jemimahknight

Frilling and Pinteresting

Brace yourself for a little ranty-pants session.

Pinterest has been howling around my networks like pertinent lolcat lately. I like it, I see it is for commerce and I’ve been trying it watchfully, as you might with new web toys. As a former art student, it’s hardly surprising that I might like to play with a toy that works on gathering pretty pictures.

Beyond this, I’ve been rather naturally reading the take on this site from friends and connections.

 ”OMG! It’s fulla wimmins things, all frilly an pink and there’s shoes!”

Mostly – and it might be the way my online network radio is tuned – I’ve read a lot of “OMG! It’s fulla wimmins things, all frilly an pink and there’s shoes!” (I may be exaggerating.) That was mostly from menfolk. The womenfolk I follow seem to have been using Pinterest and connecting to one another, feeling their way and deciding whether to use it.

The gender divide and the way that girls and boys perceive and use their technology intrigues me. There’s a fault already in this post – which you might have already spotted, but it is pertinent and will be my third point.

First point being – there does seem to be a lot of apparently feminine content on Pinterest and I think it might be the first time that I have seen this pattern in adoption – the rules of old chivalry – Ladies First. So. Good.

“When did you last join a site, forum or online area where you were not already in your echo chamber or surrounded by everyone you know on other sites?”

Second point being more of a question – “When did you last join a site, forum or online area where you were not already in your echo chamber or surrounded by everyone you know on other sites?” I see it, and do it a lot. In many ways, I like it – it means there are friends and innovators around to lead the way and discuss things…although on Google+ it was mildly insane for weeks, folk seemed to post nothing but thoughts on where they were. It was like being at a bus stop surrounded by friends describing the bus stop.

Pinterest has drawn me out a little bit, into an area of the web where there are fewer familiar people and exposed me to their pictorial influences. (I’m not selling it here, this is my experience and I am watching how their ecommerce tie ins develop.) This in turn has led me onward to other sites too, many blogs and interesting places I would not normally go to.

In a classic action of stating the bloody obvious, the population of the web is huge and though there are a few people I would rather not hang out with, there’s an incalculable amount that I have not met and do not know about. So, going to a site, with unfamiliar surroundings, feels a bit like travelling to a new and interesting place.

I am glad that there are women on the web who are not nerds. Now, you’ll all know that I love nerdy women who inspire me pretty much every day. They spur me on to do better. But there are also many women displaying great examples in areas that I might not immediately explore and they doubtless have routes online that I do not know. Who better to guide me?

The third and final point is related to my opener here. Because I follow tech opinion and (throw rocks if you like) this field is still somewhat dominated by men, then of course I will hear menfolk whining about a site with pretty things. That’s my own echo chamber and the new frilly place, is where I can break a hole in that and explore. I already know where to find the funny star wars pictures and comic book references, cars, coding tips and lolcats. (Don’t start, I know there are women there too and that we like this.)

Add your own picture of a scantily clad model washing a car in her knickers if it makes you feel better.

As an aggregation site grows, it will change. It’s just that girls seemed to work it out first. Before long I guess there will be more balanced input and maybe it will tip the other way when boys catch up.

I reckon though, stop your whinging and take a look around. Add your own picture of a scantily clad model washing a car in her knickers if it makes you feel better. There might be strange images and ideas, but do you want women to sound like men on the web? Do you not find the unfamiliar interesting? Then maybe you’re safe in your chamber.

Also – it’s not pink. Amen to that.

JK

What are you?

Happy New Year Y’all.

It’s blowing a gale of rain and dark outside my window and I’ve worked through the night. No better time to formulate a post right?

Something got stick in my craw over the festive period – maybe a little before and it was this -

Why are sign in processes asking me for my gender? Is it all down to stats and metrics and if so – is there a better way?

Basically I was using a big media video streaming service (not the one I work for if you’re so curious) and I was asked to sign in. Okay – no biggie so long as the process is not painful. One of the mandatory questions was gender and guess what – only two options.

It so happens that I do fit one of those options, but what if I was transgender or somewhere in the middle ground or frankly just not down with mandatory gender query processes?

I had a few instant thoughts that are not really fit for broadcast and then a lot of questions.
Why ask my gender – is it to steer me at “Women’s programming” in the traditional sense? If so – no thanks. Is it to steer the advertising towards women? Well – you know, I already wash and buy fem hygiene products and I don’t need nappies and…oh yah, I find gender stereotyping in ads really irritating! I do not wish to buy drapes while checking if my hair has the requisite amount of whatever it’s supposed to do this year.

My more coherent thought was one of metrics. (Though I suspect adverts are a stronger point). I look at metrics myself, it *is* interesting to see what ratio of people use a site and where they are, how old, which of many possible sex categories. But there’s something a bit invasive about it being a check box I can’t get past to see a product.

The benefit of course could be that I check the “F” box and change a stereotype – maybe there’s lots of girls like me who want to stream the best of Engineering and Science comedy programming and this might help other girls like me get to see neat things when they log in.

So what’s the solution for getting useful numbers if we don’t ask people about themselves and what are the questions you cannot ask – or maybe should be asking in a different way?

All thoughts welcome in the comments as ever…

JK

To face unafraid, the plans that he made

I made a note of this story about a month ago. I was considering stories for Christmas. Goodness knows how many iterations there are these days, but it was interesting to give it a try and play with the themes. Believe it or not, it was a bit more miserable in the first draft, I think it has a little bit more hope in it now, even if it’s still a bit melancholy.

Anyway. Merry Christmas.
JK

A young man sits alone in a padded chair with cables and wires running in and out of his frame. Electrical monitoring equipment records data about his body while various tubes flush his blood and system with cleaned fluids, minerals and nutrients.

Before him the annual screens of data flow past his eyes. Weather systems, environmental reports, world news and atmospheric readings. Lists of good deeds and misadventures. A planet’s population judged and divided. The man is preparing for another journey. His name is Nicholas. Now Nick.

While the equipment around him glows softly or emits the occasional tone and hum, it shines with new creation and hygienically reflective materials. The air around him is balanced to an optimum level in preparation for high speed travel. He feels good physically, but his mind is weary.

Over decades and years he has read widely, learned more than most would hope for in a lifetime. He has studied and created more than was thought possible when this all began. His charitable work earned him titles and accolades that he preferred to ignore. Some even called him a Saint, a title he found faintly embarrassing.

Nick barely left his compound, delegated meetings and administration to his staff and enjoyed working alone. With an extended existence and experience, there were few people who could understand him, his intellect and learning, his character that had developed beyond regular lifespans.

A ritual.

Every year Nick sends his medical and planning staff away for two hours during this preparation time. He’s not a man with many friends though he can be friendly. He’s not a man who seeks company though is usually greeted with joy and more often surrounded by people. And so it is on Christmas Eve that Nick requests this solitude to consider his place in this world.

He calls up the monitors to show him the Earth. Fires burn, people kill, peacemakers die and children starve. On other screens infants sleep, adults drink and some hold those dear to them closer as they doze in front of entertainment consoles. He sighs, thinking about how little things have changed over decades and believes he could have been looking at the same feeds for a hundred years. Though everything is changing, much is the same and he still has to enact his role as described in bedtime stories and broadcast advertisements.

A free standing unit beeps and tells him that his treatment is complete. The various wires and tubes fall away and he is free to stand.

The treatment gets better each year and he feels as he did when he was 21, though he’s 29 and has been for over a century. He looks at his hands, rude health in his veins and walks on through sets of protective doors into his office. A ritual.

From a locked case next to his desk he takes out a metal tin. It’s the only old thing he owns, that anyone here owns. The corners are starting to rust and the design on the top takes him back to the day it was bought and still contained biscuits. Sitting gently on the edge of his comfortable chair, he rests the tin on his desk and forces the lid off.

He can smell paper and the tiniest scent of spice from the biscuits, though he suspects this is memory and that the food molecules are long gone. The tin holds the last real memories of his actual life. The one before the contract and before the annual journey.

Black and white images are fading, even though they are kept, year after year in their cool and dark tin. They take him back to a time of excitement and of a more visceral life.

Nick had married Eve just before he got this job. An ad man with fresh ideas and a wild enthusiasm for spreading good will and making sales. There they are on their wedding day, all love and unknown futures. The hope in her eyes and the mild surprise in his own that this glorious creature would take him as her own.

More images of Eve, on holiday at a beach when swimwear was bigger and made of strange and stiff fabrics. She smiles from under a wide brimmed hat, her eyes in shadow and her lips in the sun. A photograph of him on the day he signed the contract. He looks back into his own eyes and recognises that look. The reservation and the hope. He can see now the foresight and denial of what he would sacrifice.

His hands idle on the edges of the tin while he stares into his past. The years of experiments and scientific breakthrough. Forever young, the prototype and the future. They had changed him so he could keep their secrets and continue his work. He would never die.

Meanwhile as time exploded around him, technologies changed, transport upgraded and systems improved. The animals were no longer practical and so he bred them for his own amusement.

Nick found himself holding the last image he took of Eve. They’d laughed so often; Christmas Eve. His Christmas Eve, for a while.

He wondered if he knew that she would go. Looking back to that wedding photo, she looks into the future and he looks at her, curious. But she couldn’t stay, it would not have been fair.

To be happy.

After ten years with the Company, Eve sat with him. Ever calm and warm and kind. She described to him her hopes for a family and how she was ageing, but he was not. He realised though children the world over looked forward to his arrival, he could never be a father and so Eve would not be a mother to his children. So he let her go. Go on to marry his best friend to have the family she craved.

He watched them from afar, made sure they wanted for nothing but never saw them again. Of all the people in the world, he knew that his finest friend would be the best man to care for his wife.

Though he grieved at the loss he pushed onward and worked hard to leave them to their own futures. To be happy.

Time naturally pushed onward sometimes too fast and always unstoppable, relentless. They all passed on, one by one. Friends, family and Eve. She was so natural.

The day after her funeral he visited her graveside. He wanted to talk to her as they had when they met, through every single day that he had missed. But that time had passed. It was a sacrifice he decided was best, to let her live and her life to grow and eventually end.

She left him a letter in her will, but he did not read it. It was here in the tin, folded and creased from being carried everywhere, every year.

At the bottom of the tin was a photo of Eve with the reindeer.

He took the letter and put it in the pocket of his red suit. Never opened but always with him on this day. Nick felt ready and headed outside for the last part of his ritual.

His suit is designed to be light and reflective. His temperature is controlled and he’s comfortable even though around him in the wilds of the North Pole, the weather tests the boundaries of most living things. He can sense wolves on the perimeter of the compound and a glance at the fence shows hot bodies through his visor. He trudges across the snow and ice to the breeding unit, his continuing source of interest and joy.

…red faced and perfect…

Entering the unit, the lights glow a little brighter and animals stir in straw and bails of hay. He pushes his visor up on top of his head and seals the door to keep out the cold. One of the females had birthed that morning and he wanted to see this new life before he set off.

He leans on a barrier, looking into an enclosure where the female rests and a small animal wobbles and shivers to its feet. It gives small cries to the warm air.

Nicholas steps into the space and moves slowly toward the mother and offspring. The female groans softly but recognises him and is relaxed.

He kneels before the calf and cradles its face in his hands. So pink and red thar muzzle. A specific breed he has raised for years. Though they are well, the odd facial pigment makes them distinctive. To Nicholas, they are red faced and perfect.

He gazes into the soft black-brown eyes and can hear Eve talking to him from so long ago. The first born this way was thought to be a problem, weaker than the others, a mistake. But she took him in her kindness and fed the animal by hand, each day making it stronger.

When the Summer came, it was a strong and proud male with that odd red face and nose. He could hear her laughter as he frolicked and as he lived. The calf that was marked to be taken out of the breeding program became their focus. Eve had smiled and called him Rudolph.

On his knees, Nicholas smiles at the tiny life, then releases it to feed from its mother. He gets up and wipes tears from his eyes. That last connection to the short life he had still moves him on to the everlasting life he continues.

A tiny display on his sleeve lights up green. He checks the letter in his pocket and heads to the door. The Sleigh bells ring and it’s time to go to work.

On the motion of animals

I’ve had this horrible little story rattling around in my head for a few days. Someone reminded me today to make time to not leave these things as half notes. So here it is. It’s not very nice, but it was enough that I wanted to type it out.

JK

I woke to see my brother Warren lunging at my face. He was Warren, but wrong, his eyes turned glassy and white. It happened so fast. I tried to scream and I must have passed out. I remember wondering where all the blood came from.

When I woke again, I was across the room. My old room.

Warren was still there, growling, gnawing at something on the bed. There was blood everywhere.

My mother had not changed the room since I was a young teen and I moved to the city with Dad. We had come home for Thanksgiving, that much I know, but the rest I can’t recall. Each time I try it’s like I never knew. No memory.

I moved slowly, expecting pain, but not feeling anything. I was now across the room, I must have manged to get away from my brother somehow and now I was sitting on the floor among my old dolls.

Looking around I could see old familiar faces. Sandy, my old stuffed panda was now black white and red with blood. Annabel, my baby-doll was on the floor. I hadn’t thought about them in years, but now they felt like companions. I was afraid in the way I used to get as a little girl.

I got up slowly and quietly, eyeing the door to my right while Warren appeared to be eating something noisily on the bed in front of me. As I turned, my elbow brushed an old china doll, Katya. I watched in slow motion as she smashed on the floor. So much noise.

Time sped up as I tried to hold my breath. With unnatural speed, Warren turned from the bed and appeared in front of my face. I felt as though my heart has stopped.

With those sickening white eyes, inches from my face…

With those sickening white eyes, inches from my face, Warren sniffed and groaned. I dared not move a muscle. His head tilted this way and that, too close. I expected him to stink, he was covered in gore from some raw material. He sniffed again, aggressively and I tried not to flinch.

I didn’t know why then, but he turned away. Edgy. Still with those blank eyes on me he returned to the bed. I could see now what he had been doing. A body lay there, open, half eaten. Warren’s meal.

He returned to the corpse and continued to tear it apart. With stiff limbs, I crept out the door, every second waiting for him to attack me on my way out. All those movies I had laughed at, jumped at in fright. All of those horror films we watched as teenagers. My own brother, eating a body on my bed.

Remembering how we crept down the stairs as kids, I stepped lightly, avoiding the creaks here and there. Someone was moving around downstairs, I hoped it might be Mom, but I had a feeling from the clumsy sounds that it was not.

As I looked down to the next step, I realised that not only was I trying to remember how it was to get down them silently, but that I felt smaller. Shorter that is. I put out a foot to take the last step and nearly shrieked. A black and white striped leg, a shiny black shoe, a petticoat of broderie anglaise. Not my usual jeans and boots.

The hall mirror had been smashed, so I couldn’t see why I was so oddly dressed. The shoes and tights reminded me of something, but it wouldn’t come to me.

The front door was open and Autumn leaves blew in. I didn’t feel cold. I suspected it was just shock.

As I was about to look outside, I heard a scuffling from the living room doorway. A long and bloodied arm clawed at the floorboards and then retracted to push up. Another person, not my Mom, was clinging to the door frame now. A woman. White eyed like Warren. Blood around her mouth and groaning. She stepped forward, sniffing the air. When she stepped fully into the hall, I realised she was holding something. A hand, wearing my mother’s ring. I ran.

Outside around the neighbourhood, there were strangers in the street. People I once new, transformed. I knew what this was. I had seen the movies. They turned awkwardly in my direction as I ran. My legs felt heavy and my arms were awkward. I felt like I should panic, but I couldn’t. A dumb clarity stuck to me as I pressed on.

Eventually I got to our local shops. Windows were broken. Cars left in the street. I wondered how long it was that I had been asleep. How could things have changed so quickly?

From what I had learned in comic books, I knew I should head to the hardware store. It’s what you do when this happens right?

My movements were attracting attention, but the creatures around me were slower. I just didn’t want them to get too close. I ducked into Carter’s Hardware and Home. Unfortunately Carter was there.

The man in the store was not the guy who fixed my Mom’s house though. He was thinner and just like the others outside. He turned when I walked in the door and growled at me. His eyes did not see me though. He head moving from side to side as he sniffed the air. Were they blind creatures now?

I’m sorry Mr Carter. To this day, I’m sorry. But I think it might have been better in the end.

Hearing others outside the door, I slipped the bolt and grabbed a shovel from a display. I’m sorry Mr Carter. To this day, I’m sorry. But I think it might have been better in the end.

I checked the rest of the store and the little flat above. Mr Carter was security conscious, I was lucky that he had grills on the windows and locks on the doors. I looked out of the window.

Beautiful Autumn afternoon light, in the small town where I spent my childhood. People I knew outside, clawing at each other, slowly gathering at my door. I stepped back just in case, but something stranger caught my eye.

I could see my reflection in the glass of the window. A round pale face of painted on freckles. Rose tinted lips on white-painted skin. Long eyelashes on a ball and socket. Ayesha.

I stepped shakily onto the landing where there was a mirror. I looked t the floor for a long time. Trying to delay what I thought I knew. I looked up finally and a doll, one metre high with lifelike hair looked back at me.

I blinked, and heard the shutter sound of my new eyelids snap closed and open. I looked down at my hands and saw pale wooden fingers. Articulated. Gently carved fingernails on each tip. My elbows creaked as I moved in the silence, I inspected one in the mirror, a socket and ball again. Ayesha.

Ayesha was the doll that gave me nightmares. A friendly Aunt bought her for me at Christmas when I was only a metre high myself. She as supposed to be amusing because she looked like me. But those glass brown eyes and that long real hair spooked me and I cried.

I hid her behind my other dolls and toys in my room for years. Not willing to sleep while she was watching. Now she was watching me again, from the mirror.

Something crashed in the shop below. They were coming.

That night I stayed still for so long, that I started to wonder about Ayesha and if I really existed at all. The creatures came. Falling over each other on the stairs. I hid as best I could in a wardrobe, but they found me.

They dragged my wooden body out into the room and sniffed and groaned and growled. Some dripped blood or worse onto my white dress, onto my white-painted cheeks. When I blinked their attention focused, so I stopped that too.

I waited through the night, in the dark. Listening to them move around the flat and the shop. things crashed and fell, nobody spoke. By morning, they had lost interest and I knew what I had to do.

I stood up when the building sounded empty and I checked to make sure I was alone. There was no point in fixing the front door, so I collected what I needed and took it all upstairs. I returned for some tools and before starting to work, I turned a radio on – white noise, as loud as it would go and left it running in the shop.

From the window upstairs I could see the odd creature come to check the radio noise and then emerge again, disinterested.

I took off my dress and petticoats, my tights and shoes and stood in front of the mirror, to see what I was made of.

I worked hard. I made lots of mistakes and I even had to re-attach one of my own wooden fingers. I made a doll. About a metre high and called him Jack.

He was rough and covered in splinters. But he had ball and socket joints and oddly shaped eyes, fingers and roughly carved feet. I dressed him in Mr Carter’s clothes.

I spent many weeks making dolls. Sometimes new creatures would appear in the flat, attracted by the louder noises of machines and hammer on nails. I’d stand still and they would leave.

Eventually I had four companions…

Eventually I had four companions. They got better as I made each one. Jack and Esther, Polly and Bo. I found paint and tried my best to give them friendly faces. They weren’t right, but they weren’t alive or dangerous either.

I propped them all on a trolley in the shop and started my journey through the living dead. Occasionally I had to stop completely, but mostly they left us alone.

I walked to the next town and looked for signs of life. It was hard to find other people. I left the trolley in the street and went to look at a kids clothing store, it was about time I was dressed in something other than my Halloween costume. I found jeans and struggled into to them and a sweater I liked, even though I didn’t feel the cold.

Outside I heard a scream, harrowing and frightened. I grabbed bat from a toy set and went to find out why. But I was too late.

The screams had turned to sobs and softened. Five creatures were kneeling around some poor soul. They fed noisily and didn’t even look up as I passed them. I felt powerless. In the body of a wooden child, I was too slow and awkward to help.

I took the handle of the trolley, ready to start the walk to the next town. Pulling it behind me, I felt it wobble and become harder to control. I hoped when I turned to check it that my idea might be right. I shut my glass eyes for a moment, making a small wish.

When I opened them, Jack sat up.

Upload:1

I decided to ignore Den’s demands for filing within the hour. I was not ready.The usual work in the stream was not about me but about politics, post-upload religion, cultural fanatics and post-flesh speculation. I had a feeling that there was going to be a lot more of me in my writing now that there was a lot more of me in well…me.

