artistic self-consciousness and wondered of the role of the artist in society, what his role might be for the future.
Tony, intellectual—whatever that could mean in this context—and sensitive, too much so, without any hope, with no kind of discernible future, carried a piece of charcoal in his hand and his sketchbook under his arm. Occasionally Tony stopped to draw something on the concrete, make an image, a sign, even just a few lines, while expressing his sadness to Hands.
Hands was against all the doom and gloom talk from pessimistic Tony.
“Man, I mean, shit, what the fuck. It’s all good, dude. Even this. There must be a plan. Maybe divine intervention. We just got to invent something new. That’s what my dad says,” said Hands passionately. Rather than doodle, he liked to fiddle with his hands, always playing with something like string or wood.
All they had ever known was war, disaster, and scarcity. “We got gypped,” as Tony often said. Kruger felt childhood memories of Mill Valley, the sense of being cheated by the world, with memories of something different that he could not possibly have ever experienced. Tony felt both superior to Hands in his insights and envious of Hands’ innocent vitality.
They had very little stuff. Food, water, even a place to sleep was getting problematic, let alone any hopes for urban renewal. SEC was over—Sacred Electric Connectivity. It was gone. According to Tony’s mother, SEC—it was really something, the sacred connectivity. Now most information technology was dead, and satellites in space had outlived their usefulness, and most had plunged from space.
The plug had been pulled. Technopolies almost killed us, said Tony’s mother. She said: We humans only need food, water, a place to sleep, and face-to-face connectivity. That’s all at a bare minimum. And that’s about all we have now. No more manufactured stuff, no more virtual reality
Stuff is dead; technology needs to invent something new, said Tony’s dad. New ways to live. Get business rolling again!
This was Kruger’s world—felt memories of Mill Valley, the sense of being cheated by the world, with memories of something different that he could not possibly have ever experienced and yet the bigger picture was much worse than what he imagined to be his alienation.
Tony’s mother said we needed to think outside of the box. Problem, she said, we’d been shut in a box with no possibility of escaping the box, let alone thinking. She hated euphemisms, she said. Things were fucked, no doubt about it. Didn’t have many objectives. Planning was a joke. It was unfair. It was not unfair. It is what it is. Fate. Don’t take it personal. God does not exist. God is punishing our hubris. This was her language, always speaking in dichotomies, testing contradictory points. The irony was beyond most people nowadays.
All the two teenagers really knew was the world was lacking . There were so many negatives. The information, the content, the explanations, and worse, the interpretations weren’t hopeful. The thing was, you didn’t know what to believe. War with billions dead, destruction, food running out, death camps, forced euthanasia, and basically, no more entertainment, let alone learning, had done a number on us, Tony thought. The world was fucked up.
Some said we were like apes in the primitive times of millions of years ago, but with more developed brains that would need to adapt more quickly.
Just as after any crisis, like a plague, the smart and brave would survive. But how could anybody really know? It was as if history had stopped.
They still had to go to school. They learned mathematics, the alphabet, how to read and write, though there was little to read or write, took gym, or at least an exercise class. “You are the future,” the elders pounded into them every day.
In school that day, both Hands and Tony had watched a performance by Mary Verme called “The Plague,” about the aftermath of
Tony, intellectual—whatever that could mean in this context—and sensitive, too much so, without any hope, with no kind of discernible future, carried a piece of charcoal in his hand and his sketchbook under his arm. Occasionally Tony stopped to draw something on the concrete, make an image, a sign, even just a few lines, while expressing his sadness to Hands.
Hands was against all the doom and gloom talk from pessimistic Tony.
“Man, I mean, shit, what the fuck. It’s all good, dude. Even this. There must be a plan. Maybe divine intervention. We just got to invent something new. That’s what my dad says,” said Hands passionately. Rather than doodle, he liked to fiddle with his hands, always playing with something like string or wood.
All they had ever known was war, disaster, and scarcity. “We got gypped,” as Tony often said. Kruger felt childhood memories of Mill Valley, the sense of being cheated by the world, with memories of something different that he could not possibly have ever experienced. Tony felt both superior to Hands in his insights and envious of Hands’ innocent vitality.
They had very little stuff. Food, water, even a place to sleep was getting problematic, let alone any hopes for urban renewal. SEC was over—Sacred Electric Connectivity. It was gone. According to Tony’s mother, SEC—it was really something, the sacred connectivity. Now most information technology was dead, and satellites in space had outlived their usefulness, and most had plunged from space.
The plug had been pulled. Technopolies almost killed us, said Tony’s mother. She said: We humans only need food, water, a place to sleep, and face-to-face connectivity. That’s all at a bare minimum. And that’s about all we have now. No more manufactured stuff, no more virtual reality
Stuff is dead; technology needs to invent something new, said Tony’s dad. New ways to live. Get business rolling again!
This was Kruger’s world—felt memories of Mill Valley, the sense of being cheated by the world, with memories of something different that he could not possibly have ever experienced and yet the bigger picture was much worse than what he imagined to be his alienation.
Tony’s mother said we needed to think outside of the box. Problem, she said, we’d been shut in a box with no possibility of escaping the box, let alone thinking. She hated euphemisms, she said. Things were fucked, no doubt about it. Didn’t have many objectives. Planning was a joke. It was unfair. It was not unfair. It is what it is. Fate. Don’t take it personal. God does not exist. God is punishing our hubris. This was her language, always speaking in dichotomies, testing contradictory points. The irony was beyond most people nowadays.
All the two teenagers really knew was the world was lacking . There were so many negatives. The information, the content, the explanations, and worse, the interpretations weren’t hopeful. The thing was, you didn’t know what to believe. War with billions dead, destruction, food running out, death camps, forced euthanasia, and basically, no more entertainment, let alone learning, had done a number on us, Tony thought. The world was fucked up.
Some said we were like apes in the primitive times of millions of years ago, but with more developed brains that would need to adapt more quickly.
Just as after any crisis, like a plague, the smart and brave would survive. But how could anybody really know? It was as if history had stopped.
They still had to go to school. They learned mathematics, the alphabet, how to read and write, though there was little to read or write, took gym, or at least an exercise class. “You are the future,” the elders pounded into them every day.
In school that day, both Hands and Tony had watched a performance by Mary Verme called “The Plague,” about the aftermath of
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