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extinction
  • 313277.1507

    Spencer Weart's Nuclear Fear (Googlebooks link) is one of the more compelling accounts of the Atomic Age since he deals with the pop-mythology aspects of an apocalyptic technology. Though labeled a history of images there is not a single diagram, image or photograph in the book. Palpable fears of immolation conflict simultaneously with absurd, extreme propaganda and planning. There is a suggestion that rational thinking alters in differing scales once push-buttom wars appear possible.  Below is a list of salient questions offered a mid-level History class.

  • 313277.1029

    Leave 1984 and Brave New World in the dust. Move onto the dystopias of their futures.

  • 313273.0626

  • 313272.1512
  • 313265.2046

    The (co?)rebooter of Batman, Hollywood's finest hallucinator is about to take over from bland, rambling Lost and vault consciousness into an adult-theme park ride called Apocalypse and hide it in the veiled promise called Flash Forward.  Be prepared for the show of the year.

  • 313239.1447

    "It is our despair at the textural inadequacies of

    language that drives us to heighten the structural ones toward"

    From the back cover:

    "THE SUN HAS GROWN DEADLY...

    THE WORLD HAS GONE MAD, SOCIETY HAS

    PERISHED, SAVAGERY RULES

    OVER ALL. ALL THAT WAS KNOWN 

    IS OVER, ALL THAT WAS FAMILIAR IS

    STRANGE AND TERRIBLE. TODAY

    AND YESTERDAY COLLIDE WITH TOMORROW.

    IN THESE DYING DAYS OF EARTH, 
    A YOUNG DRIFTER ENTERS THE CITY"

     

    The book William Gibson wrote an introduction for and admitted he didn't understand. If Cormac McCarthy has a counterpart in masterpiece science-fiction, it is Dhalgren, the most absurdly accurate 'apocalypse' set in some form of earth, in a time-frame no one is exactly sure about. And hallucinations occur sometimes in words that no longer exist. It will be the masterpiece that outlives us and tells future generations what we really knew about the decay of knowledge and the oral histories that will travel along our children's, children's children. Memories barely of the beginings of the end: "the riot began with a murder, some say it was a plane that crashed. No one really knows. That was the time of fear." The hero is an amnesiac who is labelled "The Kid" and enters the soon to be mythic city of Bellona, only now its inhabitants live mostly in memories, and whatever fragments of life cab be scraped by temporarily, since cities have no purpose except to store mass memories and here, there are none being made. Just living from cans, having sex, and fighting and sometimes group socialization. Oh, wait, it sounds like our present day cities, only without electricity, cars, running water... The following chapter heading paragraphs transition to third-person immediately afterwards.

    "2  It is not that I have no past. Rather, it continually fragments on the terrible and vivid ephemera of now. In the long country, cut with rain, somehow there is nowhere to begin. Loping and limping in the ruts, it would be easier not to think about what she did (was done to her, done to her, done), trying instead to reconstruct what it is at a distance. Oh, but it would not be so terrible had one calf not borne (if I'd look close, it would have been a chain of tiny wounds with moments of flesh between; I've done that myself with a swipe in a garden past a rose) that scratch.

    II   Here I am and am no I. The circle in all, this change changing in winteress, a dawn circle with an image of, the autumn change with a change of mist. Mistake two pictures, one and another. No. Only in seasons of shortlight, only on dead afternoons. I will not be sick again. I will not. You are here.

    ..How can I say that that is my prize possession? (They do not fade, neither those buildings or these.) Rather what we know as real is burned away at invisible heat. What we are concerned with is more insubstantial. I do not know. It is as simple as that. For the hundreth time, I do not know and cannot remember. I do not want to be sick again. I do not want to be sick."

