ok, that’s weird. I just published a saved draft of something I started writing up a while ago but just published. But it has the date of when I first started typing it. Hmm. Blogger strangeness.
Almost as tired as I look: No wait that’s the other way around.
House!!!: Our new house! That we’re renting in Delray Beach.
takeoff
- B: Can you just tell me what the rent is?
- Realtor: No.
- B: Okay, then.
- (click)
"Artists create art because it is the only reasonable alternative to an unreasonable situation"
— Jeff Schneider
Coffee shop blogging again: digging the picknik exposure tools! and, as usual, I only ever blog from the coffee shop. Well, almost only. I wrote something out on Sunday but haven’t posted it yet, because I got lazy with adding pictures to it.
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All of which illustrates a peculiar thing about science fiction: people expect it to predict the future. All H. G. Wells had to say was “shit’s going to blow up in 1940”, and everyone thought he was fucking Nostradamus. The label stuck – science fiction was about predicting the future.
Only it’s not. It can’t be. The future is a moving target. It’s not predictable like the weather – and even weather forecasting misses the odd devastating hurricane. Science fiction’s never going to tell you what you’ll be doing next year. What it really does is use speculation to examine the present-day condition – but it can, however, warn you about possible futures.
"
G. Love at SunFest