The painkillers were starting to work so I took a shower and drank more coffee. Not only were my muscles still a little unsure of themselves, it seemed that my internal organs were also finding it hard to adjust. I was cramping already from the real world diet. There’s something to be said for living on a drip. I wondered what might be happening inside the long-term Uploaders. It was too gross to contemplate.

I threw up my coffee. Cleaned up again and decided it was time to go out. I dressed down, packed a bag with non-transmitting recording devices and a miniature camera tucked over my ear. I could record whatever happened and replay it when I got home. If I got home.

I hesitated by the door again, peering out at the neighbour’s place. I had seen too many movies. I half expected zombies to be at the window downstairs or virus stricken berzerkers to make a run at me. Finally logic took over. If Eve was happy to go about her business, then things must be at least only half as apocalyptic as I was expecting. I thought about her bright red coat as I locked up the flat and headed downstairs. It was beautiful, striking even. Not what I would expect if the world had been turned upside down.

Out on my street, things looked as they might mid-week in the day time. Quiet. But with subtle signs of life. If anything, the gardens seemed to be better tended. Flowers I had not noticed before were flourishing.

Of all things, I passed a Postman. Snail mail. I looked at him and tried not to be too curious as he looked back at me. We both seemed to notice something odd that was too subtle to identify. I moved on as quickly as I could, arms and legs aching with lack of use again.

I wandered down to the high street. What was it that was different about the Postie? He was wearing a uniform. There were still postmen and women when I uploaded, they wore that uniform too. Maybe it was the colours. His uniform seemed somehow brighter and the bag of letters and trolley he pushed were crammed with physical post. More than usual? I couldn’t fathom it.

As I turned the corner toward the main drag of shops I caught my breath. Now I knew why that postman looked different. I realised that I would need to change as quickly if I was to go unnoticed at least for a little while.

The people on the high street were brighter. Louder patterns adorned each surface. Doors and window frames were painted in shocking hues. People were wearing colours in clashing combinations and unusual cuts.

Around them the grass verges and planters were filled with flowers and bright plants. There were gardeners in bright green outfits tending to them. There was something of a 1950s dream to what I was seeing. The colours, the jolly behaviour, the constant conversation.

The London I had left was as you would expect. I only knew what my nearest next door neighbour looked like because I was paranoid and looked them up. The rest of the people in my area were interchangeable, dressed in grey, black or blue. Variations of the same low-key theme. These people were memorable. They were excitable and purposeful. I stood out like a rusty nail in a plastic dolls house. It was time to change.

“I had prepared for the wrong apocalypse”

I stepped into a shop and took a look around. The woman behind the counter was spectacular. Hair of an orange hue, dressed in green and pink. She initially seemed to be disturbed by my appearance but very quickly changed tack and smiled. “Hi. My name is Rachel, welcome to my shop. Can I suggest a few things for you?”
“Um. Sure. I’m from out of town – as you can see…”
“Yes.” She nodded sideways at my drab attire. I had prepared for the wrong apocalypse.
“Can I get something a bit nicer?”
“Nicer!” She beamed at me. “Nicer I can definitely do”
She hurried around the counter, shot a few looks in my direction and picked up items from racks. I took a look at the coats that were nearest to me. Orange, emerald, scarlet and cardinal purple. Most had contrasting stitches. Large contrasting stitching. The penny dropped. The Postman’s uniform, it was hand-stitched.
“They’re all hand made?”
Rachel stopped dead in her tracks and turned to me. “Of course they are.” She seemed insulted. “Me and my sisters would not be making the machine produced clothing you might have picked up elsewhere.” She cast a haughty look at my attire. “People should know better than to pick up second hand clothes made by machines.” She stepped closer to me and pulled on my collar, murmering, “I’m not even sure where you would get something like this anymore. Unless you stole it from the Uploaded…” She eyed me.
“I had to borrow it.” I was trying to think quickly. “My mother lives far out of town and she had it left over. She didn’t upload but she doesn’t travel much.”
It sounded lame to me. I think it sounded lame to Rachel too. But Rachel seemed to like “nice” and like to be nice. So she smiled.
“Well, let’s get you into something more modern and something a bit more colourful. Now’s not the time for drab and dowdy!”
I felt like I was being assaulted by an old movie.

Rachel shoved a bunch of items at me and bundled me into a fitting room. I emerged ten minutes later feeling like the host of a children’s program. My dress was yellow like daffodils, I’d been given contrasting blue stockings and a jacket that matched the dress. Exactly. As I stepped out and set my face to “nice”, Rachel beamed at me and handed over a pair of emerald green leather shoes.
“Lovely!” she exclaimed. I tried my best to will the same sentiment but I was feeling somewhat ridiculous. I bent over to put the shoes on.
“Now let’s talk about how best to pay for it all.”
I tried not to flinch. I had money. Paper money and a credit card. If machine stitching was not the right thing for now, I had the feeling that the economics of trade would be equally strange to me.

Rachel handed me a scarlet bag and looked sympathetically at my black rucksack. Also not right. Got it. I couldn’t decant my belongings in front of her without giving myself away so I smiled and put it over my shoulder with a gesture that I hoped would describe “later”.

“So what would you like to do?” Rachel asked.
Thinking “run away” I hesitated. Blinked and paused. I looked around for a clue.
“You have been out of town for a while haven’t you?”
“Uh, yes. My mother lives on a farm. We don’t come to the shops much.”
“That’s excellent. Self sufficiency being the norm these days. But there are things you just can’t do yourself in the city. So what do you do?”
“I write?”
“Well there you go, that’s perfect.”
She took a pencil and notepad from a shelf next to her counter and started to write things down.
One dress, one pair of stockings, one pair of shoes, one bag and the total…the total?
It was blank.
Rachel put the pencil to her lips in thought. Then she started to write a balance of sorts.
One set of flyers for the shop describing the new range to be discussed. Two hours worth of meetings to be arrange to discuss what to write. She would deal with the printer. One short story for her niece Rebecca who would be turning nine in three weeks. Must include rabbits and magic because those are her favourite things. Did I do calligraphy writing?
No.
That’s okay.
One more thing. A poem for her mother who is ill. Something cheerful about passing into the afterlife but to be sure it didn’t resemble the upload to which they had lost Rachel’s brother.
“There” said Rachel. Seemingly satisfied. You have enough paper and pencils to do this?
I hesitated.
“There’s a stationers over the road. Tell him you’ll run an errand. He gets writers offering writing all the time of course, he doesn’t need anymore.”
She shoved the list into my hands. “That should make us even” She beamed. I tried not to gawp. A bartering system. Extraordinary. Den would eat this up.
“Thanks Rachel”
“No problem. How about we meet tomorrow and talk about the new stock. We have new dyes coming in for all sorts of new ranges. I think that patterns might be a nice change.”
I nodded. It was time to go.
I walked toward the door.
“Before you go..” I turned, paranoid, wondering if she knew.
“Yes?”
“Best to do something with that hair too”
I nodded and swallowed. More bartering. I was going to be busy before I could file for Den tonight.

Dressed like a primary coloured nightmare, freshly cast as a PR writer for a boutique I stepped cautiously out into the street and put my old clothes into a bin. The flowers in the nearby planter were bright red geraniums. I felt as though I was mocking them.

To be continued…

You can find the first episode of this story here – Upload:0

Cheers to my co-conspiritors. Without whom…

It’s probably come to your attention that I have been working voluntarily with the excellent Global Voices news site in order to present and produce the monthly podcast. If you think I do this by myself – you’re nuts.

If you read the commentary that I tend to add to the blog, then it is also likely that you have sussed out what a decentralised network is. If you have, then you can skip the next paragraph.

A decentralised network is more normally associated with computing. So, a network of computers where some control is spread over different nodes. Consider this with a global set of writers, clever clogs, great thinkers and fun people and that’s a thin description of the network I am talking about.

The nice thing about this sort of network is that you not only bring yourself to the party but you can also draw in your own connections, spreading the goodness a little further. This is a post about growing that network and the happenstance that has lead to the kind of support that really keeps me running from day to day.

Before I totally embarrass the person I am about to highlight, let me also point out that for each podcast a group of people get together online. They swap stories and ideas that might translate well into audio. Global Voices editors, directors, managers, writers, tech gods and contributors drop the a line to say “Hey! Think this will work?” Nine times out of ten, it’s a brilliant idea and frankly it makes sure my blood pressure is even and makes me a very happy editor – so thanks are always due and will always be due to those people. Please keep ‘em coming too!

So. In creating the podcast I was calling out for audio and ideas from that team and they continue to provide. Along with this I was trying to design the stings and idents that furnish the podcast. To give it an identity that is ours. So I called out on Twitter, “Where can I find some free music to play underneath those idents and to give the intro and exit some flavour.

Twitter’s a funny thing. There are people you know up close and personal and there’s folk that drop by as easy digital company here and there to chat sometimes. One person I had enjoyed the odd conversation with was Mark Cotton – known as @McFontaine. Friend of a friend is a friend of mine more often than not on Twitter.

When I called out – he offered me some lovely instrumental music. He wrote it. He and his band played it. Original music and free for me to use. Even better, he tolerated my messing with it unmercifully to change the shape a little for the podcast furniture. As a creator – that’s pretty free with your material.

I am ever grateful to Mark for that initial move as it sets the tone each month for the podcast intro. That’s his music right there. He made that. I just phaffed with it.

Mark and his lovely partner in crime Sarah also said if there was anything that the podcast needed, to call on them. So there it is. From a casual network to new friends to contributors to the GV podcast network.
Call on them I did. Sarah has read beautifully for the English language voice overs and Mark, well, Mark pulled off something so trusting and spectacular that I am still humbled each time I think about it.

The music that surrounded the interviews from the Arab Bloggers Meeting in Tunisia – that was all new. Written, performed and recorded in the weeks before the event. Ready to run before I got on the plane so that I could use it straight away for broadcast.

Allow me to break this down. I asked for the moon on a stick. For free.

Mark said “Yeah. Of course” as though I had asked for a spare pen in an office.

He thought about the original themes on the podcast. Persuaded spectacular musicians to play for him (and for us) then designed more music himself and mixed beautiful tracks. Then he made more of them for variation. Then he sent them all to me to listen to.

Here is where Sarah also helped edit the music. One of the tracks was almost there but somewhat busy. We both had the same thought and let the ever generous Mark know what we thought. He stripped it down and created a piece of music that I still get chills listening to.

Here’s the first sample that Mark sent to me to illustrate the direction he was heading with the music. I love this clip.

There are other musicians to be smiled at and thanked too. I’m looking at you guys – Mark Print, Simeon Georgiou, Russ Cooper and Ian Anderson. Without you, we wouldn’t sound as good as we do and that beautiful music would not have been enjoyed by so many of our listeners.

So. Just who is this Mark Cotton then eh?

One good thing about being a girl is that we are sneaky and I had a super agent who snooped out some interesting things about Mark for us. Step into the light Special Agent Sarah!

Mark’s musical background appears to be influenced by Lou Reed, Will Sergeant and later bands like The Wedding Present and Tindersticks. (I know – pedigree right?)

Special agent Sarah also tells me “As far as I’m aware Mark has not had a guitar lesson and has learnt everything he knows by practising and his determination to play as well as his musical heroes do.”
Which basically is magic and we should probably burn Mark as a witch, but because we like him and his music, I have ordered a reprieve.

Not only is Mark a badass with an electric guitar – he also plays alllllll of these too -
Acoustic guitar, Bass guitar, Cabasa, Kazoo, Bouzouki, Keyboards. Sarah points out “All self-taught I hasten to add and the last two are very recent additions and a tentative forage into the unknown for Mark, all in the name of producing something great.”

“Mark’s love for the songs Just Fontaine write and record is obvious whenever he talks about them,” Sarah tells me. I can believe it too – just have a listen to Just Fontaine and judge for yourself.

That’s a pretty decent musical run down. But the man himself? Sarah has another great example, “Mark will do anything for anybody. When an old friend of ours (Andy Clarke) wanted to make a Christmas album he did anything he could to help and this resulted in three Christmas albums over four years (I think), he was singing parts in Christmas songs, playing Christmas songs with Just Fontaine, acting in Skits between songs and this is where he started getting involved with mixing music and audio editing which again has been self-taught and practice and trial and error as well as getting the best equipment for the job.

“He has an amazing ear for music and can hear a bum note or something that’s slightly out of key or is flat in amongst a cacophony of noise, he is self-critical and will go through everything he does again and again so that he knows it is 100% right and will never leave something he is not happy with even if it’s indistinguishable to a ‘normal’ ear!”

So how did Mark go chameleon with the musical stylings for our podcast? Apparently ‘just like that’. Sarah says, “The Arabian music was not much different from his usual process other than it involved a lot of different people that he knew who would have the talent to provide the sound he wanted and although others may have played some of the instruments he gave them all direction about what he wanted and edited the end product to ensure perfection, but as the piece with the guitar on its own shows, Mark always knows when there’s nothing he can do to improve the sound and he left it as it was recorded.”

“Oh so many gigs I don’t know where to begin but suffice to say Mark will always see if he can speak to someone he admires and shake their hand and thank them for the music they made (which is always genuine), always a gentleman, always down to earth,” says Sarah. And I can quite believe it.

Beyond the extraordinary musical talent. Sarah and Mark have also provided so much emotional and inspirational support for me personally. There’s always a tweet here and an email there where they seem to push me a long and make me want to make new things and make them better.

So, to you two saying thanks seems a little pallid in comparison with what you do, but it is what I have to hand as a writer. Thank you and thanks for working with me. It’s one of the happiest accidents online I’ve had all year!

JK

Thoughts from the Arab Bloggers Meeting in Tunis #AB11

It’s taken me forever to get a coherent thought together about being at the Arab Bloggers’ Meeting in Tunisia. I eventually put my finger on it – because it was right in front of my nose. This is a long post – skip to the end if you want the up-sum without the flavour.

It’s hard to encapsulate the bloggers’ meeting as an outsider and a writer because we are prone to making broad sweeps. Though the label “Arab” brings a lot of people together, it also throws into stark relief the differences.

It’s been said before, but it bears repeating, the Arab Spring movement has as much to draw the nations together as it does to point out that the nationalities, cultures and faiths are so very different. It’s complicated beyond my ability – I’m not an expert. I had been trying to find a way to homogenise the group and I can see that this is why it was not working.

One thing that eventually got through the crowd of thoughts since I was there, was that there was something that did indeed belong to all of the people in the room. Authority.

When I was growing up, the man on the news at six p.m. told me what was happening around the world. I didn’t doubt it. There were videos and reporters in places that I had to go and look up in the atlas and ask my parents about.

I don’t doubt it today either – but I know more about it to ask questions and go to the source to find out now. I go to the internet and I try to find ways to find people who are primary sources. In other words, people who are right there up against the story and are talking about what they see, hear and know.

This doesn’t work with all news of course – try getting the political inside scoop from the horse’s blog. Unlikely.

The shift in authority has changed for me. It’s changed for a lot of people who use the web in similar ways. The man who reads the news – now more happily sometimes the woman who reads the news – is a good source. Researched, produced and clear. What they can provide is the gateway to the subject and I know that they work hard to make those facts salient, digestible and understandable. That clarity is invaluable – any journalist who has had to “read in” after a break from working knows that the top lines on mainstream news sites or broadcasts will give you the basics.

But that man or woman reading the headlines in a place near me, no longer carries the authority of a person updating on the internet in a place far away. Though checks and verification are essential to separate the agendas on social platforms and that only a particular and specific section of global society is available on the web, they hold a spark that sometimes explains a situation far better than a script can in a limited amount of time for broadcast. Online speakers sometimes have all day to update piece by piece. Better still, they already live all over the world, they’re already saying something, whether it is a headline yet or not.

I still like to read the analysis of course. Context empowers the current update. History brings focus to current events. But that is for people who have time to step away and observe a situation and put it into a comparison with other happenings in the past.

So, when I first stepped into the room with Arab bloggers I had never met but I had been following online for the best part of a year, through their ups and downs, I was feeling almost a bit nervous. These people told me the story of revolutions in their area. They took risks that do not appear in my own life, in order to try and make a virtual world listen and identify with their struggles.

The people who were there were casual and funny, friendly, helpful, curious and interesting. About what you would want at a conference of any type. What was really nice about it was that all of the speakers, all of the presentations were for and by people who were highly relevant to the topic, culture and geographical area. A lot of the presentations were in Arabic or French (live translation was provided for people like me). There were very few “parachute” speakers, dropping in to add their filters.

All of the people I spoke to and listened to at that event had the authority, the knowledge and the experience to tell me how things really were around them this year. What happened to them as individuals. To choose the news agenda for themselves based on what they had seen and heard. (I have another thing to say about agendas in a follow up post).

Probably I could summarise all of the above in the following lines. News for me today is as much about the man in the suit behind a counter on the screen as it is about the people in jeans and t-shirts taking photos with their phones and expressing themselves on the web. Both hold a different type of authority. I work daily with the former and I learned a lot by being in a room with the latter.

JK

Ada Lovelace Day: Rain

Anyone who has met Rain is unlikely to forget her.

Part of this Ada Lovelace Day post is about women and STEM (Science, Technology, Maths, Engineering) but also it’s about an attitude and approach that should be rewarded and highlighted.

Rain doesn’t ever seem to put up with anyone saying no to what she wants to learn and needs to know. That, in any field is a powerful and wonderful trait. One we can all probably apply to well – pretty much anything.

If you take a look at Rain’s pages online you will find out about creative technology, digital advances, fabulous events and how she makes wonderful things. From T-shirts that play music, to teapots that come alive, she shows me with each post that technology and engineering is artistic, creative and beautiful.

In addition, as I get into my second year of a computer science and Ai degree – Rain is working on her FT Mphil/PhD at Goldsmiths. Seriously, there are times when I am glad that she’s not working on weapons…otherwise we’d all have a reason to be terrified. Knowing another woman who is so talented and yet still inclined to pursue learning is important for me at the moment. There always seems to be a reason to not do the work, but then I see her updates online and it reminds me why I am trying to do my own studies.

To pursue her studies at Goldsmiths, Rain left a place of work where she had been for years. Frankly, that takes balls. It’s easy to become comfortable where you are, sometimes it is harder to chase after what you want. That’s more than enough reason to be proud to know her.

If you’re lucky like me and you know someone like Rain, take a few minutes to let everyone know how brilliant they are and why they mean so much to you. This way, not only can we all share those links, we can hand them over to the next generation – who hopefully will totally kick our asses in their own ways in STEM.

And if you are making your way through a life in these fields, learn from Rain, don’t take no for an answer and hurl yourself at those risks. If you’re lucky you’ll be an inspiration too.

Thanks Rain!

JK

You can find out more about Rain’s adventures at her site – http://rainycatz.wordpress.com/

Girls, girls, girls…

Hi,

I think I saw a tumbleweed roll across my pages and as I am currently stuck at home under the weather – it’s a good time to write.

If you know what day it is (and often I don’t) and the date, you may already know that it is Ada Lovelace Day tomorrow.

What’s that?

It’s cool and it’s all to the good. So you should do something about it too if you are tech-inclined.

Ada Lovelace day is a day online around the world that celebrates the role of women in tech, science, engineering and mathematics. Heaps of people online write something or add a comment about a woman who has inspired them.

This is important.

Of course it is. It’s important to celebrate anyone’s work when they inspire you, push you to do more, to make yourself or something else better. But it is also important to highlight that the fields of mathematics, engineering, technology and science could do with a few more ladies to lead.

You can throw yourself on the floor and kick and scream that you think it is a male dominated field (Who among us has not been tempted occasionally?) but I think it’s better to find out more and highlight the women who are already blazing trails. Let’s bring the good to the front and give them a day to feel proud.

This focus also means that girls who are in school or maybe even younger, will have a record to turn to. If you were nerdy at school or liked math and science more than your peers, you probably felt a huge amount of pressure, maybe worse things too. That’s never going to be right.

I know a tonne of women who, if I could go back to my youth, would have inspired me to tears – made me feel that I was a part of something where I was okay and in the right. Normal.

It’s normal for women to want to work in tech, science, engineering and math and you know – some of them are way cooler than their male peers too (don’t tell the guys I said that yeah?)

Take a few minutes, open your blog or web page and write down a little something, or post a photo or anything really – let them know you appreciate what they do and let other girls and women take a look at them too for support and inspiration. The woman you choose to highlight may not have won the Nobel Prize (yet) but if they mean something to you, it means a lot to the rest of us too.

