the ramble dump
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Quiet Fish
It was a codename: Quiet Fish.
I had to find him. Or her. Or maybe I'd find out it was a whole damn organisation. I grabbed my long coat and stylish hat and took to the streets, swishing this way and that like a man with a purpose. It's what I was good at.
I went a few places, gleaned some intel from the hotspots for rumours. I asked them all the same: 'Do you know Quiet Fish?' I could sense it--the question was unwelcome. Some eyed me suspiciously; others took a step back. Occasionally I dispensed with the method of cautious enquiry and blurted the name straight out. Turns out that got people looking pretty shocked. Eyebrows leapt so high they haven't been seen since.
I tipped my fedora at the barman in a sleazy bar downtown. The place was filled with grim neon and smoke, and the same old sly, saxophonic blues. Once he'd slid my seventh whiskey across the bartop, I asked the barman, 'Do you know Quiet Fish?'
'Quiet Fish?' He looked contemplative. 'Well, detective, I never even heard about a fish that talked.'
'You think it's hiding something?' I prompted.
The barman looked uneasy. 'I don't think fish can talk, detective,' he replied, rag and glass in his hand. 'They just...' He paused to demonstrate, staring glassy-eyed and forming a small circle with his mouth, which he opened and closed a few times.
'Hm,' I said.
'I once knew a shark,' said a bearded man beside me, leaning drunkenly forward on his stool, 'who, everywhere he went, was accompanied by these same couple of notes over and over. Kind of like you and your saxophonic blues,' he said, nodding at me. 'After a while it pissed him off. I heard he got violent. Terrorised some island village.'
I grunted and knocked back the whiskey. 'Well, thank you, gentlemen,' I said, tipping my hat once more, this time at a more roguish and not entirely sober angle.
I stepped out onto the street. Saxophonic blues hung off me like cigarette smoke, and I saw what he'd meant.
'Quiet Fish, Quiet Fish...' I muttered. I stumbled jagged lines down the street, trying to figure out the problem of my legs.
Quiet Fish watched me from the shadows. His eyes and mouth were perfectly circular, and he stared after me as I fell stylishly onto my face.
I had to find him. Or her. Or maybe I'd find out it was a whole damn organisation. I grabbed my long coat and stylish hat and took to the streets, swishing this way and that like a man with a purpose. It's what I was good at.
I went a few places, gleaned some intel from the hotspots for rumours. I asked them all the same: 'Do you know Quiet Fish?' I could sense it--the question was unwelcome. Some eyed me suspiciously; others took a step back. Occasionally I dispensed with the method of cautious enquiry and blurted the name straight out. Turns out that got people looking pretty shocked. Eyebrows leapt so high they haven't been seen since.
I tipped my fedora at the barman in a sleazy bar downtown. The place was filled with grim neon and smoke, and the same old sly, saxophonic blues. Once he'd slid my seventh whiskey across the bartop, I asked the barman, 'Do you know Quiet Fish?'
'Quiet Fish?' He looked contemplative. 'Well, detective, I never even heard about a fish that talked.'
'You think it's hiding something?' I prompted.
The barman looked uneasy. 'I don't think fish can talk, detective,' he replied, rag and glass in his hand. 'They just...' He paused to demonstrate, staring glassy-eyed and forming a small circle with his mouth, which he opened and closed a few times.
'Hm,' I said.
'I once knew a shark,' said a bearded man beside me, leaning drunkenly forward on his stool, 'who, everywhere he went, was accompanied by these same couple of notes over and over. Kind of like you and your saxophonic blues,' he said, nodding at me. 'After a while it pissed him off. I heard he got violent. Terrorised some island village.'
I grunted and knocked back the whiskey. 'Well, thank you, gentlemen,' I said, tipping my hat once more, this time at a more roguish and not entirely sober angle.
I stepped out onto the street. Saxophonic blues hung off me like cigarette smoke, and I saw what he'd meant.
'Quiet Fish, Quiet Fish...' I muttered. I stumbled jagged lines down the street, trying to figure out the problem of my legs.
Quiet Fish watched me from the shadows. His eyes and mouth were perfectly circular, and he stared after me as I fell stylishly onto my face.
Labels: fish
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
God Does Not Want Me to Eat Fruit
Today, in an effort to be healthy, I bought an apple for 35p.
It has since acquired some kind of disease.
Will trade for salt and vinegar crisps.
It has since acquired some kind of disease.
Will trade for salt and vinegar crisps.
Labels: apples, disease, morality
Friday, November 09, 2007
Amendment to Accusation
Headplugs!
So my biggest issue with the rather vague explanations provided in The Matrix trilogy for all the stopping-the-Sentinels business at the end of the second film was that they didn't seem to stand (or, at least, stood shakily) on the logic of the world(s) presented. It was the whole Matrix/real world link: even supposing the Machines could reconfigure a human 'consciousness' -- so that Smith could take over Bane, or so that Neo could establish a connection with the Source -- how, in the case of the latter, could a human brain transmit (wirelessly or otherwise) to be able to shut the Sentinels down?
I completely forgot about the headplugs.
It's not a certain answer, and still an improbable feat for a human brain (and sort of stretches the functionality of the headplug), but it works a lot better than the idea of straightforward telepathy. I got it from here. Headplugs might also help to explain the reason for the strange yellow blindcode.
All scientifics provided, I still maintain that all the things the Wachowski Brothers were trying to allude to at times got a bit too heavy at the expense of the narrative and characters -- and in some of the events of the third film especially, there's still the feeling that some characters have been reduced to fulfilling some symbolic function. But I'm going to have to retract, at least in part, the comments I levelled at the films in this post. Potentially, at least (because the films, in all their vaguery, still don't explicitly answer it, and it's not like the Brothers have any good reason for being so vague on a technical aspect), the issue can be addressed.
Wachowskis 1, Chris 0.
So my biggest issue with the rather vague explanations provided in The Matrix trilogy for all the stopping-the-Sentinels business at the end of the second film was that they didn't seem to stand (or, at least, stood shakily) on the logic of the world(s) presented. It was the whole Matrix/real world link: even supposing the Machines could reconfigure a human 'consciousness' -- so that Smith could take over Bane, or so that Neo could establish a connection with the Source -- how, in the case of the latter, could a human brain transmit (wirelessly or otherwise) to be able to shut the Sentinels down?
I completely forgot about the headplugs.
It's not a certain answer, and still an improbable feat for a human brain (and sort of stretches the functionality of the headplug), but it works a lot better than the idea of straightforward telepathy. I got it from here. Headplugs might also help to explain the reason for the strange yellow blindcode.
All scientifics provided, I still maintain that all the things the Wachowski Brothers were trying to allude to at times got a bit too heavy at the expense of the narrative and characters -- and in some of the events of the third film especially, there's still the feeling that some characters have been reduced to fulfilling some symbolic function. But I'm going to have to retract, at least in part, the comments I levelled at the films in this post. Potentially, at least (because the films, in all their vaguery, still don't explicitly answer it, and it's not like the Brothers have any good reason for being so vague on a technical aspect), the issue can be addressed.
Wachowskis 1, Chris 0.
Labels: cyberpunk, i am the ramblemaster, rabbit-hole theory, the matrix
