and... pre-completion, the project had just petered out.
You imagine they're at home, constructing toy railways or... playing with slotcars.
Their wife walks in... "Honey, are you ever going to finish that apartment?"
A silence. He stares into space.
"Oh. I don't know. Maybe".
Back to the slot cars.
To the north, the street approaches your apartment.
To the south, there is a small cluster of stores.
[Look at building site]
Building sites are universally dark places. Windows had been fitted, now all but shattered by bored adolescents.
A pile of loose stones and chunks of brick rests against a makeshift wall of timber.
[Look at pile]
The stones are roughly the size of golf-balls. But dense.
You wonder if they were a side-effect of the construction effort, or a side effect of the desire to smash the windows. Somebody seems to have stockpiled them either way. This is definitely a manufactured effort.
[Take brick]
You take a chunk of brick from the pile.
[Look at brick]
A quarter house-brick, in a burnt-orange color.
[South]
Episode Two: Front of house
Well here you are. The wide, wild world. It's all ... dusty and... loud and... disturbingly non-theoretical.
The wind carries the combined scent of dogs and diesel and toast and alcohol-heavy perfume, and your shoes kick up pebbles along the asphalt.
Everything is happening... simultaneously. You're in a domestic petri dish.
Here outside your little subset of the world.
You aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
[Look]
You are on the street, in front of your apartment block. It is a dull, temperate, moderate, average day.
An obnoxiously-colored sports-utility-vehicle is parked both on the road and on the sidewalk.
Your mailbox is smirking maliciously from its place along a low brick wall.
To the north, your apartment.
To the south - the street continues.
[Look at car]
It's bright blue. Bright - royal - 100% saturated blue. It has bright silver rims, and pitch black tinting over the windows.
Whoever owns this piece of engineering... you rest easy knowing that he is likely rotting slowly from VD and hair-gel poisoning.
[Look at mailbox]
Once - it was an efficient method of communication over distance. Now, it is an obnoxious method by which to rub your face in bureaucracy.
Every time you are given "Warm Regards" or "Kind Regards" or "Best Wishes" - the doomsday clock inches one tick closer to midnight.
[Use mailbox]
You open the mailbox. It is empty. You heart-rate slows slightly. You sigh. For now - you are safe. For now - the world is safe.
[South]
The wind carries the combined scent of dogs and diesel and toast and alcohol-heavy perfume, and your shoes kick up pebbles along the asphalt.
Everything is happening... simultaneously. You're in a domestic petri dish.
Here outside your little subset of the world.
You aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
[Look]
You are on the street, in front of your apartment block. It is a dull, temperate, moderate, average day.
An obnoxiously-colored sports-utility-vehicle is parked both on the road and on the sidewalk.
Your mailbox is smirking maliciously from its place along a low brick wall.
To the north, your apartment.
To the south - the street continues.
[Look at car]
It's bright blue. Bright - royal - 100% saturated blue. It has bright silver rims, and pitch black tinting over the windows.
Whoever owns this piece of engineering... you rest easy knowing that he is likely rotting slowly from VD and hair-gel poisoning.
[Look at mailbox]
Once - it was an efficient method of communication over distance. Now, it is an obnoxious method by which to rub your face in bureaucracy.
Every time you are given "Warm Regards" or "Kind Regards" or "Best Wishes" - the doomsday clock inches one tick closer to midnight.
[Use mailbox]
You open the mailbox. It is empty. You heart-rate slows slightly. You sigh. For now - you are safe. For now - the world is safe.
[South]
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