Get on it – the deadline is soon – and it only takes a couple of minutes to upload something that will work.

Go here now and have a look to decide for yourself – http://findingada.com/ Naturally I think you should be logging into your blog dashboard already.

Byron’s daughter eh? Still disrupting in 2011…I kinda like that!

JK

Dark Knight begins?

So.

The Knight Patisserie is the way I get to relax. It’s a virtual social bakery where people can follow the success or failure of any given project and I tweet and upload pictures while I make a colossal mess in my kitchen. This all happens under the hashtag #knightpatisserie and well, as most of the action in virtual, a lot of people don’t get cake – but sometimes a lucky few do.

For the perversely curious – there is Facebook page for the Knight Patisserie. Everyone is welcome to upload their own nerdy cake experiments, chit chat about cakes or set challenges which may, or may not be taken up by your own Master Baker.

Such a challenge was set ooooh – ages ago. Time being somewhat scarce, it took me a while to get around to it, but for the weekend of my birthday I decided it was time to bake and unwind and finally get the ideas from my head into action. Things did not quite go to plan, but here’s what happened.

The challenge….

How to do this? Rather ambitiously, I had an idea that I could make a sculpted cake out of Battenburg. This frankly is crazy talk. But I was game to give it a try. First of all, I had to make pink cake and vanilla cake. Both are the same recipe – basic sponge cake. One has lots of yukky pink dye in the mix.

Meanwhile, being my birthday, I decided I wanted to make a recipe that I particularly like. Almond and cherry sponge cake, coated in dark chocolate. As part of my Australian DNA, I’m a big fan of Cherry Ripe bars. A life-long favourite from home. Though this cake can be made with coconut instead of almonds, I wanted the slightly crumbly texture of the almonds instead.

Off that went, into the oven.

The pink and vanilla sponges for the Knight Patisserie challenge were made the night before, so I had weird loaves of bright cake that had cooled and were ready to work with.

Of course when I say “work with” what I mean is “carve up with a spectacularly sharp knife, spread crumbs *everywhere* and glue bits back together with heated apricot jam. Messy, messy, messy work. Lots and lots of fun. I was covered in cake and crumbs and merrily singing along to the radio and my own music. Time passes quickly when you are messing about in cake.

That said, my idea to carve a “Wyld Stallion!” from Battenburg, turned out to be more like making a project from 1980s children’s tv…and not very well.

Time was running a bit short. I nibbled at some crumbs and thought about what to do with this mass of pink and yellow cake. If I messed with it anymore, it would disintegrate and i’d not be able to use it at all.

Whilst thinking, the cherry cake was cool enough to cover and was already covered in melted chocolate and setting nicely in the freezer.

This is partly what the Knight Patisserie does. It’s problem solving for me in 3 dimensions, sugar, fat and flour…How was I going to make a Knight themed cake when my pony pieces were not really looking like the real thing. I decided it was a problem of scale and dismantled my chess piece to start again.

From the marzipan I squished together a knight chess piece. Though it’s not exactly art, it’s a lot easier to do. Then, with the melted chocolate left over from the cherry cake, I covered the little shape in dark chocolately goo. I took the cherry cake out and had a piece with a cup of tea while the chess piece took its place in the freezer to set.

I chopped the Battenburg into cubes and set them out on a plate – the game board for my chocolate pony. (Why does that sound a bit wrong?)

Finally things sped up and the cake project was completed. My kitchen and myself in total powdered sugar and melted chocolate disarray. That’s half of the fun. I think there may still be some jam on my phone.

Another nerdy project completed and I learned a lot along the way.

1. I can’t sculpt horses from cake made of bricks glued together with jam
2. Home made marzipan has lemon juice in it
3. Too much sugar is not a great thing
4. Baking is less than half the job. Cleaning up after this one took almost as long as making the mess.

Right – put the kettle on….

JK

Rather ironically, the request to update a cake post came from someone who is fasting for Ramadan. Though I wish them a happy one, it does feel a bit odd to taunt people with cake when they are fasting. Still – by request and each to their own self torture…

Upload: 0

At the risk of telling too many tales I’ve started another one. I wanted to get it going and well – if you hadn’t noticed this being a bit of a fictional mind dump already….
I’m still thinking about what to do with Science Fraction and there’ll be more of that later. In the mean time, I had been thinking about something else. I can’t help but think it’s all derivative – naturally – but we’ll see what sort of homage this turns into as I think it out. Possibly I should write a whole story some day before posting it. But then having anyone bother to read and remark is a pretty good editor to me.
Another bed time story on the go.
JK

I came back on a Tuesday – frightening the living daylights out of myself and my cleaner Eve.
I’d forgotten she would be there – before the upload I decided to keep her credits going. She was vacuuming around my feet when I tuned in and started muttering. Poor woman, she’d been vacuuming around my inanimate frame for six months and one day I start talking rubbish at her after so long in silence.

I regained focus on my surroundings and realised I had a phenomenal headache growing with intensity by the second. I growled long and low tailing off into a moan. My throat felt as though it had been tarred and feathered through lack of use.

I twitched and shot out an elbow knocking over my drip and catheter. Only then when Eve scuttled backward brandishing the vacuum attachment like a pike did I realise I had company.
“Eve,” I growled. This was not going to be easy.

I had kept Eve on as a form of weekly company. My friends installed all sorts of makerbots, robotic vaccuum cleaners and sanitisers in their homes. They also hired walkers – people who stayed behind and walk their bodies around to make sure there was less risk of atrophy. I knew I was coming back – so I bought more security and kept Eve around. I know that she sings while she is in the flat – some things permeate the upload divide, I feel tethered.
The thing about Eve though, she’s almost designed to remain behind, naturally clever and suspicious, I have no idea why she’s still a cleaner. Five foot nothing of Eastern European suspicion. She was not happy about the DNA swab addition to my security door and then she laughed uproariously when I showed here the disintegration video of what would happen to people whose DNA did not match the system. I like her sense of humour – but at the moment I came back, I was not entirely sure if she knew some new way to torture a person with a vacuum attachment. I showed her my palms and tried to clear my throat. It was coming back to me that Eve was the first person I would want to talk to when I came back, which is why I was risking a beating right now.

“Eve,” a bit clearer this time. “It’s me. Don’t worry. I’ve come back”
She eyes me, apparently not intending to lower her ad hoc weapon. I’m trying hard to control the feeling that I might twitch again, my muscles ache.
“Eve, do you remember what I told you six months ago? That I would be coming back today?”
She squints at me and draws her lips tight. Then she backs away to where my calendar is nailed to the wall. A big cross marks today. She checks her watch to make sure.
“Why you not warn me you would be so hideous?”
I can see that her language skills have not changed.
“Thanks Eve. I’m not sure that hideous was part of the plan.”
“You scare me,” she chides, finally lowering the vaccuum pole and leaning on it. I relax a little, my headache put off by the tension comes flooding back to me.
“What is the matter with you?” Eve leans toward me to get a better look. “You’re pale. Are you sick? Did you bring something back?” She takes a step away again.
I raise my eyebrows – hadn’t thought of that. I’m starting to be glad I planned to talk to Eve first – she has the best paranoid ideas.
“I don’t think so Eve. I have the gods’ own headache. Probably lack of caffeine, nicotine and maybe dehydration.” I move slowly to get up and head to the kitchen. I’ve basically been writing half conscious tales from the Upload for the streams for six months. Sitting in my office, not really there, drawing in hydro and nutrients from a drip and emptying my bladder into a recycling tube. I can feel it now and it seems exactly right.

Helpfully on the bookshelf I have left a packet of cigarettes, some painkillers and Eve is at the dispenser getting me some water. She brings it to me. “For your pills,” she’s waving a piece of paper around, I keep notepads still because Eve prefers carbon. I can see I have written on it but I don’t know what.
“She holds it up while I try to drink down the painkillers. Clearly I was prepared, I wrote instructions for Eve and left myself a nice little wake-up welcome. I squint at the paper and eventually grab it from her to keep it still.
Indeed – in my handwriting, step by step. I guess I could have set her a reminder instead of frightening us both upon return.

I think about the Upload, where I have been for six months and the articles. I look at my open computer and see that I have not written into the stream publicly or privately for hours.

“You’re always typing. Like Zombies” comments Eve gesturing at my computer.
“At least my editor will be pleased then,” I remark. I check back on my input – looks coherent too. I guess I was getting messages sent into the Upload too as I have a clear inbox of replied and read messages. The last one is from Den. He’s been paying me and he’s happy with the words. Frankly I’m surprised. Thinking on it I realise he probably has not read a single word I have written but is basing his feedback on stats. He’s a cutthroat bastard and illiterate writer with dreams of drama. All the better for the writers he employs.

“Come on Eve. I’m going to make us some coffee your way and I have lots of questions.”
She looks at the sheet again and then rather more piercingly at me.
“You write that you pay me three times more today for the questions.”
“That sounds about right Eve – I might pay you more if you can open this coffee can.”

So we talked.
In only six months things had changed so much. Eve said it was as though part of the population had simply left. They were either at home and uploaded or stashed in compounds where hundreds of people who had the money and time were simply placed. Their bodies were filed away.
Eve told me about the two months of looting. People didn’t think it through I guess. Their bodies incapacitated and their minds not all there, their homes were raided. Raided until people had laundered enough money to upload themselves too. Some were uploaded in their living rooms with squatters in their homes. Not realising they had company.
The world had readjusted. Initially there was also the feeling that no one was watching those who were left behind. Fires were started, rules changed, rioting. Changed until the uploaded leaders implement their plans to govern the place they were only half living in.
I made notes and smoked. There would be an archive feed somewhere of all of this. But it would not be the same as talking to Eve.
Was she afraid?
Initially yes. She feared lawlessness but also relished some of the freedom and space. With the upper classes gone, the social system had also adjusted. There was also a different government emerging, Eve laughed and called them the meat puppets – the flesh and blood leaders rather than the uploaded ministers.
I wondered how those two would work together.
Eve had a question of her own. How was it that I could afford to come back?
It was expensive enough to upload yourself but extortionate to get a ticket both ways. I looked at her. Eve has a surprising frankness in her facial expressions. I absently brushed my thumb against my new forefinger on my right hand. “Someone owed me a favour.”
She inspected my face and nodded. “Everyone owes someone a favour,” she noted. Apparently satisfied.

With a deep breath Eve pushed back on the table into her chair. “Time to go I think. More cleaning in other places”. She looked at the mess of papers I had now strewn across the table.
“Don’t worry about this Eve. I think I’m going to be making more of a mess from now.”
She shrugged. “Just like before. People who are really here make a real mess.”

As she put on her coat and I hobbled to see her to the door she let me know that there was simple food in the fridge and to call her if I fell over or something. I smiled, I’m sure I don’t pay her enough.

As she headed down the stairs I looked out into the hall. Being out in a physical sense seemed somewhat forbidding in a world that according to Eve had changed quite a bit. The phone rang and I picked up a handset next to the door.

“Yes?”
“You’re awake then?”
Den, the editor.
“How do you know?”
“Nothing in the stream – you’ve been writing for nigh on six months and everything stopped. You’ve not filed for ten hours now. Where’s my copy?”
I paused wondering if curses had changed while I had been away too.
“You stayed?” I asked.
“Of course I stayed, I can’t run a stream from bloody la-la land can I?”
“I need to eat something and get my head together”
“Don’t bother – it’ll be more interesting while you’re still Upload stoned. Get dressed and take your mobile for filing. I’ll expect something within the hour.”
The line dropped.
So lovely to be back. So lovely to recognise that Den would never drop the cliche of “Mister Editor”. I doubt I would work for him if he wasn’t one of the best though. The others, they don’t call.

I leaned against the door frame and tried to check whether I thought I was entirely working again. I looked at the security door – scorch marks around the frame proved that Eve’s stories of looting and break ins were true. Across the hall police tape and water in my neighbour’s burned out home. I wondered if they had uploaded. Had they been in there or did they do it themselves? Insurance must be fun around now.

Time to go out.

To be continued…

The second episode of Upload is here – Upload:1

Global Frequency

So something new happened. Some work that I am proud of.

I’ve been working for the past few weeks to build something from scratch. It’s been great and even better – it’s something I want to do. Someone smart recently pointed out to me that you can do almost anything if you want to do it enough.

I’ve been reading the Global Voices website for longer than I can remember – it seems it has always been around – though rationally I guess that’s not the case.

I’m a fan of blogs and blogging. To me, though there has been so much change in social updates, sharing and short form broadcast; blogging has remained. It’s been augmented by images and video, become chattier, now we have widgets and clouds and much more.

At its essence though, a blog to me is a fair piece of writing. It can be long or a short column, but outside of these boundaries it can be anything.

I’ve read life stories that made my heart hurt and the tales of people who make me cry laughing. I’ve read about my friends trials and tribulations, their travels and testimonies. The art of blogging has shown me the work of people who may ever remain unknown to publishers but are some of the cleverest writers I have come across.

The longer form allows me to tune into their voices and hear their tones. To me, it’s a very vital and informative source. Though we may be enamoured with Tweets as a hook, I always hope they lead me to a place where I can think about what I am seeing or reading or hearing.

So it’s bloggers with Global Voices who have often shown me parts of the world I cannot get to. They’re not on holiday, they’re not reporting on a trip, they live there. Daily lives in the norm and under pressure and people open their diaries to us all online.

Much of Global Voices answers my common question, “What would I do if I were there?”. Mostly because although these people are in extraordinary circumstances, they are a little like you and a bit like me. They’re maybe telling you how you might feel if you were there.

So – at the extraordinary request of the ever patient and encouraging managing editor Solana Larsen I took on the role to be the site podcast editor.

It’s not a role I take lightly. As a reader of the site, I want to make sure that I do right by the multitude of authors and editors all over the world. Of course that also means I will be hassling them like hell to record everything and read voice overs and record scripts. (Look out GVers!)

Along with the exceptional talent available among the site contributors, I have also been working with a much wider group of willing, patients and frankly quite giving people. From the music I have been allowed to use and remix to the on spec voice over work that my friends trusted me to present in a sophisticated manner, I owe a lot to a lot of people already and we’re only at episode one. Thanks you lot – you know who you are and you can name your reward…well – not that maybe but within reason.

At my fingertips I have a global team, a decentralised network of creative, funny and inspiring people. An amazing team to be a part of to make sounds from wherever they may be that you can listen to wherever you are. Huh, sounds just like the Internet…

Do you know? I feel a bit like Miranda Zero – and I like it!

JK

The Global Voices Podcast – The World is Talking. You better be listening – or I might send every last one of them after you

Tune in to Episode One

Science fraction – part4

I arrive in the middle of a right old bun fight. It’s practically scripted violence at the city protests these days. Not matter how early you get there, there’s a shout of initiation and the cops and security companies are in action with gas and stunners.
I’ve got half an eye on the terrain, skates don’t do well with the protest debris, and half an eye on the crowd. My suit lights are on so both sides can see I’m a recorder. Not that it seems to make all that much of a difference.
Just when I think I am about to find a vantage point to turn and record the fray, hands grab my arms and I tense waiting to see who has me first. A recorder is a prime target when you’re stuck between sides who want to make a point and private sec co’s who don’t want to you record anything they might lose money on.

50/50. The gas starts to clear in front of my visor and I can see protesters with wraps around their faces. Teary red eyes squint at me and one of them is shouting.
“Say it! C’mon. She’s info – all recorder. Say it!”
A girl, I think, appears. I’m being held between two people, heavy set. Not much point in struggling, this sort of thing happens and from my visor display, The Info are across the situation. I try to bring my heart rate down and concentrate on what to do next when the girl starts talking into my face. Well, into my face but in the way that I’m not really there. She’s looking for my visor cam and hoping to broadcast to the world.
“Profiteering bastards!” Her voice is raised against the chaos around us. I can hear the crackle and fire of stunners and more nearby, the security companies will arrive soon and this lot will disperse. I look at the faces around my, my visor zooming and reorienting while The Info system tries to grab shots and make matches with facial recognition software in case any of the people here kill or get killed. They’ll make their own killing with the rights.
A rough hand turns my face back to the girl. “Your recordings fund the war! Your recordings fund the war! Let the people know! Media warnography against the people!”
It’s not an inspired speech. She continues, “We know who you are.” I focus sharply and wonder if they mean me this time. “Lusthead, we have your score and we know how to find you.”
Now I’m listening. I want to ask them, what about Lusthead? I thought he was the keyword guy, not an Info guy.
I can hear the boots of the security getting closer and I start to struggle. The protesters know it too. I’m pushed to the ground and they run. This was not the way I had hoped to manage the recording for The Info.
As I get to my feet and manage to roll aside the security company workers rush past me. One stops to scan the code on my suit and then carries on to catch the others. Though it is safer not to be acknowledged, it always feels like a virtual experience to be in protest recording. Here but I’m not here.
I skate out into the open a little more. The crowds are moving down the street toward an open square. It looks like a set up for kettling already. The protesters know that the process of crowding them into a space is frowned upon by the public. It’s almost an unspoken agreement between the sec co’s and the protesters themselves. Who looks better in this situation? Is it worth it? Everyone’s so savvy to the recording these days.
I scope the square and look for a vantage point to see things clearly. There’s less gas in the air which is at least a bit more help.
My visor flickers and there’s a crackle in my ear goggles. I shake my head and hope that those media mobbers didn’t damage my suit set up when I hear a familiar voice.
“Head to the museum, they’re not locked yet and there’s a vantage point on the second floor looking into the square.”
Patch.
I stop on my wheels and look at my feet.
“You can talk, I’ve split the stream, so best to keep looking around. The Info are getting their stream but they can’t hear your mic.”
“What the fuck are you doing in my suit?”
“You have no idea how great that sounds!”
“Enough Patch. What are you doing?” I skate toward the museum but I’m not sure. If I get in, I might not be able to get out if I need to be on the ground again. I hesitate near the doors.
“Go in. You don’t want to be here in about five minutes, but you will want to be upstairs recording.”
“And how will I explain how I knew this?”
“Tell them you heard a protester say something on the way in.”
It seemed vaguely feasible, I headed into the building and made for the stairs nearest the side of the square. “You’re in my suit how again?”
“I brought it to you dummy. Think I could miss a quick peak at The Info’s dryware?”
I sigh and climb the stairs, my suit braking the wheels for the terrain.
“You could do with some exercise, your vitals are all over the place”
So Patch has full access to the suit. It’s pretty clever I guess but I now feel like a puppet for too many people. I’m stressed, confused and I want to go home and read my contra data. Why are more people talking about Lusthead?
I get to the second floor and Patch directs me through a few short turns to a fire escape set of stairs.
I can hear Patch talking to someone else as I scan the square. My visor is still zooming and shifting to take in the numbers in the crowd and try a few snaps of the odd faces I can see. Something is starting to happen in the corner not far from where the fire escape is set. I look down at the gathering there, protesters, check, security workers, check.
Patch talks in my ear. “I’m logging out from you now, keep looking in their direction, they have something you’ll need to see, but not for too long. I’ll be recording but not accessible. Don’t talk to me from now on. Count to twenty and then get back into the building and shut the door. Head as far inside the museum as you can. Later skater.”
I open my mouth to ask questions but I hear a soft pop in my ears and I know that his line is down. I start counting.
3…The security workers look strange. The uniform is the right shape but not quite the right colour, like a costume?
6…They have something in a strong box, while some of the sec workers hold back the crowd they’re opening the box.
10…
Some of the protesters have clocked the box and they’re moving away. No, they’re trying to move away, but they’re being held. Not let into the square but held closer to this corner. It’s hard to see what is happening properly as fighting breaks out in earnest. Not the usual scrapping and attacks on sec workers but a real struggle, to get away from them.
15…The box is open and I try to zoom at what is taken out. It looks like a computer of sorts with lenses? Something reflective, really shiny. I want to stay, I want to see what it is.
18..
I turn into the museum and shut the door behind me. As I step to roll closer into the museum already starting to regret missing the action a sound like the sound barrier being broken smashes though my mind. I fall over and half way down the stairs. A bomb?
I look down toward the doors into the museum foyer. I can’t see light or fire from outside coming in.
My head is ringing and lights blink in my visor. I feel a bit sick and disoriented but I know I need to get out and see what has happened.
I get up gingerly, the brakes are broken on one of my skates and I step carefully to avoid falling again. The doors to the museum are closed but the crash bar is working as I head out into the street. I can hear distant screaming. It’s closer than I think but my ears feel blown and tinitus is singing in my head.
I head over to the corner I had been looking down on. Nothing is on fire. There are people strewn around on the ground but they are alive and moving. Some are bleeding from their ears, the blast must have shocked them for starters but no one has been killed.
The sec workers must have had some protection, they are piling into a van across the street apparently unharmed. Directional blast?
I don’t know what has happened, this will cost me dearly with The Info to miss the main event. I look across the square. Most people are down or just getting up. The security workers are leaving already.
The protest was predicted to last all day, usually they are carrying flares and looking to protest into the night. But no one is shouting. Beyond the ringing in my ears I can hear almost nothing apart from the odd scream of pain here and there. No chanting. No slogans. No protest.
My visor flickers and dims. It must be broken. The suits don’t need batteries, so they always have alternative power. Something is wrong and I am no longer connected to The Info’s servers.
A message arrives in front of my eyes “Go home. P”.
Patch must be back in my suit but I cannot hear him. Only a few hours into my shift for the Info and I am exhausted and confused. I take a last sweep at the crowd in case my suit is still recording and the message blinks repeatedly “Go home”. As a puppet of I don’t know who by now. Who am I to argue?

