26 Years Ago….on Intelligent Machines
Perhaps it is always hard to see the bigger impact while you are in the vortex of a change. Failing to understand the consequences of our inventions while we are in the rapture of discovery and innovation seems to be a common fault of scientists and technologists; we have long been driven by the overarching desire to know that is the nature of science’s quest, not stopping to notice that the progress to newer and more powerful technologies can take on a life of its own.
Bill Joy. (2000) ‘Why the Future Doesn’t Need Us’, Wired, 1 April. Available at: https://www.wired.com/2000/04/joy-2/
Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds
People send in questions to Nick Cave, and it’s easy to recognise what kind of man is writing back.
Agustina from Argentina asked: How do I make my partner not the centre of my world?
Nick:
I am not the one to advise on how to keep love at a sensible distance, Agustina. Against the advice of an army of therapists, analysts, 12-step sponsors, life-coaches, hypnotists and TED Talkers, my wife and I remain committed to full-on emotional enmeshment, a massive dose of co-dependency, some good old maladaptive caretaking, and a fair amount of enslavement. I am a happy planet helplessly orbiting my wife, the sun; I am her vassal, her monkey on a chain, in her thrall, drunk on her, lost to her. I suspect if you asked her, she’d say she’s the planet, and I’m the sun, but that would be her being modest. Whatever the case, we are better together and a mess apart, fully entangled, all in, happily doomed. By the way, there was an eclipse last night, marking, amongst other things, twenty-seven years of our marriage. How thoughtful of the cosmos to have remembered.
(Source)
Substack
I’ve been encouraged to post on Substack for many years. I tried it again recently. And it felt a lot worse than last time. I don’t entirely trust myself to remain unaffected by the incentive structure surrounding me. The engagement metrics, the comments, the types of posts that do “well”….all risk shaping me in subtle ways.
I want a little quiet corner of the internet, to preserve my mind’s ability to wander, where nobody is rewarding me for being any particular version of myself. Sorry.
Challenge systems, but be kind to people
Dry With Dark Undertones
Friend: ..just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you surprise me again
Me: Friendship with me is like a fine wine
Friend: Better with age?
Me: No. Best kept locked in the basement
Cinemateca
The Last Picture Show was on at Cinemateca.
I got into an Uber wearing loose trousers, in case the old theatre didn’t have AC.
While we were driving, Portuguese radio was playing, and I realised I could understand many of the words. But not quickly enough to assemble them into a complete thought.
(Note: All conversations were actually in Portuguese.)
Me: What radio station is this?
Driver: [throws a sceptical look in the rearview mirror and says something quietly]
Me: Pardon?
Driver: It’s Observador.
Me: Ah, thanks. I could really use this to help my Portuguese.
His face warms into a smile, followed by a mildly surprised little laugh.
I get to Cinemateca. There’s an older woman being served at the front desk.
After a few minutes of waiting, I realise there’s a bead of sweat rolling down my face. My calculations failed me. I walked too fast.
I wipe it away and turn around to check if I can catch a breeze from the doors behind me.
Instead, I turn directly into the face of a woman.
This startles both of us.
I’m too hot to be socially functional, so I turn back around and become a statue, hoping the entire incident disappears.
A few minutes later, the guy at the front desk looks over the elderly woman he’s serving and says something to me very quickly. I understood nothing.
Me: Uh… I already have a ticket. Can I just go ahead to the screen?
Him: Of course. You don’t need to wait here.
Excellent.
I start down a long, shadowy hallway looking for the screening room. I notice the woman who had been behind me in the queue is now literally just behind me again.
Me: Do you know where the screen is?
Her: Back and to the left, I think.
We eventually find the security guy outside. He has a scanner and is holding intense eye contact. No words. He must want a QR code. The woman behind me reaches a different conclusion and tries to walk in. The security guard places his arm against the doorway.
Her: Oh, can’t I buy tickets here? I didn’t want to keep waiting at the front desk. It’d take forever.
Me: I have a spare one if you’d like.
Her: Ah, let me give you the cash.
Me: No need. It’s a spare.
Her: You bought it by accident?
Me: I always buy two tickets to things. Just to tempt fate.
Her: …
We go in and split ways.
She takes one of the easily accessible seats. I spot an empty one further up, which requires making several people stand up to let me through.
High effort. High reward.
It’s a great seat.
I settle in, beads of sweat still forming on my forehead. I stay as still as possible to prevent attracting further attention.
A few minutes later, I notice people in my row passing coins, stacked between their thumb and index fingers, towards me from the other side.
“It’s from some lady” says the man sitting nearby.
A snazzy hotel lobby or a fancy car
Me: …
A cat napping on that fancy car, or a neat little apple pyramid at the fruit shop
Me: Nice
Open Doors
Some evenings ago, I was walking home past a pet rescue centre.
There was a bit of a kerfuffle. A van was parked awkwardly, with around nine people shuffling a few distressed dogs between the van and the centre, all with very serious faces.
I walked unusually slowly, trying to work out what was going on.
A few steps later, I noticed an elderly woman standing in the doorway of a residential building. She was beckoning me over, palms down, curling her fingers towards herself.
Me?
She nodded.
Both her hands were covered in clear plastic bags. Beside her was one of those wheelie shopping trolleys elderly people cruise the streets with.
She explained that she needed help getting up to her apartment.
I looked around.
[London risk assessment reflex.]
Then I looked back at her. Tiny elderly woman. Plastic bags on her hands. Shopping trolley.
I decided to risk it.
The front door to the building was heavy. Properly heavy. I pulled it open and held it while she slowly wheeled her trolley through.
Then we reached the elevators. Another heavy door.
I opened it, stepped inside with her, and asked which floor. As we went up, I noticed a large bandage across her chest.
She asked where I was from.
“London.”
And whether I liked Portugal.
“Yes. I really wish I’d come sooner.”
She told me she didn’t have any family in the country, and also she’s been poorly after a recent operation.
The elevator stopped. And I held the door open while she made her way out, waiting until she’d made it into her apartment.
We wished each other good night.
Then I headed back to the ground floor, stepping outside through the kind of doors I’d opened without much thought thousands of times in other buildings.
I wondered what exactly had just happened.
Whether this was a normal thing here. Whether elderly Portuguese women regularly select strangers for small acts of manual assistance.