I’m reading again, finally, suddenly
I’m nearly through Charlie Stross’ 2001-2005 epic ‘Accelerando.’ It’s growing on me, I’m surprised to report. I couldn’t stand the neo-Wired infotopian independent agent bullshit Stross opened the book with and it was an effort to wade through the spurtwangled neo-randian tcp-orn nonsense to get to something that interested me either literarily or as a genre fiction fan.
Somewhat aggravatingly, the material that finally caught my eye is disappointingly derivationist holodeck cyberscape fantasy with the lightest dusting of hard lightspeed S!F! atop it, literal stardust over princesses, BEMs, and sultans. Still, it’s witty enough.
Viv and I watched Stephen Frear’s 2002 emigrant melodrama ‘Dirty Pretty Things’ tonight and while we both really liked the first act I became distracted as the film progressed. In the end we both liked the film but I’m still puzzling over my own relative declension of interest over the film’s run time.
By now, I’d like to think I’ve pretty much given up expecting to find prose or film that makes me feel similar to the way I did the year I first encountered punk rock, or sex, or the internet. I just don’t care about it, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because the folks creating the material are less creative or even for that matter using a creative grammar that confounds my comprehension.
It’s that I really just don’t give a shit and can’t be bothered to try to clinb inside those pretty pretty heads any more.
This also underlies my ongoing radio silence here, as my I find own critical insights deadly boring these days, and the act of recording them seems venal waste of time, in the absence of revenue.
So, um, expect more non-posting, I guess!