To be continued….

Right you lot. Now it’s your turn. What the heck is going on? Who is Patch and what is he up to? Who is Sterling Lusthead and what is his new line of work? Will Sprout be at home to break something else?
Choose your own adventure – sort of. What is missing in the story and what do you want to know about the characters? Tell me in the comments and let’s see if we can’t solve some of the mysteries together.

Past chapters if you need ‘em -
Chapter1
Chapter2
Chapter3

JK

Science fraction – part3

Working for The Info always means getting up at bleaurgh o’clock. Some hideous time before you would normally go to bed. But that’s when their parcels arrive.

I was already up, dealing with my burnt out cleanser after Sprout blew it up for me. The door bell rang and I peered at the sec screen to make sure it was an Info delivery. New equipment for me – usually on permanent loan. This meant they had to send more of fix stuff if it broke on the job.

Sure enough in glitchy black and white a guy in an Info cap carrying a big parcel. Neat. It looked like a few things would be arriving. I buzzed him up, unlatched the door and flipped the kettle on while I waited for him. I turned to hear someone singing. A bad Andy Williams tune from when my parents were kids. “You’re just too good to be true….can’t take my eyes off of you….”

The Info delivery guys were usually surly teens just earning a crust. I can’t say I’ve heard them sing before.

I reached over to open the door when it swung open nearly into my face. “Ba-da, ba-da, baaaaa! I love you baaaay-bee and if it’s quite alright….!” The parcel was shoved into my chest while the “delivery guy” pushed past me and started looking through my cupboards for cups, still singing to himself. He opened the cleanser and closed it again quickly and stopped singing.
He backed away from the cleanser with an “ew” and took off his cap. I relaxed.
“I hate you Patch”
“But I love you baaaybeee…” Patch was an old friend, he does not work for The Info and he is not a delivery boy.
“What are you doing in my home?”
“Looking for coffee, bringing you post”
“How did you get my post?” I looked at the parcel from The Info in my hands. “Mugs are to your right, kettle has just boiled”
“The delivery guy gave it to me, I met him on your doorstep.”
“And how did you get him to hand it over?”
“I used your ID”
Patch makes instant coffee, puts the steaming mugs on the coffee table and folds my sofa bed so he can sit on it. “Are you going to open it in time for work today?” He asks.
Patch has a way of finding things, fixing things, hence the nickname and generally poking around. He’s made more money than he needs to and so he gets to do what he likes. The Info must have asked him a billion times to work for them, but he says no and prefers to consult occasionally for a price bordering on extortion.
“Patch, using my ID is illegal”
“Better that I do it than a criminal then eh?” He sips the coffee and grins at me. Humming the same tune.
I sit down and open the parcel on my lap. A new over ear vidrec, a new set of streaming visors and some sort of webbing I have not seen before. I fish out the data slip and set it to play back the instructions reeling past the visors and vidrec.
“The Info presents the all over microphone, recording internally and externally everything in your immediate surroundings.”
I raise my eyebrows and turn the webbing over in my hands. Holding it up, I can now see that it will fit my torso and that each junction of the webbing has a tiny microphone.
“The Soundweb takes in all surrounding sound and can be worn under your suit for complete discretion.”
Patch laughs, “You had better eat breakfast or it’ll be recording your empty stomach growling all morning.”
I nod thoughtfully, that’s a possibility. I get up and put bread into a toaster.
“The Soundweb is also a security measure so that we can ensure your safety while working for The Info”.
“They mean monitor your every conversation and check if you are working all the time,” comments Patch.
I stop the recording from the Info, I have spotted the transmitter and the how to wire it into my suit. The Info also provides suits for recording, they have high vis markings in case we are in a protest so the cops leave us alone, there’s an aerial, a backup drive and various other wires to keep it together. Suits are made from a kevalar derivative, allegedly indestructable, burn proof, stab proof, most things proof. One Info researcher was bitten recently by a Militant Vegan Protectorate marcher trying to make a point recently, they lost a tooth, he had a small bruise at most. I dug out my suit from a pile of clothing and looked on the inside, there were already places where the Soundweb could hook in. Clever how all of the kit from The Info was always prepared for upgrade.
I look over at Patch, “Time for you to leave now.”
“Not yet, I haven’t finished my coffee.” He looks wounded. “And I brought your post in and sang you a song.”
“Out Patch, I need to get changed for work.”
Patch grins lavisciously and settles back into the sofa. I rub my face with frustration, collect the rest of my kit and take the whole lot into the bathroom, wondering when my home became a free for all and how I lost control over any of it.

I find a packet of sim cigs in my suit and light one while waiting for the shower to warm up. I look into the mirror. Large brown eyes that need more sleep look back at me, I look older than I am, grey hair has started to appear at my temples already. The mirror steams up and I start to get ready.

I struggle with the suit after a hot shower. “Need a hand?” Patch’s voice through the door. I hope to most deities that he is not able to get his data tendrils into my bathroom. “Has Hell frozen over?” I ask him in return. The Soundweb fits perfectly and I attach a headset and clip on the visors. A switch on my shoulder turns the whole thing on and my visor tells me in the display that it’s running a check.
I walk out of the bathroom straight into Patch who has been standing next to the door. I tut at him and push past.
“I like the way The Info designed their suits”, observes Patch.
“You’re a pervert”
“No. I do. It makes sense the way the kit is set up. Of course the fit is good too.” He tries a wolfish grin as I recoil.
“Why are you in my home Patch?” I ask as I look around for my skate and wait for the system check to come up with instructions.
“I need to borrow Sprout.”
I stop in my tracks and look at him. “You’re joking right?”
“No. Not at all, I need to ask him to help me out with something.”
“No way. In the not ever sense of no way. I’m fairly sure it’s not even legal to allow you two into the same room.”
“You know I can reach him anyway. But I thought it better to ask you and see if you would come with of course.”
“No Patch. Aesop is not some new toy you can modify and play with. Get out of my flat.”
“You’re probably going to change your mind of course.”
I hate it when Patch does this. Patch is very similar to Aesop, they can both see time like a chess game, planned so many moves ahead, taking in so many variables that they appear to be able to see the future.
“Well, maybe I can wait for that moment.” I’m feeling angry and put upon. I scan my visor display. Systems are fine and a message is blinking, instructions for the day.
Patch waves a fat envelope at me – surprisingly hard copy. “You’ll be needing this too.” He puts it on the coffee table.
“Why is it on paper?” I ask suspiciously, picking up the envelope and opening the top.
“Better you don’t have the data on your system,” he nods seriously.
“Contraband data? You brought contra into my home?” I ask accusingly.
“You had started to look already and you won’t find this even on the priciest searchers.”
I look into the envelope, the top sheet is a photo and profile run down, for Sterling Lusthead.
“How did you know?” I mutter. “I didn’t even send that search over.”
“Sprout” says Patch proudly. “You know he has a keystroke logger on your machine?” It was simple enough to sniff your system and see what was happening. I modified the logger so that no one else can track that now, hopefully no one was looking. Nice program though, Sprout’s really coming along.
“Why were you sniffing my system at all?” I sit down on my couch, face in my hands. Sometimes I wonder why I know these people and if I will ever escape them.
“Just a friendly look. I keep an eye out on people I care for, no one can get into your system like I can, so it’s pretty easy to see who else is trying. I don’t ever look in, just at the outside. Think of my as a guard dog.”
I look at Patch. There’s not enough time to get into this with him this morning. I put the papers into my safe storage hidey hole. I would do this while alone, but I get the feeling Patch already knows.

I pick up my skates and blink open my instructions. A protest, great. Usually high energy but I’m not in the mood for the possible attacks right now. I need to get my head straight. Patch has buttered my toast and puts the plat on the table in front of me. He can sense I am not happy with his great revelations act.
“Take it easy today,” he says heading toward the door. “And call me later. I think you’ll want to when you get back from the protest.”

The door clicks shut and I feel helpless. Everyone else seems to have more control over my data than I do and most of it’s not even my data. I scan my instructions and directions as I munch on the toast. A day of hunter gathering for The Info.

To be continued….

“Double dog dare!” – Textiles and QR tech

So. I’m browsin’ online as usual swapping links, jokes and smart-arse comments when a good friend and female tech inspiration sends me a link on Twitter. It goes like this….

Interesting. The link (because that’s a jpeg and I won’t make you type in it manually) goes to a site called QR-3D. It looked good and I set myself into passive mode to keep an eye out and see how it all turned out. Rain is always making something interesting, complex and stylish. She’s created amazing electronic clothing in the past, so I thought maybe something she might do rather than me – I am still working on an old LED project – to my shame.

Then this happened a few days later…

I know right? Double dog dare….who can turn away from that? Apparently not me.

Of course I must be a little unhinged. Lynne Bruning is one of the best electric clothing creators and artists I can think of in the United States and she’s just called me out to be creative. Still, better to be challenged by the best in order to dedicate yourself to something. If I ever become famous – I will be requiring a Lynne Bruning electric evening gown…*cough*

Somewhere in the mists of time, I remember that I have a textiles qualification. (I rarely use the skills these days, I can knit some and sew on buttons). I was a dorky kid who liked the Commodore 64, learning about animals and huh – tapestry… I don’t own a sewing machine at the moment, so the methods available to me were becoming clear. I’d be damned if I was going to knit separate stitches into a QR code. So needlework it is.

First up, I have to decide what I am going to link to. A QR code can simply turn up a word – like this scarf which has a lovely punch line. Or it can take you to a page on the internet. Sometimes when used commercially it might give you a discount code. Sometimes it can hold an archive to someone’s life when it is etched on a grave stone. You can use them for lots of things – they hold data. There are many more examples of course, but I’m starting to bore myself so go look them up yourself if you’re QRious.

So, location chosen (nope – not telling until I have completed the project, then I can tell you why as well) I needed a QR code. You can generate these on a few websites like this site which makes simple codes and this one, which I used to generate my code because I could choose how big I wanted to make it. (In other words, how many stitches I would need to create the shapes.)

QR generated and it was time to familiarise myself. Now, being of a particular mind, I have drawn QRs before. Through this slightly laborious experience, I learned that to draw a QR you need ink. The QR reader on my phone would not read pencil, nut I needed to work in pencil because I am prone to making some mistakes and then having to go back and check.

I penciled in the QR code over the space of a couple of evenings to the apparent mixed reaction of friends online – Yes, I’m looking at you –

Steve Bowbrick “Like a QR-code? Using graph paper? I like that!”

Benjamin Ellis “‎#crazychickbutinagoodway”

Dan Simonsön “they’ve been making these things for a few years now called “printers.” you may have heard of them. they use a robotic arm to precisely spray ink on to paper. you ought to look into them–one may be right for you: http://www.google.com/search?q=printer”

Colleen Lin “no way are you copying that by hand. reminds me of my 2D animation class, what a beating. but I learned SO MUCH.”

Ana Lucia Gonzalez Paz “Are you going to be stitching this? Please tell me this is why you’re doing this…!”

Lee Wilson “JK, you are a nut job… but that’s why we all like you “

Some of you are very cheeky peeps! But I like that, so that’s okay.

Here’s a couple of pictures of the process –

The good news is, the pattern is all inked in and it works! I zapped it with my phone (shutup – that’s the technical term here) and it took me to the site I had set out to link to. Hand drawn inky QR, one sharpie knackered and graphite all over my hands again like when I was at art school. It was fun too – I am pretty good with shapes and spatial awareness and I saw all sorts while I was drawing, key tooth shapes, space invader shapes, Tetris shapes, hearts and the odd single pixel.

So – time for some needling I guess. I like hanging out in the haberdashery department of John Lewis (each to their own) and going back to Aida cloth (sounds like that awesome Lovelace lady verbally) and skeins of silks and thread. I have a hoop too – get me!

Time to start stitching, I’ll let y’all know how that goes…wish me luck!

JK

Science Fraction – part2

I was gliding home on my heavenly wheels. Wingnut had done a fabulous job. He always does. We argued as usual on how loose to make the bearings, I always think I want them tighter, he’s always right. He threw in a set of insoles too, so super comfy and smooth was the way back home. Always better than the bus.

In every city I ever visited I preferred to be out on my feet. Something about the smells and the noise and the traffic. The people, the lights and the rain. It fills me up. I feel like I can understand a place better on my own two feet.

I listened to third wave electro as I passed closing stores, night girls and commuters. The music is kinda retro, not really fashionable now I guess, but I like it. It reminds me that nothing really changes, the cities will still have closing stores, night girls and commuters.

Eventually the commerce turns to residential streets and I can get a bit of speed up without the traffic around. I can hear the wind roaring through the straps on my skid lid, louder than the music now and I am thrilled.

I clunk up the stairs to my kennel. I’d call it a flat but my cooker is next to my bed and my desk is on the other side. Nothing changes. As I raise my key to the lock, I see that the door is already open. The calm from my ride flips over in my stomach. Not another break in.

I push the door ahead of me and listen. No noises. Hopefully this means whoever came in had buggered off. I roll slowly into the narrow hall. Past the bathroom – nothing there. Into the main room and I reach around to turn on the light.

As the bulb flickers something drops from the ceiling and shouts. My skates go up and my butt hits the floor hard. I throw my hands up and flinch at whatever is coming.

Nothing makes impact. I hear a giggle and realise what’s happening.

“Fucksake, you stunted monkey. What the fuck are you doing?” I shout at the ceiling.
My brother. Aesop is six. He’s genius and he’s a terrorist. Prime target usually being me or my parents.

Peals of laughter rain down from the ceiling. Giggles that only a six year old can make. I soften. It’s pretty contagious but I need to try and show him what he is doing is not right. I refuse to look up and deal with getting my skates off so he doesn’t get so much attention.

The giggling stops and I look up into a huge set of upside down brown eyes. Just like my eyes, but more innocent and with fewer wrinkles. Aesop, known as Sprout to many of us is suckered onto my ceiling with some large vinyl looking discs he has apparently stitched to his trainers. I should be angry, but as usual with Sprout I’m more amazed. I can’t reach my ceiling when I am standing on the floor. I glance around the room. Unable to work out how he got up there.

I look up again and he reaches out his arms. I stand up and he grabs onto me flipping around like a marmoset to cling onto me as his shoe suckers release the ceiling.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he mumbles into my shoulder.
“You did”
“Are you angry?”
“Yes”
“You’re not though. You’re not shouting and swearing any more.”
I push him away so I can look at him.
“Never do that again.”
“Okay,” he chirrups and hops down to the floor. “I’m hungry. I’ve been up there for an hour or more, why are you so late?”
“Sterling Lusthead was blocking the door on my way out of work.” I head to the cupboards to see if there are any noodles. More giggles. I turn with two packs of instant noodles to watch Sprout laughing hard and trying to get his shoe suckers off.
“What’s so funny?”
He’s gasping for the breath to tell me, “Sterling Lusthead!!” He collapses again into giggles. I start to laugh too.
“You’re right. That is a funny name.”
“Almost as funny as yours,” jibes Sprout.
“Shut up,” I reach out to grab him but he’s fast away to the sofa bed, out of reach and already rummaging in my bag for the general control.

I put the noodles on to cook and watch Sprout messing around with my general remote. He’s testing as usual. On/off this/that and then the wireless. I get to him just in time and code lock the access to the web.
He grouses as I hand it back. “You can do what you like in here evil genius, but you’re not accessing my files and accounts out there.”
He looks up at me scornfully, “I was going to make your control better.” The scorn changes to persuasion. “Just let me see it a little bit, I can make it better.”
“Uhuh,” I nod and return to the boiling pot of noodles.
I hear him turn on the view screen and flick through the options.
The thing about Sprout is that he probably really is an evil genius. He doesn’t mean to be but he’s officially restricted by the health department.
At four years old he got my dad’s general remote (GM) and hacked into the view satellite. He changed the accounts for our family, chose premium programming for all of us and reset any debts. That might be cool, but in an attack of infantile altruism, he then decided that everyone might like free viewing and reset every subscriber around the globe.
To get this far he must have decrypted their code, hopped their security walls, recognised their algorithms and changed things to what he wanted to see. Four years old.
Dad nearly went to jail because no one believed that Sprout could do this. The story went global, info gatherers followed us around for what seemed like forever and was probably a week.
We were given programs to lock our wireless that would take until the end of the world to break and still the boffins were worried he’d crack it. He still tries sometimes, the only puzzle that seems to elude him, mostly because we have to take it away and distract him before he has time to work things out.
Sprout got classified in the end. He goes to a special school and even there the other kids hate him. It’s a shame as he is still a sweet kid. Sprout has my remote in his hand and a finger up his nose. He farts proudly and looks over at me sideways, then giggles.
I close my eyes. Still just a six year old in many ways.
I serve up noodles and we sit on on the sofa bed and watch ancient math shows from some defunct university. I don’t know where he finds these things on the archive but it keeps him calm. We slurp and stare at the screen until my remote beeps. It’s late.
“Where are your parents Sprout?” I look at my watch, even though I know what time it is when my remote buzzes. Nearly time for power down but still time enough to do what I need to do before bed.
“They’re out and they’re your parents too,” Sprout takes both of our bowls and puts them into the minidish cleanser. I figure he must be growing up a little after all.
“Yeah, well, they’re late and I have to work tomorrow. If they don’t come back…”
Sprout finishes my idle threat for me, “You’re going to sell me to the night workers so that they can use my little hands to build motherboards until I am eighteen.”
I open my mouth to agree when my parents walk in.
“What is this? Piccadilly Circus?” I greet them with a stubborn glare inherited from my father.
Mom steps over and plants a kiss on my face.
“Your door was open,” notes Dad. I realise I must have left it that way after Sprout assaulted me.
“We closed it now though,” Mom smiles helpfully. She surveys the room. “You should really try and get some place a bit, you know, nicer.” She comments sitting gingerly on the arm of my sofa bed.
“Yeah well, Mom, make me a magical millionaire and I’ll get right on that. Until then, all the money pays for my mind. Unlike Sprout, I was not gifted with the evil genius gene.”
Dad looks amused. Mom purses her lips. “Don’t call him that, he’s just a bit smarter than most kids is all. You’ll be glad when he can pay for your retirement.”
“Yeah,” I comment, “Or starts his campaign of world domination and sets the air on fire.”
“Where is he?” asks Dad.
We all tense a little bit, when Sprout is not in your eye line, you should be worried. Dad takes a step back to look in the hall and grins. We lean over to see what Aesop is up to. Lying on the wood floor with his feet suckered to the wall and my remote in his hand, Sprout is fast asleep. He sleeps a lot lately. I guess with a mind that quick it’s maybe easier to power out fast.
Dad unclasps the suckers and inspects them appreciatively, another invention of a six year old engineer. Mom picks up Sprout’s sleeping liquid body and leans him against his shoulder.
“Time to go kiddo,” Dad hugs me and they head out the door.
“Just tell me when you plan this next time,” I whisper loudly at them.
Mom smiles wryly, “Always the last word,” she whispers back.

