Free Write - Industrial Internet Musing

I've let some of the ideas from the internet of things/industrial internet flow. I still don't have a plot, but it feels like a rich world to work in. I wanted to get some writing done--to get back in the practice and since I have the time--but couldn't focus much on Vincenzi. I like this--though I haven't reread it--just as a musing/exercise. It is not  a story, though it makes sense that it is part of one. I can also consider doing a sort of Jennifer Egan Visit From the Goon Squad sort of meandering narrative perspective thing. For the phones, I'm totally stealing from design fiction and Borealis's phones (basically iPhones that just look like glass slabs) and imagining plenty of Bluetooth/wireless communication between objects. Oh, then there's the inter-object data gathering.

Supposing I'll work through this more, I figure the man will have to get a name. That said, I like how he gets to be a sort of object in space while his phone and other gadgetry is more communicative than he is. There is a sort of gravitational pull toward competing theories of technology: Are the objects moving us through predetermined space or are we developing a world where technology allows us to move more smoothly through space? It is Frederick Kittler inspired--thanks to Too Much Information's Four Big Ideas show--which means I should be doing some more research (such as Kittler and Tom McCarthy's C). It would also tie in nicely to a statistical technologist role that gets to be the new Leviathan as it defines the directions of others' lives through predictive statistical models.

Maybe I'm shouting in the dark these days. I think I'm trying to make sense of my own reliance on technology in the context of an expanding (I started out with "growing," but feel that is too organic) technical space. This technical space/network is part of the working title, "EcoTechnics," which suggests a technical ecosystem that may be complementary but just as likely is competitive with organic systems.

The last bit is that this feels slightly utopian and dystopian at the same time. On one end, we have technology making our lives easier, on the other the technology further enslaves us to the alienation and false consciousness of such a world.

Enjoy... I hope!

...

At 06:23 the shades begin to turn, casting the room in warm amber hues, but still lanced with dark shadows. The body stirs and coolant runs through the mattress, gradually lowering the temperature in the bed while memory threads in the comforter shrink, responding to the new light. A ghostly form seems to draw the sheets from the sleeping body. He is in a fetal position, his right hand nestles close to his face. A small gurgling sound can be heard coming from the kitchenette. The closet door slides open and an outfit creaks out into the open room.

The man groans, but it is quiet. He feebly reaches for the comforter but it is already near his ankles. Without rubbing his eyes, he rolls off the bed onto his feet and they make small smacking noises. Invisibly, the finished concrete had warmed in preparation for his touch. It is 6:24 and the smell of Arabica with just a hint of chocolate is in the air. He grabs at the clothes set aside to him by the closet, tosses them onto the kitchen counter, pours himself a full mug of coffee. A strategic half cup remains in the pot. The seat of the pot has shut off, but its residual heat maintains the thin lake of java.

The kitchen is softly flouresced and a subtle trip hop tempo emanates from everywhere and nowhere. The light is sun-like, but dim, mirroring the dawn outside. A glass topped table adjacent to the slim, black sofa glimmers with a slow flashing blue: a small ring of keys--two small cards, two traditional metal cuttings, and a fifth key cut from plastic in the shape of a crude single tumbler key--sit atop it. Near the door, another table glimmers in an opposing pattern: a clean glass rectangle sits next to a slim, faux-leather billfold. The billfold matches the couch. A face of the man looks out from the billfold and glistens with holographic watermarks.

A digital clock with an analog faces reads: 6:38. The man is dressed and the remains of a slender bagel sit on the counter. He finishes his coffee and takes a small, blue bill from off an illuminated circle of the counter and smashes it between his teeth. There are slight flashes as breath freshening crystals crackle in his mouth. The light in the room now matches outside. The clock bleeps unevenly every two to five seconds encouragingly. The tables with his items are flashing more quickly, their counter-rhythms increasingly distracting. He snatches the keys and tosses them into a jacket pocket and the light flashes, then dims. He slides the billfold and glass panel phone into the same interior jacket pocket. The phone flashes a blushing face affectionately, but the man has seen it too many times to care. The time above the face reads 06:40. The bleeping clock quiets.

A rodent sized machine that resembles a dump truck and street sweeper whirs out to the bagel, tosses it briskly into its basket, and polishes the lighlty oiled countertop. Memory coils in the bed relax, small magnets draw the pillows to predetermined destinations, and the coffee pot runs a dilute sanitizing solution before draining it through a nearly invisible hole in the base.

The elevator door bings open just as the man turns the corner. A neatly dressed middle-aged woman is already in the elevator. A small earpiece murmurs headlines and stock prices into her ear. The two nod to each other; neither entertain dialogue. The elevator rapidly descendes while the man looks at his phone: a banner automatically displays a coffee date for 16:30 that has been arranged based on similar tastes in coffeeshops, films of the late 1990s, and both are "mostly vegetarian." He slides the banner and "Jezzie_Belle" tops the screen, a picture of a pale brunette with a tattoo on her collar sits in the middle, and a set of possible conversation starters read below it.  The woman sharing the elevator shifts and he puts the phone back into his pocket.

They step out into a clean, narrow marble hallway. A group of four are walking to the door and an elevator behind them rings once they step into the space. There is a steady flow of humanity as the eight elevators release their passengers. Outside a light drizzle is kept at bay by unfurled awnings. The woman walks into the street and into a taxi that stops just in front of her. The man strolls just along the perimeter of the awnings and feels the morning light and the gentle pinpricks of rain on his face. He doubletimes it to the bus as it pulls up. His phone has been bleeping and vibrating since he left the lobby and it stills itself as he hops on the bus.

He slides the billfold over a scanner which flashes from dull blue to a bright, happy green. The second to last passenger slides three crumpled bills beneath the scanner while the driver grumbles. The man ascends the narrow staircase to the second story, the pattering drizzle calling to him. He taps two earbuds into place and a low droning music harmonizes with the tamber. Four rows of seats are marked by green lights along the floor; he chooses the middle-most row and the rightward window seat, sliding into it as the bus picks up speed. His phone reads 6:52 and shows a map of the route with two stops circled in red; he taps one and the phone flashes a gleeful emoji. The man smiles back and another emoji, surprised and red-cheeked flashes onscreen before the man turns to the streetscape outside.

The early morning had promised light, scattered clouds, a day of warmth, it had soured into a gray mishmash of mottled lines, a few dashes in the clouds letting in sunbeams unevenly reflecting off of the tall buildings. The awnings were now entirely unfurled to protect pedestrians, though the man noticed several struggling against damaged mechanisms. A yellow glow on the opposite side of the bus drew his attention and he looked outward; down a street cut into the buildings there was a flash of double rainbows. His phone buzzed satisfyingly, emitting some Fat Buddha grin, though it remained in his pocket.

He flipped through current events on his phone, banners flashing as familiar people boarded the bus--a young man he'd met at a bar over pool, a red-headed woman he eyed at the grocery store but had not spoken with, a coworker from a different department, a cousin he might see at weddings and funerals. Each flash gave him a chance to turn away in case they ascended to the second storey--or, in the case of the red-head, turned to expectantly. Despite the warnings, the man was nearly alone as he scanned headlines and streetlife. A light smile flits on his lips as he reads.