     

  • 313232.0826

     The schism of representation in text versus representation in image will be our undoing in the west (and the planet).  Although we have not reached the end of imagination, we are now needlessly split between visual and text realms, and our fusion art (comics, linear and non-linear motion art) remains entertainment and not the goal of total knowledge storage: we use these mediums primarily as myth encryption.  Brain science suggests these are the evolutions awaiting us. The west at its peril chose aesthetic beauty over earlier ideas of true beauty (beauty then was not primarily visual), psychoanalytic over structural and post-structral, comparative over evolvement, the alphabet over the ideogrammatic glyph. As proof watch the declining literacy rates (how many books are actually read, not the awareness of grammar or vocabulary) of children that emerge from the videogame age and the nearly pathological attempts of educators to use these transmedia tools to teach them: complete disconnection. Still visual "art" in the west is our central decaying commodity of consciousness and it is still pantheonically absorbed into museums and homes, mummified palaces of structure, a control myth that is our undoing as a species that worships ancestors, phantoms, god-heads, and the scribes that contain them.  The future will require a shared, handwritten and keyable language that is compatible with neural anatomy and can fluidly compose computer code (shouldn't we be drawing code?), not a chiseled text-form that can inherently hide meaning from spoken thought. Arnheim's book is a primer for what to avoid in developing or perceiving visual culture, it is inherently psychoanalytic and disregards the basic biologies that interplay in language devlopment.

  • 313209.1352
  • 313197.1635

    Hunters from the Alaskan coastal town of Wainwright first noticed the dark, shiny substance floating for miles in the icy Arctic waters of the Chukchi sea, according to reports in the Anchorage Daily News.

    The odorous substance, which has been described variously as "goey", "gunky" and "hairy" has been also been found of the coast of Barrow, 72 miles north east of Wainwright.

    Samples of the huge "gobs of gunk" were taken on Friday by officials from the North Slope Borough, who flew out to Wainwright with the US Coast Guard to investigate. Jelly fish and a dead goose were found tangled up in stands of the substance.

    The "goo", which is believed to be formed of organic matter, is reportedly floating in strands of up to 15-miles long.

    The US Coast Guard told the Anchorage Daily News that the strange find is not an oil product or a hazardous substance of any kind.

    "It's definitely, by the smell and make-up of it, some sort of naturally occurring organic or otherwise marine organism," said Petty Officer 1st Class Terry Hasenauer.

    "In recent history I don't think we've seen anything like this," he added.

    Gordon Brower of the North Slope Borough's planning department described what he had seen floating in the Arctic sea.

    "From the air it looks brownish with some sheen, but when you get close and put it up on the ice and in the bucket, it's kind of blackish stuff and has hairy strands on it," he said.

    The samples of the substance taken by the coast guard are being analysed in Anchorage, with results expected next week.
     

  • 313193.0803

    found in http://www.palinfacts.com which is sometimes hilarious

    By T. Coddington Van Voorhees VII
    Columnist, The National Topsider
    Membership Chairman, The Newport Club

    If you are a conservative like me, you guffawed when you heard John McCain announced this declasse rube as a running mate, followed by good-natured applause, thinking it was some sort of whimsical campus prank he was reenacting from his Annapolis years. This was, of course, quickly followed the shock of realizing that he wasn't joking, and all that Hanoi unpleasantness had finally driven him around the bend.

    It's an inescapable conclusion that this woman has, in 6 short weeks, single-handedly destroyed the Republican party. Certainly George Bush may share some of the blame; but we conservatives must remember how our hopes were buoyed by his impressive bloodlines and Yale degree before we realized his excursion to Texas had caused him to "go native." But la Palin offers true conservatives no such extenuating graces. I mean, my God, this woman is simply awful; the elided vowels, the beauty pageantry, the guns, the crude non-Episcopal protestantism, the embarrassing porchload of children with horrifying hillbilly names, the white after Labor Day. As fellow conservative commentator Andrew Sullivan quipped to me the other day outside a Martha's Vineyard antique shop, it's gratifying to know the Gipper isn't alive to see what has become of his party.

    But it's not just American conservatives who are appalled. Just last week conservative New York Times columnist David Brooks and I were enjoying an apres-badminton apertif at the family weekend house in Montauk with my good friend Viscount Klaus-Maria Von Wallensheim, the conservative EU Agricultural Pricing Minister with whom I shared an Alpine chalet and manservant during our years as classmates at a Swiss boarding school. "Kloonkie" (my old school appellation for the Viscount) reported the growing dismay of the Continental Right over Palin's embarrassing enthusiasm for childbirth and Israel.

    “Coddsie, old chap,” he warned, “You know I’ve always been America’s biggest defender in Monaco. But if you elect this ill-bred charwoman, I will be forced to move anchor to St. Tropez out of pure shame.”