I have less than an hour to powerdown. In order to save energy for when we need it most – usually for electronics, the power shuts off in parts of the city at night. You can pay a higher rate to keep things running, but the lights go and some of the power ports in the apartment. The basics still run so I don’t mind it so much.
I unfold the sofa bed and curl up with my laptop. Hands on the keyboard in a now natural approach, I rest for a moment, thinking. Usually I’d be combing for audiobooks or a nice documentary to fall asleep to.
I open up my own search program. I paid a pretty penny for a powerful search to unearth more unusual connections. You can use the vanilla version for free of course, but working for The Intel, you’d be losing out on the details. I type, “Sterling Lusthead” into data entry box and pause. I’m not entirely sure I want to know.
The lights pop out, powerdown, then my minidish explodes with a flash. I yelp and leap off the bed away from the minidish. I can smell smoke though it doesn’t appear to be in flames. I grab a portalight and inspect the machine. Blackened on the inside and black noodle bowls to go with it.
My laptop pings.
I tell it to open the new message and read while I try to work out what happened.
A six year old voice pipes out from the speakers, “I fixed your minidish!” Heheheheheeeehehehe!”
Sprout.

Science fraction – part1

Lo. With a little free time, I get to loosen up to scrawl down some fiction ideas. This is only part one and I’m not entirely sure where I am going with this. Still, out of my head and into text I guess. Bear with me on the fiction, I’m sure I’ll have something more realistic to say soon. JK

Freelancing during college meant more desk jockey work than anyone would really tolerate. But we knew if we were going to pay our way to get an education out of here, it was good money just boring work.

I split my time between mining for gamers and research. Sometimes I got a gig feeding the info, but my rep on that platform was young, so not a lot came in there and the pay was low for the effort. It would remain so until I scored a few big points to move up. It was all like gaming in one way or another.

I picked up Cassie on the way to the portal. We could all use our own units to work anywhere I guess, but the smoking laws had been repealed, there was a bar and it felt good to be with the others, together alone in front of the screens.

We took the bus to Waterloo and walked in the drizzle to the center. In the books I read at high school, I thought this sort of thing would turn out to be a blue neon dystopia. Exciting. Harrison Ford types running around. But it’s a grey 20th century building with earth saving bare light bulbs and most of the creativity saved for the walls in the toilets.

We grab coffee and take a look across the aisles of self op terminals. Some people have clearly been here for hours already and it’s 8am. The Portal is open 24/7. With most of the work being internationally applicable, there’s no reason anyone needs to be here 9 to 5. I see Kate and her boyfriend Aiden about three rows down and we head over. They look exhausted. Aiden has an overflowing ashtray and a collection of empty energy drink containers around him, Kate has a small mountain of health food bars. They’re both fluent in Chinese and French so they’ve been working between the time zones over night. Without looking up Aiden waves at us and Kate smiles absently in acknowledgement.

Cassie and I settle into the next free terminals and plug in our own headsets. Cassie has designer ear goggles. Some Japanese designer came up with beaded ear covers head set in red. It looks like jewellery from a distance or maybe sparkly earmuffs. My own set is less attractive but cost me a packet. High fidelity audio ear goggles out of Norway. I do odd bits of audio matching for verification, so each little fragment and sound wave needs to end up in my head. I get paranoid about losing them sometimes, so I’m glad they are not too high profile. Rather not have them nicked, I’d lose half my education fund to replace them.

We check in to our demands list. Basically things people want, how much and how long it will take. So you can schedule the next 12 hours.
Cassie swears at her screen.
“No work?” I ask. It’s an in joke. There’s always work, it just depends on how much you want to do it or how much it will pay.
“All mining,” Cassie mutters, cigarette between her lips.
“No translation?” I ask. She speaks German and a little Spanish.
“Not since last week’s snafu.”
I look over, confused.
“You didn’t hear?”
“No, I was out for the Info”
“Oh yeah.”
“Huh, Cassie’s taking a bath in the sink I hear”, Aiden butts in hands still moving on his keyboard.
“Shut up desk jockey,” Cassie retorts. “I got a detail wrong. Bath and sink. I was tired and somehow thought that was the right word. It didn’t play out well with the end user. Some hotel brochure. They say it damaged their business prospects so I’m points down on the table.”
We get points for our skills on the what is known as The Table. Most of us are middling. We tend to prefer being social and getting some sleep. The top of the table kids speak about six languages fluently and work around the clock from home. I guess they get the big bucks but what price sanity?
Our points do lead us to work though, agents and clients pick us off and send us items for our demand lists. You lose points, you drop down the table and you get less work. Client reviews can really knock your salary. You just have to hope you don’t get the really pernickety ones.
“Sorry to hear it Cass,” I try condolence, but she shrugs it off.
“No biggie, there’s always mining.”

I look to my own demands list. Yesterday’s info ride seemed to go well. The Intel people are asking if I am free tomorrow. The Intel is an international grouping of companies and ‘casters. They have a diary of what dignities do and stuff, but more interestingly they watch and can predict when other things will happen. Organic gatherings or sometimes attacks. They always want someone there to record six ways till Sunday so that they can sell the material on to the adcasters and so they can prove their watchers were right. I’d like to work with them, maybe. If I ever earn enough from them to pay my way through the education core.

Tomorrow is around the city somewhere. I’ll need my skates too apparently and they’re sending me a new aerial. The last one got bent yesterday. The nice thing about working info is that they insure your kit. Not you mind, that’s your own problem. The real info gatherers are a bit crazy. They learn and translate and then head into war zones. Live transmitting whatever they can through The Intel’s own satellite. It seems glamorous to some, I’m not sure I could hold my nerve. Or my bladder.

Today though, it’s mining. For me as well as Cassie. I’ll need to get my skates serviced later, so best to jump in now if I am going to miss an hour taking them in.

I log into the games places and pick a few log in details for rich kids on the other side of the time zone. They’ll be sleeping while I improve their scores and they can do more fun stuff in whatever multi-player world they are in. I don’t really get it myself. As part of training I joined a guild and learned to do some digital swashbuckling. But it wasn’t my thing. Now it’s a business. Boring but keeps the coins coming as the parents of these rich kids fund their online rep.

I get into a repetitive pattern and put some music on. To my left I see Aiden stretch and Kate packing her stuff away. They’re done for the morning and headed to bed. I raise a hand and keep working only to be interrupted by Cassie’s cursing again.

She’s stopped mining and is casting the daggers at the door. There’s some sort of kerfuffle happening. Someone has apparently arrived and is worth seeing. “Grade One”, mutters Cassie. She grades the people she thinks of as assholes and this one apparently qualifies as top notch. Now I am curious and slow down on the mining to take a look.

“You didn’t know?” asks Kate.
“Let’s get out before this turns into a total cluster,” says Aiden.
“Know what?”
“Oh, you weren’t here yesterday,” nods Kate. “It’s Sterling.” She looks a little flushed. Aiden looks a bit annoyed. He gives her a nudge and they make their way through a growing crowd at the door.
“Sterling?” I ask Cassie. “Who is called Sterling? Is that a screen name?”
Cassie has a storm all over her face. “It was a screen name. He changed his real first name to his screen name. So now he is Sterling Lusthead.”
I start to laugh. “Sterling Lusthead? For real? Jeese, I thought I had a funny name. Lusthead is his real surname though?”
“Yeah, what are you researching him?” Cassie is testy.
“No. Just curious. I’ve never heard of him is all. What does he do?”
“Trades in war.”
“What, like guild trading or something?”
“No dumbass. Real war with real people.”
“He’s a gun runner?” I can tell by Cassie’s face that I am turning dumb into dumber.
“He made a truck load of money trading the key words of war. He runs advertising based on the countries and martyrs, high profile military and the dead.”
The implication takes a moment to settle in. I’d seen people make plenty of money trading on virtual economies before, but usually in 3D environments or things like that. Turning pixel gold into big dollars. I know that before the revolution people used to trade stock in what people called “sin shares” sex, gambling, guns, drugs and alcohol.
“He made a lot of money out of warnography keywords?”
“Yeah. He sold a bunch too. Now he makes money for other people in the same way.”
“So, the kids named in those warnography videos that go viral – their names are his advert words?”
“Yuhuh,” Cassie blows smoke vapour in the direction of Sterling Lusthead. “And now all the kiddies adore him, want a piece of his action or to find a way to break whatever last taboos are left to make money.”
I glance at the inactive avatar on my screen. It’s tapping its foot and leaning on a shovel. There’s work to do.
I look up at the crowd near the door. More kids are crammed in. The overhead display is running a repeat message – “The Portal welcomes Sterling Lusthead. Here for a reading from his latest book “Making you money” and talking to you lucky people!” The message repeats and flashes.
I see the clock flash on my screen. Inactive for five minutes and go back to mining.
I wonder what is left that cannot be traded virtually and look forward to getting out of The Portal with my skates. Suddenly the terminals are closer and the room claustrophobic. I’m glad tomorrow is an info day.

To be continued…

Crystallization of news online – Gil Scott-Heron

Around one thirty in the morning and a tweet turns up in my stream that says Gil Scott Heron has died.
I start playing his records on YouTube and watch the mill turn online.

Listening to The Revolution will not be televised.

Message after message runs through twitter in real time as the message takes hold and spreads, mostly Americans first and then on to other countries. Usually RIPs and a few questions, can anyone verify?

The news has changed. So I watch online streams to see who verifies.

Listening to Winter in America

Wikipedia has it an hour on.

Daily Swarm has it about the same time – linking back to the original tweet.

Listening to Message to the messengers

An hour passes and people mourn online while still asking – is it true? They retweet the original message – posted by Jamie Byng of Canongate publishing and Scott-Heron’s publisher.

Listening to The Bottle

NPR blog for The Record takes the story about an hour and a quarter on. Initially the story does not quote a source.

The tweets roll on and it’s noted that the “Revolution will not be televised” but that it is rolling on Twitter while people check mainstream news sites for an official update.

Listening to Did you hear what they said?

Shortly after – Pitchfork carries the story – relating it back to the publicist and promising further updates.

Listening to New York is Killing Me

Twitter rumour mill peaked at about 0230 and slows down as people look for a statement.

Boing Boing has it at nearly three am. Here’s where my tipping point tends to start. I read BB a lot and have respect for their tips and reporting. However, technically there is no concrete source.

Listening to Home is where the Hate is

Facebook pages saturate

Searches on Google under “news” are not showing any pages at five past three. It’s Gil Scott-Heron. You really do want to be sure before you write this up as a news source. No matter who crows about who was first on the web to break a story, trust is the currency. Trust and accuracy so, I am not surprised that the mainstream houses are not publishing yet. (No offence intended for the original tweet)

Listening to Angel Dust…Whitey’s on the Moon…

People swap You Tube videos and RIP messages at twenty five past three. Two hours passed since the initial tweet.

Listening to I’m New Here

After half past three and the main sources of publication are blogs and tweets. NPR News Music Twitter account too.

Consequence of sound has the news, written as a developing story. I wonder if people would rather know, even with a loss like this or if they are content with the possibility and then checking back later to see if it was right or not.

The Jerusalem Post is the first publication I can see taking the story at five to four. On Twitter people are replacing their avatars with images of Gil Scott-Heron.

CBS is now also running with the story, tracking the source back to the first tweet.

Time for met to head to bed – considering possible morning commitments. This was all written in draft up until now – I’ll see what the morning brings later….

Listening to Where did the night go?

Update:
I woke up to find that mainstream news outlets were all carrying the news of the passing of Gil Scott Heron. It’s a sad day, but in celebration of such a creative life, I spent the night listening to powerful and moving music.
What I learned from this experience?
I thought a lot about the topic. Had this been some spurious or comedic rumour, I think it would have been trending higher. The rate of respect online made the comments more cautious.

Also, though people were clearly grieving online, they showed a gentle humour, candour and respect. Cry when you’re born, sing when you’re dead.
I also saw what I already knew, that rumours online need to reach a critical mass, the rumour mill falls away while mainstream sources check the information and then the topic will flourish. Trust is the currency over content by a small amount.
The radio was playing this news when I got up for work. Still the details were not confirmed but how much do you really want to know about the normal passing of an artist?

One thing that I would ask you if you are reading this – at what point do you start to believe when you are reading things online?

Citizen journalism infrastructure?

It’s been a while, but a couple of things entwined to play around my mind in the last few weeks. I have some questions as usual.

I work with, love reading, listening to and learning from citizen journalists. To clarify, for me this means the unpaid, sometimes uncredited, sometimes unnoticed by mainstream news consumers and usually non-professional reporters in all sorts of media. Made by people who are not usually trained journalists or working for a salary in that capacity. It often doesn’t make a difference to me. It brings me closer to world events in ways I could not have dreamt of as a younger nosy-parker and generally curious bod.

If you follow things about news and media or this blog from time to time, you’ll know that much of journalism is imploding. While money gets sucked out of one portal, material gets sucked into another. It’s everywhere on the web from my view point; though I hear it is possible to view the web in any way you like via your own personal filters.

In reporting about citizen journalism recently, I met virtually and in person with a couple of contributors who made me ask harder questions about what is happening with our news consumption.

To keep things brief, this will be a little furry, but here we go. Working in different organisations, there is an infrastructure. Colleagues, sub editors, copywriters, editors, managers and more. This structure is in place to keep us in check, to check what we do, to support and improve what we make and how we make it. There are technicians, engineers, innovators, producers, designers. So many people support the effort to find a way to bring information to people from well, pretty much everywhere to your television, your browser, your phone. That’s a very narrow snapshot of the mainstream.

Around this, there is a further network including unions, counsellors, friends who work the same trade – people you can talk to for good or other in order to protect and help organise what goes on. Beyond this too there are laws in most countries that protect or support media and journalism and of course there are some that do not – places where reporting events around you can be a marriage with daily threats and oppression. I am lucky, I live in a place that supports more than it suppresses.

So there’s a slightly naive frame work to start with. But it gives an idea about the mainstream. Now here’s why so much of that is vital in order to have a free press or to allow people to report their surroundings and even to tell the stories of their lives.

One of the people I chatted with had been persecuted. Sent threatening emails and eventually beaten up on the way home from work. They were warned in emails that their citizen journalist accounts with a mainstream media outlet (not one I have worked with) should be closed down, that their blog should be silenced or something bad would happen. Something bad did happen. They were attacked.

Frightened and with broken bones, they sought some support. As a blogger and citjo, there was not a lot that could be done. People investigated on their part, but they reside in a country that is only starting to develop with new technologies. Sometimes there is no electricity, so why would there be a legal infrastructure or understanding about protection and the connection between the web and their physical well-being? The case was highlighted on the internet, but they were unable to find physical protection and local police were not nearly prepared when it comes to chasing down the source of the emailed threats.

Another point to this case was that they were contributing to a site in America, a place with a much more liberal sense of reporting, but that material being online meant that the threat was in the reaction in their home country. The same laws do not apply globally of course putting them in danger from a stricter authority’s reaction.

Looking to the other conversation, I chatted at length with someone who processes material online. They look at video all day related to the current uprisings in North Africa and the Middle East. I have done the same with long and strict processes that help to define the provenance and content. I asked them about being prepared for seeing the images and violent content.

They were not prepared, but they were passionate. I certainly can see the will and the passion for doing the work when they are related to the topic or from the countries involved. They were also clear about their depressed feelings at seeing such things over and over again. Day after day they looked at and processed extreme video and imagery. They sounded tired, broken-hearted and not a little weary of the levels of violence they looked at for hours.

It is apparently possible that people who deal with days of violent material can be prone to something like post traumatic stress disorder. It was noted in people who watched the hours and days of footage immediately after 9/11. Watching the looped imagery on TV was enough to take effect on the audience. For one person removed from their home country to process weeks of video depicting hideous acts of violence from places they once new without support is something that has yet to be explored. I’m not entirely sure it would have happened much before, but within these boundaries and roles, we live in extraordinary times.

So, these two people, the threatened and the exposed. They are citizen journalists. They work mostly alone on these reports, posting them to blogs, to YouTube and managing Facebook accounts. There are no editors to help them decide, no colleagues to blow off steam and cross verify footage. There is no union or counsellor, though their families may help in some ways for understanding. They often work around the clock in order to spread the word and translate things, to publish material at a high standard and make it available.

Citizen journalism has changed mainstream reporting in huge ways. The content you see on your nightly news bulletins is more than likely packed with non-professional material. Created by people in the moment enabling live rolling news because everyone can be there to capture anything and of course much of the news is impossible to predict.

I may encourage the growth of citizen journalism, but I wonder if there is enough support in place. There are groups of citjos working together and supporting each other, but there are many more solo acts scattered across the web. As this sector of media grows and evolves. I wonder if there will be unions and organisations that can come to their aid when they need it most. What will the get out of jail free card be for citizen journalists and are we growing closer in our roles?

As usual, I have more questions than answers, but listening to these people, my friends online, I hope that they are able to get the support that they need if they are the first wave in citizen media and I wonder what will be in place for the next. What should be done to create a safer working environment for citizen journalists? Or, what can be done?

Yes, I have made an effort so these people remain anonymous.

The rooftops and the passers by

My first night in Patan and I fell asleep easily to the sounds of dogs having a city-wide conference through the night. I find the sounds oddly comforting. There are crickets or similar too, a replacement for the sounds of the city in London, sirens and traffic. I like the soundtracks to places.

Probably down to sleepless flights, I felt fine in the morning and took my coffee to the roof while Jo got some work done. It’s a good vantage point for having an idea where I am. Patan or Lalitpur is one of the cities of Nepal in the SW bit of the valley. That makes them sound like separate places but the cities are now sprawl across the valley and I find it hard this early on to see the differences between them.

I took my camera up along with my coffee and shot some pictures from the roof. From my seat I could see way across the valley. Building seems to be ongoing almost everywhere, from up on the roof I can see the growth upward, from the street things seem a little chaotic. I don’t think that town-planning applies much. New apartment blocks seem to rise out of impossible spaces.

Straight ahead I can see stadium lights. I’m told that last year Bryan Adams played there. It seems incongruous. Reminds me of accidentally seeing the Wu Tang Clan in a night club in Riga. Both over time become vaguely normal as facts.

Shifting position, I can see down to the rough road below. I’m told on a very clear day over to my right I would just about be able to see Everest. It’s quite the distance though and though it is bright above me, the skies in the distance are grey, promising rain in the early evening.

I can hear someone nearby clanging on the nearest building site and snap a few shots of people close to the house. There’s a junk yard made of rust and old water tanks where men sort through the sharp edges in the heat.

All around me the dark grey shadows of the mountains embrace the valley, to my right the sun sparkles on the “monkey temple” somewhere I hope to pay a visit to maybe later in the week.

Next door there is a guard, constantly gazing into his mobile phone, he breaks from it rarely to play a game of chess on the ground with a small boy in a yellow t-shirt. By the side of the junk yard the wild puppies start to yap and it’s time to head inside and make some notes and some coffee for my delightful host.

iPod – Ghost inside – Broken Bells

Flying to Kathmandu

Chasing sleep around the skies is not really something I am accustomed to. More usually the fidgeting and preparation on a day of travel and the intense amount of control I like to have over my actions when travelling alone wears me out enough to be snoring at take off.
A combination of getting lots of work done and trying to understand where I was headed while packing for all sorts of possibilities left me a bit wired before I got to the airport in the evening.

I like to fly. I live a highly wired life, continually checking in to here and there, constantly following news updates from people all over the world and ticking over how to translate this. On a plane, there’s nothing. It’s a bit like going deaf and blind – in relation to communications at least. It’s peaceful for a moment and I have to hand over that control for many hours.

On take off and arrival, Etihad airways has take-over function on all of the seat back terminals. All screens show a feed from the camera that appears to be in the nose of the plane. It’s a little odd, you can’t see the horizon but the lights and lines of the runway. Upon lift off, the view was astonishing. Orion and the big dipper appeared above the lights of London. As a lover of lay-girl’s astronomy I was spell bound. Eventually that view closed and the usual reel of limited cinema.

This time for some reason I could not sleep. 17 hours of travel ahead of me and a night flight. I watched movies, Fair Game – the Valerie Plame story and followed that with All the Presidents Men – a favourite that almost makes me wish I worked back in news papers, typing on dead trees in an office where people smoked.

Outside the window, above the clouds the sky blushed in high hues as we caught up with the dawn.

Still sleep did not come and before I knew it, I was landing in Abu Dhabi, somewhat delirious.
There are works happening at the airport, I bought overly milky tea and tried not to fall asleep before my connection.

Flying out toward Kathmandu was not such a long flight, but it was bright outside the windows. I slept intermittently through bad movies, wondering as usual if I had been snoring. the flight was full of immigrant workers with unusual luggage and great energy.

Tribhuvan International Airport is very small. It was hot on arrival and fast through customs. I was relived to see my rucksack on the luggage conveyor belt and happy to be outside again breathing air that was not recycled on the plane.

Avoiding the scrum of taxi drivers looking for passengers I tucked myself out of the way to watch and have a cigarette while waiting for Jo. She texted to let me know she had been in a cab with a puncture. Not a problem, the weather was warm and the parking habits, punctuated by loud and continual honking of horns kept me amused. Now and again a cab driver would approach, compliment my hat and ask where I was going. They all told me to ask them personally for the best prices to wherever I needed to be and all seemed somewhat disappointed that I was meeting a friend instead. It was good to talk to people after the silence of the plane.

The journey had served as a cold turkey disconnect. No longer able to access my usual digital places, I was relieved and entertained to be talking to strangers face to face. All the better for learning about a new location.

JK

What have you been?

TODAY from m ss ng p eces on Vimeo.

I picked up this video via a link from Brain Pickings an excellent aggregator of things that people do. It chimed a few times with me. Also it’s a video of beautiful pictures taken by someone who appears to do beautiful things.

One of the lines I took with me is “…your life’s story is always going to be your greatest creation.” I know, it’s a late night talking topic, but it made me think. It made me think about what I think I want.

For as long as I can remember, I have had a slightly morbid habit, that I don’t think is really morbid. When I need to make big decisions, and sometimes little ones, I think ahead to whenever it is might get to the end of my life and then think back from that point of view about what I make of the current decision. It’s a perspective exercise but also one that forces me to think about what sort of person I want to be over that entire story arc.

I love to write. Whether or not I write things that other people like, is often besides the point, especially if I am writing something fictional out of my system. I construct stories, paint some scenarios and then build characters. Then the characters pretty much tell me what they are doing as I put things in their way. There are basics I can add, conflict, love, fear, loss so many things. But I rarely think about which of those elements I would put into my own story, even though this should be the one I can steer – even if I can’t really edit it afterwards.

Stopping now to think about what my life looks like as a story, I can see a lot of things that I would consider to be missing from a character in a book and their life stories. I’m not sure if they are things I would want to add to my own life, but I’ve not spent time trying I guess.

I’ve been brought up to think that within reason, there is little that you cannot do. I’m probably not going to be a space rocket pilot, but I can still look at the stars. I can translate story lines that I like to become feasible to me, if I want them. I wonder if the stories I have read and the characters I loved have really changed the way I have done things. I’m not sure.

I was also taught from a young age “the most interesting people are the ones who have no idea what they are doing”, I don’t know if this was my parents making me feel better about things or if it is really true. I know I never really made a plan and I got this far without regret. Even the bad things seem good after enough time passing. Maybe it’s not “what do you want to be” as in ‘a postman’, ‘a journalist’, ‘a rock star’, but it’s what do you want to have been that I am thinking off with my morbid decision-making thought exercise.

Ack, I know this is a fuzzy post, at the very least take the links and watch the video. Other than that by all means share your thoughts – What do you want to have been?

I think I would like to have been enough but not too much. I don’t think I’m quite there yet though.

JK

Indie news nightly

3am London BST and I should be in bed, asleep. But I’m not. I’m watching a news channel on the internet. It’s not a mainstream channel or one that you can watch broadcasting on a regular television, it doesn’t drop on a wire from an agency and it’s not available on my radio either.

Since the dominos started to tip in North Africa and the Middle East, I have seen some extraordinary work happen online from around the world, focusing on finding ways for people in troubled places to communicate.

Do you remember when the internet appeared to most people as AOL or through a Netscape window? Did you think about controlling that window? How it appears, how the content comes to you, what it looks like, how it can be arranged, if it requires translation?

Heck, in the 90s I was stunned that I could chat with strangers in Japan in real-time. But it did not strike me as something I might control, much less a connection that I could wire up to suit my needs or those of my friends, we all just piled in and accepted the way things were given to us by “companies who know how”.

More and more I am seeing not just companies who know, but people who know how to control their data. It’s double edged but it’s also vibrant, refreshing and wild.

For a long time I have been out of love with TV. I watch sometimes and appreciate the work of people who make incredible programs. But when I want to know what is happening somewhere, I wish my TV was a browser….and thinking on that, I just prefer my computer after all. Especially now that it gives me control over the little TV I like to see.

The channel I was watching on my computer this morning, was live streaming an audio interview with someone in Libya. The interview was conducted in Arabic, not a language I can understand. But this was no problem.

While the audio continued, a group of people logged into a simultaneous live chat on the same screen. They were translating the audio into English. So I could hear the tone and intonation and read the meaning of the words at the same time. So far as I can tell, this is voluntary.

The material is created voluntarily, the site, set up voluntarily, the coding organised and completed by volunteers, the following clips after the live stream were verified, contributed, filmed, edited and captioned, by volunteers. A diaspora of Arabic speakers and Libyan people contributing to ensure clear communication. Not a company that knows how to broadcast, but people who know how to broadcast in a collaborative manner. That’s a news organisation isn’t it?

The other side of this is that I do not know who the people are. I work to nail down verification where I can. Information must be rigorously checked or it is misinformation, without value, or worse, damaging. But as a personal viewer, I have my choice online, I can choose to believe, I can cross check and verify as far as I am able. That extra work is part of the deal taking in information online. Watching TV, I should be able to believe what I can see without question, safe in the knowledge that professional teams have verified and checked so that they can provide a clear and clean stream for viewers.

Verification takes time. It is worthwhile, satisfying and sometimes difficult work. But it means that you can provide a trusted source of information, it’s just a little bit slower to come to a screen near you.

In verifying sources, having the internet as your beat can be tricky. If I tell you that I am in London, you probably believe me. Do you know why you might believe me? Probably you have read me mentioning that before, maybe you cross checked another account I have online or seen images I have uploaded. That’s a simple start to understanding a shape or a person online. There’s a lot more, the way people speak, their habits and the hours they keep as a live presence. Much of this can be faked too – but practice helps understanding and a keen sense can help you smell a rat, even if at first you can’t put your finger on why.

The channel I have been watching this morning is part of a multi platform organisation. Across established sites like Twitter and Flickr and Facebook they roam on multiple accounts, connected and decentralised. Meanwhile, others work on the back ends of systems, stringing them together, running lines through proxies setting up VPNs and enabling applications like TOR.

At a guess, most broadcasters have not had to deal with this or had reason to organise systems in this way. So the voices have technical back up from people who know how. A means for their message.

Meanwhile their translators around the world apologise for spelling errors after only sleeping 3 hours in the last 24. On another channel, breaking news tickers file across the top of the page. Familiar?

Broadcast channels like this, aggregating uploads from various sources and now broadcasting live interviews that are recorded for re-broadcasting later are currently topic specific. In this case it is for events in Libya. I suspect there will be so many more as the creation of such channels becomes easier and the knowledge of how is spread further. Channels for live news, choose your topic, run their live feeds where you find them and replay material when you feel you need to know. Headlines can be split into links to different spaces concentrating on the material collected and sorted by citizens. That’s a pretty wild way to watch.

I still read the analysis of experts to supplement my live feed addiction. To have context is key and not something currently appearing on these channels. But I suspect it might – soon. Having watched this channel grow from a stream of tweets and a separate FB page to a page of their own that was honed and defined, I think on what mainstream journalists can do. They still provide pages that I come to as a trusted place, they organise the information that is quicker to read but I suspect some connections need to be made with these wild and independent news channels forming online. It’s valuable work that would benefit from some translation for traditional TV viewers.

It’s not for everyone, I suspect people who drop by this blog are the choir in an digital church. My parents still watch the TV news in the evening though as do many of my friends who are not hooked up to the web like pixel junkies. I think they too would marvel at this work if it is properly explained and put in a place where they can easily find it.

It’s now very early AM, London BST and I am probably rambling. I have another question though, if anyone will indulge me. Would you subscribe to these channels, say if the internet were really globally ubiquitous – which channels would you tune into today?

JK

A Dewey Decimal digital destination

I read ebooks. I have a Kindle reader on my Android tablet and I read books on an iPod. I listen to volumes of audiobooks at bedtime too. Digital access to books opens them up to be a lively experience; searchable, open for notes, replayable, rewindable, explorable.

I also still want libraries to be a place, rather than just the digital arena I browse when I have a connection to the web. A hallowed place of shushing librarians and quietly studious people.

I am sitting in my own library now, writing this. The four walls of my tiny study are bricked up to the ceiling on three walls with books. They comfort me, they baffle sound when I am recording and they reassure me. In more lucid moments, when I look up from my screen to think, I see the names of writers and the titles of their books and can hear the voices of their stories. It’s a quietly busy place to be in and pushes me to try and communicate as well as those writers I admire.

I was a bookish child. I blame my myopia on the fact that more often than not I could be found with my nose in a book. Librarians were my gatekeepers and child minders. I tore through the children’s libraries and hoped to be allowed into the adult sections were there were books on shelves too high for me to reach.

As a teen, I wrote my school papers in libraries. Surrounded by a fort of reference books, I hunched over scrawled notes and wrote essays. When I could no longer stuff things into my mind, I would peer over my books at other people, wondering where their minds were and if they were reading something more exciting than I was. I also remember being a hungry student, and those silent places being a room of blushes as my stomach growled.

I have a fetish for those rolly ladders. There, I said it. They fill me with a wild delight and excitement that doesn’t seem to fit the object or what they can do. In fact, it’s not really what they can do and how fun they seem to be that gets me – I think it is more about what they represent. To have a sliding ladder – you would need shelves that are really high and wide, in a large room and essentially – with a lot of books.

So if I worship these halls of dusty tomes but I sit in bed reading from a screen or listening to a downloaded volume; what would a library be to me? And when did I stop using the Dewey Decimal system?

Admittedly, the internet provides a lot of the information that I consume. But the library not only holds paper books and computers of course, it’s rather obviously where the librarians are.

To many of us, the librarian is the person who issues overdue fines or can let you know when the latest best-seller might be available and how many copies they have. They also know where everything is. I mean almost literally everything. A librarian is a researcher on nitro. The person who can work out not only what you are looking for but also provide the neighbouring nodes of data you might not have thought of. This does not happen when I am toiling over a laptop at 3am trying to eek out the right quotes and information. It’s like a co-working space in the library with someone you can ask who has researched almost everything under the sun and a lot more.

As someone who follows technological advance closely, looking for ideas and wondering and the habits that emerge, I like to day dream about the visions of the future. One that sticks in my mind is the Librarian in Neal Stephenson’s “Snow Crash”. A virtual assistant, touched with Ai and with access to the world’s digitised knowledge. Present in a virtual 3d space, the librarian had its limitations but also many strengths, including speed.

Human beings are still better at pattern recognition though. Better at making those leaps in memory that a computer is yet unable to manage. Though people who follow advances toward a human-machine singularity are hopeful that our memories will be vastly expanded, the links between memory and creative thought are much harder to replicate. I still need librarians.

Inside a library, carrying an e-reader, I often wish that I could bridge the gap between the digital and the physical. A physical book is nice to read but what if I could search that book using a gadget? A voice recorder with a digital copy of the text would know what pages the keywords are on, and I could still look it up in the book in my hand. Then, when the library closes, I can borrow the digital copy and take it home.

In my mind, a visor or AR screen held in front of a bookshelf would show me reference numbers, links to other resources, a precis of the contents by looking at the spine, a lot like the amazing Tales of Things project. A digital shadow of the room where I would be standing, still able to smell the old book scent and hear the rustle of pages. Still working in a place where I felt complicit with my fellow readers in the search for knowledge or escapism.

To even attempt this amount of work with my own library would take a grant of embarrassing proportions and years of work. To tag each book without damaging it, to work out what sort of data I would want to add to it. Then of course I would like an app for when I am not in my library so that I can look things up elsewhere. Beyond this, maybe I could share my library, my book reviews, notes taken on themes and authors and share them with my friends who are interested in a similar field. Though this naturally asks questions that lead us into the Google-books territory.

I have no doubt that there are much smarter bears than I already working on ideas beyond my outlines to create the libraries of the future. For now my visual ideas of libraries seem rather old fashioned in comparison with their digital siblings. But a cross over of these two cultures would give us so many options. Imagine a world where every word ever written was alive. Linked to other communities of words, cities of books around the world were linked, your novel in a virtual place sharing a shelf with books of a similar theme in a hundred different languages.

If ever I finally summoned enough brain to write an entire book. I would like my words to swim in that stream. I’d be broke of course – everyone would be reading free copies. I wrestle with the problem of authors’ rights and people without access to books. People who write well should be able to earn a living and libraries may be one way in which rights may be extended for money. Just not a lot of money.

I’m writing this at a time where many of my online peers extol the virtues of free data and information. There are so many experiments taking place and a data economy is opening up. So how to find that data? Imagine if your local broker, was that man or woman who used to stamp out your books? The physical and virtual role of the library should be a fundamental part of the way we read in the future. But only if we are lucky and make our future that way.

This post was inspired by the lovely Katy Beale and is linked to No Furniture So Charming an event at a festival I would have loved to attend. If you go, let me know how it is!

JK

Tales of the internet

I know there must be hundreds and thousands of tales like this to tell or to read. Our world seems to get so much smaller with the web.
But here’s one I wanted to share because it sort of made my jaw drop and maybe it spread a little happiness.

Recently over Skype I was writing back and forth to a woman in Libya. She was talking about the arrival of a very special person that many people all over the world will celebrate. A child of a man who made a difference but was then taken from us brutally. A small life in return is a happy and grave thing at the same time. We chatted about the practicalities of trying to buy baby clothes in a city that is overwhelmed with disruption. Trying to find something so regular for a small light in a wilderness.

At some point in the conversation she referred to the expected baby as “the bub”. I paused at my keyboard. Then said, “You’re Australian?” The way we ‘speak’ online fascinates me. Outside of the 140 character missives we shoot across the web, the way a person writes can tell you a lot about them, education, style, choice of words. As an Australian, to see that word “bub” appear, I found that I could suddenly hear her voice across the words that appeared on my screen. Many Australians have the wanderlust. You can probably go to the ends of the earth and hear a cheery hoo-roo from the only other person there. She laughed that she was writing Australian. To have a conversation of this type with someone in a place of tension is a good thing.

Besides the banter on accent and baby clothes, we also talked about communications. She pointed me toward a site where people are banding together to buy a satellite. You read right. A massive structure in space for telecoms, our own satellite. It is hoped that when funds are raised, it will be positioned over Africa to help people access the internet and instigate some change. It sounded wild to me. We closed our conversation and I looked up the satellite site.

Indeed, we can all put together and buy a satellite. But who started this? I looked further to find the person responsible.

A young man who had many projects on the go it seemed. I browsed his personal website and something stood out more than the others. He was also associated with a project run by a friend in Canada. Not an every day web project either, he had apparently been working on the Eyeborg project.

I should explain. Rob Spence is an eyeborg. He has a camera, packed into a false eye, that can transmit what he is looking at to a screen or maybe at some point, to the web. After many years now of chatting with Rob online, I think I take it for granted, but in retrospect, I guess it does sound pretty extreme. I think it’s pretty cool.

So I raise Rob on Gtalk. “Hey, do you know a guy who’s trying to buy a satellite?”.
“Yeah, he slept on the same couch that you did when you came to stay last year”.
I was a little agog. My world, spread across continents is small.

From a woman who left my home country to communicate with others in a frightening place, to a man who wants to buy a satellite for the greater good and a guy who puts a camera in his face, right back to my computer in London. It’s not the first time that these connections have amazed me, and it is unlikely to be the last. But in the space of that two hour session online, I felt connected to some of the strangest and more amazing people I had met. When things like this happen, I look forward to what the web might show me in years to come and yes, in those moments, you can call me a Utopian. Surely it’s allowed sometimes.

JK

South by Global Headlines

This year finally I went to the Geek shindig called South by South West in Austin, Texas.
I initially stayed in Allen with friends as close as family before a drive down to Austin for the conference. The days before I travelled to the states I had been closely monitoring news of the varied Arab uprising, assorted stories of governmental change, crackdown and violence from Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Morocco, Tunisia. Most of this I read through first person blogs, tweets and audio updates as well as some news websites.

The morning before we left to drive to Austin, the news broke of the earthquake in Japan and following Tsunami. We stood still in front of a television showing recordings made by people using mobile phones and portable cameras. the level of the catastrophe was barely believable.

There were things to do, bags to pack, a car to load and a friend to collect along the way, then a four hour drive. We checked into the hotel and turned on CNN again. More news from Japan, a large TV sceen showing pictures of people and houses that looked Lilliputian in the wake of a slow and deliberate moving wave of destruction. There was little we could say to each other that might sum up a reaction to that level of tragedy. The headlines shifted and updates from Libya showed angry and frightened people in the streets where they live. It seemed incomparable, the state of human activity on the news. The sadness that comes with seeing people like you fighting for their beliefs, people like your friends being shot at.

But there were still things to do. We watched the news in bed and fell asleep to headlines. The next day was busier than the first at the conference in a wired environment.

Austin seemed to be awash in a supportive net of wifi, communications were easy enough, we were all in touch, all checked in to various locations, all aware of where our friends were in the local neighbourhood and looking forward to catching up over an evening meal to share our day of lectures, panels, information. I checked the news headlines here and there from news sites, but there was little need to seek out a news website, my Twitter stream was flowing with Arabic and English updates about Libya as well as various quotes and statistics about the nuclear reactors in Japan.

In the evening we went back to the hotel and watched the news. Japan, to a convention of people who love technology, used to mean maybe Tokyo. A neon Mecca of lights and electronic play things, high on the list of geek destinations. What we were seeing was images of normal life torn asunder. Recognisable shapes of homes and lives rearranged by a force almost unimaginable.

We were up early the next morning with the news on again, watching experts talk about nuclear reactors, overheating and evacuation. We went on to the conference again, the sun was shining, people made new friends and tried new things. Online friends met in real life and got to see how we really are.

For all the chatter and flow of conversation face to face, I was finding it hard to do what most would do naturally at a place like SXSW – answer that familiar question on Twitter “What’s happening?”

What was happening in front of me was a gleeful celebration of technology and innovation. What was happening in my mind and in my hand on a portable device, was a constant stream of horrifying news. People in pain.

Many people reading this will be accustomed to a form of digital shadow we now carry around with us, an overlay to our real surroundings. You know where you are, you see what is happening around you, but now you may also be constantly aware of what your friends are up to as well and beyond that, what the people you do not know are doing too. They speak the same digital language as you, so you easily see their tone, activities and sometimes uploaded images, brought to you wherever you sit or stand.

I had gone to the conference to try and report back a live stream of things others might want to celebrate and enjoy if they were not in the same place as me. Some of this is my job, most of it is now a habit. But how funny did I find it to upload silly pictures when other were uploading images of their world on fire?

I did update, I did post some images, but I felt dismayed at the idea of throwing a geek party in my live stream, ashamed sort of. I didn’t post as much as I thought I might.

We know this sort of plane will come where the world can really be so seamlessly connected. Maybe until now I had considered it to be information. As a reporter talking to people around the world about their lives I am used to distancing myself a little, it’s not my story and it’s my job to pass it on. But with that seamless connection of information comes a sense of humanity and feeling. Sorrow, grief, loss at this time spread world wide with anger and outrage. This is part of the connections we make online.

In other parts of the web maybe people were up to the usual things, scrapping, flirting, talking about celebrities, TV shows, comic books anything and everything. Maybe my global frequency was an echo chamber repeating the news headlines rather than mixing in more of other daily lives elsewhere. I’ve been known to purse my lips at a flippant update when I’ve had my head in news coverage that would not get an 18 rating. I’ve also been known to ignore the daily struggles of friends because I thought the story I was following put a much bigger perspective on things, making their problems seem insignificant in comparison. What would I care that your boyfriend was mean when I spent the day watching bodies line up on someone’s YouTube footage?

I realise that this post sounds somewhat hyperbolic, I’ve thought over days since I came back from the States about how I wanted to write it and it still doesn’t sound quite right, but it’s on my mind. What is our emotional responsibility now that we are all connected?

Though you grieve with close friends when they lose a family member, what is your level of empathy to a enormous event that used to be miles away over a television news broadcast and now you carry in your pocket, revealed through small windows over weeks?

It’s a question really. I have not suffered, this is not a woe-is-me tale of a happy event changed by global headlines and I am not personally upset by my own circumstances. But I wonder at the closeness of a digital world, the sinking in a heart when a reporter I never knew but read each day was shot, when I hear from women my age who are frightened or families like mine elsewhere who had their lives washed away. It’s just a lot closer now and I wonder how we will all feel as the proximity of these connections continues to grow nearer. What is appropriate?

Getting my house in order – for now

This is more than me than for you. I write sometimes to get my house in order. To brighten the corners and sweep out the cobwebs, line things up neatly and try to understand.

I spend most of my working life trying to understand people far away doing extraordinary and ordinary things and to translate that into a medium to share. For the moment I need to understand what I think I might be doing. You’re welcome along for this ride of course.

I spent the last week mostly in bed. I am rarely ill. Or at least rarely so ill that I cannot work. It’s been strange, introspective, frustrating – about what you might expect. Nothing special and everyone gets it sometime.

It did mean that I had an enforced lull. There was not much I could do but dream and think. I get concerned in these moments that I’ll just crawl so far into my own navel that the light of day will be a memory. I like to be busy, it keeps me away from myself.

This lull happened before a few instances of change. My work will change, from a more academic field of future gazing and experimentation that I am proud of and grateful for the opportunity. I’ll return to the bustle and hum of the newsroom. It feels a little bit like going home, I’ve almost always worked in a newsroom.

I have a new flatmate. Getting used to someone new is nice. The change over is strange. In watching a friend leave to a better set up and clear his life down, I too found myself more willing to strip back my life a little. Streamline and return. Getting to know someone new of course means also learning something new about yourself. The stories change, not completely, but the perspective is different and somewhat surprising.

Soon also I will finish the first year of my degree in Computer Science and Human Machine interaction. There have been times when I thought I might fail, not the knowledge but the dedication. Having come this far, I want the qualification enough to spur me into another year. It will be tricky to balance the day job and the radio show and study again. It’s a bit anti-social. But the thrill of learning is something I enjoy. It’s having something new but a more valuable tool than something new from a shop.

Travel is back on the agenda. An event I have been waiting for, for a long time. It’s costing me dearly. I have the sort of parents who teach me measured irresponsibility. I am impossibly grateful to them for this ideal. I don’t think you “get to take it with you”either. So I had better enjoy as much of it now as I can get my hands on.

Their advice will also take me to Kathmandu, Nepal soon after. To see an old friend in a new place. I love the desert but I am from the mountains, so I hope to feel rather at home in such a hilly place.

So, there’s code in my head and my passport is trembling with anticipation again. It feels like the eye of the storm but the planning was work and the exit will be the payoff.

There’s more. There’s always more. This seems like a lot when all the little tasks worm their way out to be dealt with. But already, I can sort of see a clearing. So it must be almost time to start planning the next fine mess I can get myself into…

…and yes, I moved the furniture around on my blog and sorted my sock drawer.
Maybe it’s just Springtime afterall.

JK

All the same if you are online?

I had a change to sit down and chat with a colleague who is a great digital thinker today. I’d name him but he might get all shy.

We were talking about the expansion and evolution of the web and I was thinking about “web commentators”.

It used to be that being online was for pointy headed nerdy types with more time or smarts than the average bear to get online and do something. Then things opened up a bit – the blogging community grew and yeah, they were considered to be a bit nerdy, but maybe less nerdy than the BB inhabitants.

So now we have tonnes of bloggers in all shades and a truckload of new friends on the internet via loosely connected mobile objects. The internet still is not a part of everyone’s life all over the world, but in many ways, the internet really is starting to resemble a shadow of real life when you look at the sections of society present.

There are liberals, dissidents and authorities commenting, writing and monitoring. Mainstream famous people and everyday family updaters. Collectors, broadcasters, innovators, in all types of media.

I used to find it amusing that there were Twitter experts. (I’ve been daubed with that title and rejected it then as I do now) To me a twitter expert seems like a telephone expert, or a fax and email expert. I hope they know when to move along and either become near field communications experts maybe?

Now I wonder what will become of the all encompassing web commentators who frequently attempts a universal theory of society online (often even those societies they cannot access or translate.) Would they in reflection be world commentators? Just because it is online should we be simplifying people’s actions?

The reminder – “people not tech” has been around the block again a few times lately. I think it is something to bear in mind – unless it is now appropriate to tar everyone IRL with the same brush too?

The time for specialising within your web commentary may have come..

Tell me why I am wrong –

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Training wheels for javascript

For better or worse I have been learning javascript. Mostly cutting and pasting other bits of code or debugging stuff to learn how stuff works.

Today – I made my very own script!
I know that pride comes before a fall and there may be some n00b mistakes – but when last checked – it worked. So i’m doing a little shaky-ass victory dance and will learn more tomorrow.

Behold, the script that turns your browser into a 5 year old….

Why?

var why;

why = window.prompt(‘Why?’,”);

while (why != ‘Because I said so’)
{
document.write(‘Yeah, but…’+’
‘);
why = window.prompt(‘Why?’,”);

}
document.write(‘Oh, okay.’);

yay!
JK

Not so idle chatter

Your conversational skills….

I am making pages of notes on the comments that were left about the thought exercises earlier on this blog. Thank you to everyone who posted something, all of the replies have released a torrent of ideas – so I’ll be arranging sticky-notes with themes on them for a little while, trying to get a narrative together I think.

One of the many ideas that came up a few times is that of social interaction. Now, I know that there are many other blogs and published items about how social interaction may wane due to digital interaction taking over. Also the way we talk to each other, or write to each other has changed somewhat too.

In this case, I was thinking about Joanna Casey’s comment – these lines specifically…
“I ask myself often ‘do I really need to know what my Facebook or online friends are doing every day?’. The answer is ‘no, not really’ and it’s just become a habit. But I do like the random interaction that the internet provides .. if it wasn’t part of our lives I wouldn’t be writing this now.”
Thanks Joanna, more to keep me going!

I tend to keep in touch with almost everyone I know in some digital form or another – and this means that when I do get to see them physically, we chat but also recount which updates we already knew…”I posted that on twitter…”, “Oh yeah, I remember seeing your photos on Facebook.” You know the sort of thing.

So this made me reevaluate what I thought was conversation a little bit. What’s it like to catch up with someone you are not connected to online? Someone you don’t call regularly. Yes, a catch up.

I’d say I put aside more time for this – a long lunch or a visit or maybe an entire afternoon. It’s a bit like getting to know them again. Asking lots of questions so I can understand what they have been doing, how they feel, if they have changed and what they think. I like it – I enjoy it.

On the other side of this equation – Does an absence of digital updates mean you get to evaluate what you think as well? When you retell a tale, you need to set up the scene, then explain the story and the punch line. Maybe discuss the reasons. To this also seems to consolidate what you think as you are doing it. Maybe occasionally you are provided with an idea and you are surprised that you agree.

I know that some of this can be expressed via comments and online conversation, but it is not as immediate, and of course all of the non-verbal cues are missing. But, does it help us more to talk things through face to face and do we make enough of an effort to do this?

Just wondering what you think…though along these lines I should be making time to grab a coffee and ask everyone in person

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Thought exercise – part two

Hello again,

Thanks to everyone who added a comment and jumped into discussion with me about the thought experiment. This is the other half of it.

So, we were imagining that we live in a world with no TV/Radio/Internet. As Manu quite rightly pointed out – I think I missed out cell phones in there too – but I think you all sussed that bit out.
Thank you for the details of your scenarios too – lots to think about!

Now – I’m going to ask for some more complex imagining….again something I am struggling with a little bit but I’ll outline what I have and hopefully we can talk about it again.

In your world where you never had TV/Radio/Internet – one day you wake up and someone or something has come to visit. They have left something for you too.

For the purposes of the exercise you know instantly how to use these items (otherwise we’ll be here too long).

In your quiet home is now -
A modern TV with an internet connected set top box
A digital radio
A smart phone each
A laptop each
A tablet computer each.

All of these items can link to each other, you can pass media between them and your friends.

How would you link these things if you approached them from a standing start like this?
How would your family interact with the devices and all that media?
Would you think about accessibility and sharing with other family members if they needed it?

Although there are not many questions, they’re biggies to try and think around.
It’s easy to be influenced by existing developments and products – so none of those please. What I am looking for here is your personal want list for mixing your media across devices.

What do you reckon? Not easy from the ground up – but I find it easier now we cleared the deck to start thinking about it fresh.

Let me know what you think in the comments and I’ll respond and discuss as we go.

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Thought exercise – part one

Hi there,

I’ve got something cooking again and I would love a bit of input. Whenever is good if you are willing.

The idea starts with something I would like to open in stages – just as a mental exercise.

So, if you have a moment to think about this over the next day or so – it should prepare you for what I have to ask next, which may be a little more complex. Don’t worry, it won’t be terribly drawn out.

Are you sitting comfortably? Good. Then I’ll begin.

Imagine, if you would, a different world, not entirely dissimilar to our own. Your life today, most of the things you do, but with a few things missing.

Imagine your life today without the internet, without television and without radio.

What would that be like?

In thinking about this, I am hoping to sort of mentally clear the decks. For the next questions. I’ll update in a day or so, but for me it took time to try and imagine that world, so I’ll let you mull over it for now while I think about it too.

It’s very broad and as an exercise I keep trying to think about it myself and I find it hard. These three media are such big a part of my daily life.

All questions about this post and comments of course are very welcome.

The initial thought I have is that it would be very quiet – no?

Let me know what you think, leave a comment here any time.

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

I listened – a collaborative story via sound

So – a little recap and a tape for you.

A few weeks (probably more) I asked if anyone would contribute sound. The original post is here.
Basically, I wanted to write to the sounds of others, mostly to see if I could do it.

I like to write and as has been said by many other writers, I feel as though I am guided by characters and scenarios rather than being in control. So why not entirely hand over control to random sound and see what it tells me.

I logged all the tapes – 26 from 15 people. Some submitted a few clips each. Having noted the sounds I thought I could hear, I then made notes about what this put me in mind of. What I could imagine to go with it.

From this a theme emerged. It was probably infuenced by some of my reading about ‘Technium’ and the growth and change of technology as well as the slightly unsettling sense of intimacy that came from being carried around by you all in a microphone or cell phone. I thought about the idea of an ongoing ghost in machines, something that follows humanity through all of our technological changes. That sounds as though I am trying to be profound, I’m not sure it was all so serious.

Many people recorded into Audio boo, some on professional mics, it was neat to have these changes in texture and conext. I processed some of the clips to give them a boost but mostly the audio is unchanged, just heavily layered.

So – here it is -

I like it in the end. It’s a bit strange entirely not knowing where you’re headed, but that also makes it fun.

What remains is to thank everyone who contributed and showed patience as time escaped me to work on it at a more regular pace.
Thanks to -
Colleen
Lee
Ella
Mark
Matt
Annie Mole
Mike
Jim
Benedict
Richard
Andree
Ben
Andrew
Zoe
Sue

Big hugs for your all, the project and the story would not exist without all of you.

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

I’m listening – you’re in the blender

Well, lookit! What’s that now?

It’s your audio being mixed. Tricky to fit all 26 into one tape – but I think I’ve managed it. It sounds good too – the reading sounds much better with all of your sound behind it, in fact your sounds are what makes it pretty impressive.

I’ll leave it to rest a while and then have a final listen and tweak, then you can all have a listen and let me know what you think.

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Where’d my audio go!? Don’t worry, I’m listening…

Okay – back on track. As with most intermittant bloggers, I was overwhelmed elswhere, but in the back of my mind I’ve been mulling over this project.

I logged all of the tapes -26 I think in total. Lots of different places and sounds.
Once had them logged, I made some notes about what they put in my mind and then transferred some of those ideas to a theme.

I think because of the disjointed nature of collecting audio this way, my idea of a narrative headed out of the window a bit. There is a theme, but I’m not sure there is a narrative. I’m hoping (because I am rarely a fan) that it does not sound too much like poetry. I am hoping that the audio and reading will change some of this.

So – I have a first draft – very much likely subject to change -especially as I mix. I’ll be using this as a framework to mix the audio and then maybe adjust the words a little to suit any unforseen rhythms or sounds. The audio is still very much the lead.

The draft has my bracketed notes which show much of the audio but probably you won’t immediately recognise all 26 clips defined. A girl’s gotta have some secrets!

Currently I think it’s a little esoteric. But I might grow into it once the audio is in the blender.

There you are – updated. More soon.

JK

I’m listening

(servers – turn down)
Always on, always there. Bearing witness to your expressions, emotions and communications.
From device to device over time you allow me to follow you. (rain on windows)

(bike journey)
I’ve heard you grow, transferred your heartache and helped others laugh at your jokes.
I bring you everyone you know and some you don’t. (people -chatter)

Language affects me not, I’m programmed and tailored to all of you – personally. (foreign languages mixed x3)

(sea) Pocket me, package me and take me everywhere. Your digital shadow, portal and connection.
(zips) (footsteps)

Ones and zeros, on and power off. (louder noises – abrupt cut off and restart) I don’t dream, but awaken the same as I ever was, silent circuits, electricity and light. (increasing volume electrical sounds)

Through me you speak your mind, (mri) utter your secrets (overlay whispers), launch your criticism and set your reminders. Lie, confess, admit, deceive, proclaim, broadcast and shout. (shops sounds)

(Crowds chanting)Even in the crowds I hear you alone. Closer than a sister, more accepting than a lover, more knowing than any parent. Intimate, private, accessible and yet locked. (keys) (crowd noises)

(fade to electrical sounds)
But it means nothing to me. The sum total of your constant chatter and noise. How you cradle and decorate me, gesture and pose. Unfeeling and not in the least bit interested in what you imagine your messages to be. I send your packets but I can’t read them. (harmonium)

(clock ticks) tools hack)I will change and grow, shift and reform. Dancing from device to upgrade, my memory grows, uncomprehending, collecting and showing. Changed but the same by your side, always. (breathing) (cat purr)

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Code and destroy

In case you ever wondered about the ranty pants. I buy them in packs of five.
I have them on. Let’s go.

Would you have been a better coder if your first computer was pink?

This evening I went to a gathering of women (and some men) to think about encouraging girls to take an interest and hopefully inspire a career in technology in some way. We all know that this is a problem. There are women who work in IT, I appreciate this, but the numbers do not look good.

According to a statistic on the night, the IT work force is only 17% women. I don’t like stats much when I am not being told how they came about, but for now, I’ll agree that this figure, if it is correct is not great. The people presenting this information went on to cringe and say that this figure may be heading downward. They got, me. My interest piqued, I wondered “What can I do?” and sat forward in my seat.

Now, I’ll leave the broad theme of the evening there for a moment. I am not criticising women who are trying to level the IT work playing field. I think its good. I want to see more women influencing IT and computing, the ones I know inspire me every day, change the way I think, make me proud to be female, so lets have more of that. So big girl crushes all round, but then a cold shower and something that just makes me feel that some efforts are flawed.

A presentation followed and what we were offered as a template kinda turned me off. “We made it pink and trendy” was the phrase. I looked around. The literature, pink, the cupcakes, pink, the powerpoint, pink. Then I looked around the room, women of varied experience and age, fiercely intelligent, creative and interesting. Dressed in grey, brown, dark blue, black. Power suits, everything but the tie.

The technology in their hands, phones, laptops – black, grey, that weird brown/purple colour. Not much in the way of Barbie’s laptop happening here. I thought about my learning with screens and computing, black, white grey, blue. Easy to read.

I think you see where I am headed.

I don’t have a pure disagreement with pink. I don’t think that the colour will forever make girls think that IT will be about spangles and robot unicorns, but I see a disconnect here and I think that portraying the IT work place as a pink palace more suited to the Barbara Cartland is unwise.

I recognise that many little girls go through a “pink phase”, indeed some never leave. But not all little girls do.
The group of women in the room was assorted and little girls are assorted too. Also – technology, thus far has failed to present itself as predominantly pink.

I thought more generally about the women I wanted to be as I was growing up. Mrs Peel, Siouxsie Sioux, Deborah Harry, Angelina Jolie in Hackers, Lisbeth Salander (the hacking, not the tremendous amounts of abuse). I was a little girl with trucks and Lego. If technology had been presented to me as a pink pony, I might not have been interested at all. I probably would have thought it was more for my neighbour, who was a good friend and completely different.

Blanketing young girls with pink marshmallow establishes stereotypes and fails to acknowledge individuals.

I see the need for an early entry point and access to technology as a good influence. Indeed friendly interfaces and colours, good design makes sense. But my Commodore was brown. It didn’t stop me learning BASIC or playing games until bed time.

I’m not saying that I think all girls should be presented with goth and punks as ideal role models either. But a little rock and roll in the mix might be appealing.

When I was young I wanted to be cool. I probably still do when I have a moment to think about it. I thought punk was cool, rebellion was cool. I thought hackers were cool. The power, exploration, curiosity. The role models I read about in my late teens – the phreakers, hackers and crackers were all up to something illegal. Most of them got caught too. But they were frighteningly intelligent, elite, knew things that others could not understand. It was like a secret code and society and I badly wanted in. There were no girls in the stories I read at that time. I sometimes wonder if there were, what I might be doing now.

I see a few role models in comic books and fiction these days. I tend to like them. I want girls to meet some of my friends too – they’re alternative, funny, cool. They still know the history of coding, they can add up in binary and evangelise for HTML 5. But they also don’t quite play by the rules.

I think there is a need for passionate women who code to show off their human side. The long hours, the night time sessions, the learning and discipline. Then to show off their dark cynicism, their loud music. Tech really looks like a fluffy place from a mainstream stand point. Again, horses for courses, but there must be a few out there who code to Rollins, design a little darkness, learn a little digital magic?

If you had a teacher that spoke to you like an adult. Gave you some space to learn and taught you with respect, I bet you still remember them today. Would you like them better if they talked down and asked you if you would like to learn more in a pastel environment?

Maybe there is a space for this kind of influence. I don’t mean teaching 9 year old girls how to hack the bank. But the sterile pink womb of girls in tech is starting to grate and I wonder if there is a different way to spread the message that is respectful and not patronising, interesting and cool. Just not “pink and trendy”.

…and yes, ranty pants do come in pink, but I’m old enough to make that decision for myself.

Jump in -

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

“Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose…”

I’m still working on the audio story but taking a little break. It’s going okay, but it needs some air and I’ve been mulling over this post for a little while.

What seems like a long time ago (I’m probably counting in internet years) I wrote about print newspaper. Not down the demise of news – I suspect we’ll still be needing some of that – but the visceral sense of reading a newspaper. If you are curious/bored, that post is here. This post has something in common with that.

Recently in an attempt to avoid studying and working, I decided to sort out my cranky iTunes files. So, that’s digital sock sorting for you – work avoidance. I cleared a few things out and then took a look at my CDs. Yeah, physical CDs.
Most people are probably a few steps ahead of me on this – but my CDs are propped in one of those narrow shelving units in the corner of my office. They’re covered in dust.

There was a time where this would be impossible. CDs were never in their case, or in the correct case at least. They would be strewn about, bedroom hi-fi, kitchen CD player – covered in cake mix, stacked up in my office next to a player in there too or to listen too from my laptop while it wound up like a jump-jet.

I started importing some of the older ones and the ones that handily “fell off” my copy of iTunes, (yeah, thanks Apple for that). Listening to music is a bee line through history for me. I recover memories and scenes in full HD clarity. Old boyfriends, console games, pubs I worked in, desks I wrote at. CD by CD I recovered a whole lot in one afternoon. The covers, sound of crystal cases clacking against each other as I stacked them up, lyrics I thought I had forgotten. It reminded me of who I was at different times.

It also reminded me of who other people were. Friends I still have and some who drifted away. A CD and vinyl collection was a tribal marker when I was at college. Sonic Youth CD – you’re in. Take that? You’re probably an old school friend and therefore forgiven. Corduroy – on vinyl along with creased thrift shop LPs we thought were ironic – Sexy Hammond? Yeah.

It was the thing we would inspect when visiting a new friend. The collection we hoped would be cool for others when they came to visit us. I have a stark memory of living with a flatmate when I had just moved to London. It was a warning sign that I dismissed. Face it, when you really need to find somewhere to live and you’re inexperienced or not so assured, you ignore yourself.

An extreme example in the end of a bully and a guy who seemed to be often on the edge of violence. White collar professional, propped up by family inheritance. I though he was bland but okay. He wasn’t and I left that place frightened. But the thing that I spotted when I first saw that flat? The CD collection, not many, not all out and well played and frankly nothing I would want to listen to. I was busy deafening myself with System of a Down and Siouxsie Sioux, he – well, he wasn’t. I’m not going to associate recording artists with acts of violence. But the differences were large and it led to leverage in that situation.

If I had been as persnickety about his record collection as I was when I had been a pompous art student, then I would not have moved in at all. Let that be a spurious lesson!

But back to today and old records in a new form. The fact of the matter is, if I popped around to your place for a cup of tea for the first time, you’d probably have an iPod full of secrets (I do – Carpenters? Yes. Gwen Stefani? Shut up, yes that too). Point being, the music collection that lined the walls as an open code for your tribe, is fast fading away. We may talk about it online, but face to face, how do you know who’s like you?

Sometimes it feels as though our physical presences are disappearing. Sometimes I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. Sometimes I suspect I am just growing old. I’ll listen to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young and get back to you on that one.

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Still making and note taking – I’m listening

Play, pause, note, repeat, reverse, mix and edit…

In getting over the slight weirdness of having travelled in all of your pockets, I now have a body of sound to work with and it’s delightful. It has told me a lot of things.

In total, I am working with 24 separate tapes from places including London, Chicago, Dallas and beyond.

So far I have been on many journeys, on foot, by bike, on trains. I’ve cosied up to machinery and pets and I know what you hear when the alarm goes off in the morning. I’ve heard voices that are too far away to know what they are saying and listened to processes and a musical instrument. I’ve been logging the tape lengths, the literal translations of what I think I can hear and then what it puts me in mind of. Between these aspects there are some ideas already emerging, just a matter of whittling it all down.

Some of the themes come from the process of making this and some reference the sounds directly. To start with I have built the introduction audio – three layers and 3 different people. To be honest, it’s probably way more fun than it should be, so it must be right up my street – as well as walking down yours.

Thanks to everyone who committed a sound to the project. Now you have an idea of what I’m working with so here’s hoping I can make something worth while that links you all in some way.

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Listen with other…

More excellent sounds are coming in…wrap your listening gear around these new submissions –

No, I’m not going to tell you the details or who they are from just yet. Yes, I have already broken the rules and let in verbal content – but you gotta admit, that’s a cool sound!

The sounds so far have been multiple submissions from keen people with lovely noises. So where’s yours?
It takes a lot of noises to create a soundscape – so anything you send in that might be different to the ones we have here already are all gratefully received and will no doubt make the story turn a different corner.

The good news is that a tale is coming together as I listen to all of these clips. I think I know where it will be going, I just have to write it down right?

For anyone wondering, I have been making a tape log as I go along. Noting down on each clip the sounds that I think I can hear or what they put me in mind of. Anyone who works with audio or video knows that tape logging can be a chore if you don’t do it right away and that it is one of the most valuable things you can have to hand when you are editing something together. So it’s a valuable document to me at the moment as I make notes along side the tape log with storyline ideas. I’ll probably upload some snaps of the notebook when I get the tale all finished.

Meanwhile, get your audioboo on, or your recording device out and point me to your noises. You can reach me over Twitter @jemimah_knight and we’ll work out the best way of getting your sounds involved. Each one makes a difference to the story and will be important to the final effects. The most I can say so far is that it will probably turn out to be a little bit creepy, so I hope you all fancy an eerie little feature.

Lend me your ears…..

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

We have sound…

Alrighty!

So a harried and hurried post last night traipses around the world a bit and brilliant people along the trail decide to join in. I love the web.

The last post is a call out for sound. Audioboo’s a really way you can do this with your phone and then point me at it via the comment section here or, hit me up on Twitter where I am @jemimah_knight and I can DM an email address to you to send files over or drop send.

Send me your every day sounds, or something weird, maybe something funny if you like. But nothing verbal – so no talking and don’t tell me what it is. This way I can follow my ears through your audio and make a story. I’ll try my best to make something coherent and read the story over your mixed soundscape. A bit like the Flapjack narration, except this time, you’re going to lead me.

I have four lovely sounds to share with you already – here are the early entries. I can clearly tell some thing about them and I know who they are from – but you don’t, unless you sent it. So we have a mystery already

In listening closely to these clips, it’s oddly like being inside someone else’s head. Hearing what you hear. Creepy right? Well, not really, but it certainly opened a world of sounds that I don’t hear every day.

Let’s see what we can do. If you have something different that I can weave into a tale – go for it!

I’d like to hear your world and probably totally guess it wrong but write it into something else.

Onward – JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

I’m listening….

Okay, this has to be quick as it is horribly late, but I wanted to post something out there before I forget.

This evening I was editing some lovely audio a friend as recorded for me and it’s really very nice. It reminded me of working with the exceptional Flapjack audio that came in from friends all over the world. So, goodness knows where the time will come from but I want to have a crack at something else that is collaborative – if anyone is up for it.

The idea appeared in the quiet moments where I was saving files. The wind really whips around my flat at the moment making fantastic howling noises. I was thinking idly that I should record it some day for another story. I started annotating in my head to amuse myself “It was a dark and stormy night…” the wind gusted and howled obligingly, it passed the time.
I was trying to think of a second line when the atmospheric howls were interrupted by a brightly broken “peep-peeep!” and the plastic grinding and tin sound of a small motorbike. We have a pizza delivery place out side the back of my block and the bikes are bombing around there all the time. It broke the atmospheric spell and made me laugh.

It also made me think I could adapt a tale to random sounds if I could edit them all together. Telling a story based on audio clips.

This is where you come in. Over the next few weeks, or however long it takes to collect some nice sounds, I’m wondering if you could record some sounds for me. Yes you, all and any of you.

You can use audioboo, or you can give a shout on twitter and i’ll DM you an email address, or drop send or whatever you like. The one thing – don’t label the sound so that I can tell what it is – so I’ll have to work to understand and make a tale out of it.

Any sound is good, you can submit as many as you like, the weirder the better, soft or loud. Non verbal might be better. Pets maybe? Something you hear every day? Your footsteps as you walk to work or even a journey on the bus. Anything you like and as surprising as you can make it. You record it and I’ll listen to it.

So, what do you reckon? Are you in? Let’s make a story.

- JK

P.S. Thanks to Ella for reminding me – god forbid I put the useful information on here – Twitter contact – @jemimah_knight

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Left to your mobile devices #sfriot

Something happened in San Francisco last night. The Giants won the World Series for starters but also there was a flurry of activity in the Mission that was covered six-ways ‘till Sunday online – by citizens.

I work up UK time and as is my wont, logged into Twitter desk-top style. The front page log in carried a tweet remarking on mainstream media not bothering to cover the San Francisco riots. (an approximation of their words, not mine). I work in daily global news and I drew a total blank. What riots?

My mind spun through ideas of the LA riots, of Iranians fighting in the street, people bleeding from their faces, looting, burning and chaos. I wondered what would have happened to my friends in the West Coast tech city….and then I took a closer look.

Language, as we all know, is an incredibly emotive and powerful form of communication. Your choice of words can make the difference between the end of the world and the end of the street. It’s how journalism works – since the invention of the headline. Write something that will attract enough attention or be important enough to people to sell your pages. These days of course, to generate online ad revenue (maybe – but that’s a different debate).

So, to rioting. I searched tweets and videos to see what was around and if I could gauge the severity of the happenings. Indeed there was trouble and fire in the streets. Police were out, things got broken, but not too many people, so that’s a mercy. I was glad to see that the rioting was more of a post game set of street fights rather than an all out movement to take over the city.

Meanwhile the methods were coming into focus. It’s no surprise that people were creating their own reports. Videos and images were being uploaded. Take a look at this video for me -

One thing that strikes me about the footage as different say from the poll tax riots in the UK, is the amount of people taking photos. You can see this more easily of course because it is dark and people are using flash to light the scenes in front of them. It’s like an arena concert where you can spot the people with cameras.

Twitter of course had been running hot. A check back on the stream with a time references shows the usual spark and growth, retweet and maximum capacity of data being added from wry comment to real photos. After a while it becomes noisy and unreadable, as you would expect from any breaking news event seen through social platforms.

Images appear on twitpic and flickr all tagged with the appropriate keywords. #sfriots, #violence, #fire. I think this gives us a gauge and danger level. If you have taken an image in a moment of crisis and then taken time to tag that image and upload it, I would hazard a guess that your life was not in danger and you felt you had a little time to do this without too much concern.

Then the extraordinary move to create a check in point on 4square for the rioting. From that point on, much of the feedback online sounded as though it related to the greatest Night Club in the mission. The meaning of checking in had been gamed and changed – so where next for this type of move? Are there boundaries of taste for check-in services? Does the use of a social location application damage the reputation of an event? What is the etiquette for checking in at a funeral – next to the casket with a picture or once the earth is in the grave?
I realise I am pushing the lines there for sensationalism, it’s more for theory than a realistic expectation – so far.

The questions that arrived for me out of this situation were those of choice and application. I still maintain that citizen journalists and accidental reporters are providing some of the most vibrant and interesting footage of our times. The candid images taken on mobile phones are becoming the ones that we associate with news headlines.

The power of these raw images (the ones that have not been tampered with – not that I saw this from #sfriots) is that they explain the situation immediately. The problem comes with the wording.

I realise that this will be stacked because I come from a traditional print, radio and mainstream background. Journalists know how to write. Many citjos do too. But those who upload without view to being citizen journalists can often choose word that either lead to misinformation or misrepresentation.

I’m not saying there was no riot in San Francisco. But I do think that the levels of hyperbole were a signifier that social news should be carefully read and translated. It is good that everyone has a choice for where they get their news, but hopefully the skills for reading the truth in the depiction are going to catch up with the volume of data that appears on the web. People will tell the news in their way, raw, affected and subjective. Passionate, illuminating and biased. It’s human.

I also believe that further reading, objectivity and pace are vital for reporting on the world around us. I needed to know that my friends in San Francisco would be safe and one tweet driving up the angst and misrepresenting the action in the Mission was telling me the wrong story.

In a more positive vein, another area that was revealed via these reports is that which is important to the local citizen. Probably you have been disappointed in the past that something happened near you, that you didn’t hear about in the news.

The fact of the matter is that as news organisations shrink and the money to support them flows away, there is little in the way of resources to support local news. Large outlets may be coming to rely upon social news updates from local people, if they are covering local headlines at all.

If I had an apartment in the Mission last night, I would probably feel a shared sense of community if I could open a newspaper in the morning and see images of my neighbourhood. Images that tell me others acknowledge that the community is there. I used to feel a certain validation when my home town was mentioned in the papers for whatever reason. It put us on a map of consciousness in a way, we were there.

Those papers are gone now and the local news comes directly from people in a slightly scattered and sometimes questionable form. The truth of the communities remains unsupported sadly unless there are ways to check and represent these stories and those lives with a little more cohesion.

Further reading -
Gawker has a fair selection of images and video

Awawro twitpic account

Twitter search – knock yourself out

Twitter map – tagged and tweaked by who and which images do you think are important for telling the story – from which angle?

Discuss ~ JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Schlock-horror!

I wrote this story on a tube ride home from the cinema 4 years ago. (Apologies to those who have read it before.) Sometimes tales pop into your head in one go. I’d just seen a horror flick with a friend – you’ll work out which one before long.
This does contain strong langauge and bad jokes and my favourite character to write – Jeff. (I must try and get him into a few more tales). I posted this back on Myspace when I wrote it, but I thought tonight it might be worth airing again. It’s not art, it’s a schlocky parody and it was fun to do.
JK

Speed limit forgotten I’m racing boys in fast hatches on a road in the back end of countryside UK. The woods and the fields never really had it for me. These were the lands of weird country pubs and people who don’t like strangers. I’m trying to ignore the fact that the passenger window rattles when I pass 65mph and turn the music up. Jeff barks along next to me as we duet AC/DC tracks at the top of out lungs, “You! Shook me allll niiigght long.” Jeff howls over the last word with me and I scruff him affectionately. He’s always great company on long journeys as a singing partner and a friend to keep me awake at dusk with a bark or his unfortunate flatulence.

“Jesus Jeff, was that you?!” I exclaim in not so mock horror. He whines a little and licks his chops amiably at me shifting on the passenger seat. “Fucker,” I mutter and open a window. Taking a cigarette from a pack in the central console, I think twice at the wisdom of lighting up next the ‘farty the wonder pup’.

I shoo the dog into the back and light up, considering the darkness that is falling around us. The rhythmic cat’s eyes are becoming hypnotic in the half-light. “Who knew England could feel so big eh Jeffy?” A car approaches with full beams and I squint at it and yawn. Jeff parps softly in the back seat. “Well, it certainly seems like a longer trip with you in the back you stinky freak.”
I watch him through the rear view off and on; he won’t settle and is making small whining noises.
“What now?”
He yaps. I sigh. Spotting a country diner chain I indicate to pull in for a snack and a nature break for Jeff.
“Ok you smelly feller. You empty out, I need to fill up. I’m famished.”
I pull into the car park, not many people in there but that’s ok, there’s not many people who would stop here to eat unless they had to. It’s drab and dated, but promises fried food so I’m in.
Jeff hops into the front as I switch off the engine and is first out the door bounding over my lap as I open it. “After you,” I mutter reaching for my bag and stretching a stiff leg out into the evening.

A quick glance around as I lock the car shows my chosen rest stop to be not unlike something I would expect to see on a crime investigation program. I look at my watch and whisper under my breath. “She was a brunette, about five seven dressed in filthy blue jeans and probably stinking of dog farts.” A bark from the bushes to my right sounds distinctly like satisfaction and Jeff comes bounding out to my relief also. He’s wagging his tail so hard he can hardly run straight. I grin at the stupid thing, “That good huh? Well, if you feel that good I might just take a crap myself. C’mon you big duffer.”

The diner is an English translation. More like a US diner/UK roadside cafe hybrid and not a pretty one. Faded red, white, and yellow Formica looks bleak but not unhygienic. We slip into a booth Jeff tries sitting opposite me until the waitress approaches looking less than impressed at his table manners. “Jeff get down,” I say and take a menu as he settles near my feet.
I look at the waitress smiling expectantly. She looks as though she has worked back-to-back shifts here without sleep for twenty years. Without looking up from her notepad, she licks a pencil and asks me what I want. “I’ll take the all day breakfast please.”
“Yeah.”
“and can I get a bowl of water and some sausages for the wolf there?”
She looks down at Jeff with distaste, “Yeah. What d’you want to drink?”
“A coffee, thanks. Oh, and I can I get some fries with the breakfast?”
“No”
“Sorry?”
“No f-fries.”
“Oh, um, ok, what about hash browns?”
“No.”
I notice that her hands are starting to shake and she seems to want to turn away. I try again. “What about potato wedges?”
“No!” She says sharply. “We don’t sell those things here.” She points to a sign above the counter. ‘NO FRIES, CHIPS, WEDGES, HASH BROWNS OR OTHER TUBER RELATED PRODUCTS.’ I grin and scoff at it. “Really?”
She walks back toward the kitchen, shaking her head on the way. I try not to pull a face, but that has to be one of the oddest dining experiences I have had in a while. Best to just shut up and wait for my fried goods to arrive. The sooner I am out of here the better.

I play idly with Jeff under the table; he chews playfully at my foot as I nudge him. A plate slams down in front of me and a coffee cup spills its contents into a saucer as it too hits the table. My dinner. “Thanks,” I say meekly to the back of the waitress. Boy, this place takes beating for service. She returns and puts the bowl of water and sausages on the table as well. She looks at me and I smile weakly. Taking this as a reply, she returns to her counter, apparently occupied with her crossword.

Jeff hits his head on the underside of the table with excitement and I hush him placing the sausages and water on the floor. “Cut it out big-dog or you’ll get us both thrown out before I have a chance to eat.”
The breakfast looks good, but the coffee smells divine and I drain half of it in one go. Roadside cafes might not have it for service but they sure know how to fry food all right.
Enthusiastically I pick up my knife and fork choosing what to dive into first, when I drop both into my lap. My hands have disobeyed me. I feel drunk. ‘Thatssz funnheey’ I think vaguely as I slip backwards and down into the bench seat. My eyes close and open in slow motion. I can see the waitress coming over and I can hear Jeff whining. I can see grey through my eyelashes and I feel the dog fall onto my crumpled legs dragging me further under the table.

A wake with headache and a mouth full of fur. I’m somewhere dark and draftee and have been thrown face down into Jeff. Not a great start.
Picking dog hairs from my tongue I sit up and realise that my feet are tied together, but not my hands. Some real smart kidnapper here I guess. I look at Jeff, he’s snuffling slightly in his sleep, but breathing at least. I don’t relish having to try to carry his heavy rump put of this place.
Asides from Jeff I can smell something worse in the room. My eyes are becoming accustomed to the small shafts of light coming in through wooden walls. There are trays of plants in the gloom, they must be potted in compost, as the atmosphere is warm and rotten. I pick at the rope on my feet and it comes away easily. I wonder at the capacity of the person who did this.
Things come back to me slowly. The waitress? I remember the diner but it couldn’t have been the food as my stomach is still growling for something to eat. I can hear someone outside walking along the wall toward the door. I get up quietly and step behind the opening, listening to someone mess with the lock. The door creaks open and I look wildly about for something to hit out with. Not far from where Jeff is lying I can see a trowel, it’s not much and it’s too far away at the moment but it might work if I can get to it.

A torch beam swings across the floor and over Jeff, then across the ropes I left on the floor. It switches up across the trays of plants. Small green sprouts seem to shiver in the light and then, as one the fronds all move with the direction of the beam. These smart plants transfix me for a moment until the door suddenly crashes back into my face.
Something crunches and I feel warm blood spill over my top lip in a splintery mess. The door swings back and the torch bean shines in my eyes. A male voice asks, “Think you could hide behind the door? You should know I’d guess that, ain’t nowhere else you could be in the shed.”
I flinch at the light and the terrible speech. The torch flicks down and I blink trying to see as someone reaches and grabs my hair pulling me into the room.
“Knew I should have tied you better. I take five minutes to get more rope and you’re up again.”
I’m clawing at the hand that has my hair. Staggering about in some ill-matched dance with the disco light provided by the torch.
“Just you settle down lady. It won’t be so bad if you relax. Won’t feel a thing and then you can help us make the plants grow.”
He throws me down near my dog and I glance at one of the plant trays. From the soil pokes a rotting finger joint and I realise that the compost in here is more than can be found at my local garden centre. As the gardener takes another step closer, his torch light moves over the trowel. Only one chance I reckon. I grab the tool and aim for where I think his throat might be. He grabs at my arm but misses and with a grizzly sound, the rusty trowel makes a connection with his neck. One of his hands flies up to the wound and the other packs me a fine punch below the ribs. Winded I fall to my knees.
He’s dropped the torch and it is rolling back and forth on the ground creating the sensation that the shed is tipping back and forth. I lean forward onto hands and knees trying to reach the light when an upward kick sends me over backwards, hands to my face again. In silhouette from the small light I can see that he has taken the trowel from his neck and is about to return the favour. I can’t move fast enough and hope against hope that this won’t hurt as much as I think it will.
He raises his arm and I decide that eyes shut might be best when a fierce snarl comes from somewhere behind me head. I take a breath and open my eyes in time to see Jeff leap up at the gardener, toppling him, snapping, and biting all the while. Time to go.

I stand on shaking legs and run for the door. The diner is up ahead but maybe not a wise choice unless I can get around it to my car. I pat my pockets and thank someone that I tend to put my keys there rather than my bag, which is now missing. I can’t say I fancy going to look for it now either.
I turn to whistle Jeff who comes to heel obediently looking up at me. There is blood on his coat and I think twice about patting him with so much aggression still in there.
I look to the fields in the dark behind the cafe and take a step that way, halting as a voice from the potting shed croaks after us. “Not the field.”
“Oh yeah?” Jeff has his hackles up again and I put a hand on his neck to keep him by my.
“The potatoes.”
“The what?”
I shake myself realising that this is the sort of delay that gets horror heroines captured. I pull the shed door shut as the voice from the darkness continues. “The potatoes have eyes!”

I keep to the shadows and creep round to the field. It’s pitch black but there is no fence, just low plants and the brick wall of the cafe. I can see light coming from the back window and the radio is playing some easy listening track. I duck low and step softly hoping that no one will be loitering out back. Something catches my ankle, as I get closer to the window. I trip and fall on my face. There’s a pause in the music and I hope that the radio has not been turned off for a reason.

Jeff whines softly next to me and I will him not to bark.
The strangest sensation moves along my leg. It as though whatever I tripped over has begun creeping upward. I tug at it, but the grip gets tighter.
I look back and see a creeper plant pulling out of the ground and wrapping itself around my foot. It heads slowly towards my knee as I start to struggle with it, winding the other way as fast as I can.
Soil falls from the tendril and I can just make out where it is coming from the ground. Something large and cold comes off in my hand as I pull the last leaves from my foot and crouch. Holding the object up to the light of the window I see that I am holding a potato. “Well fuck me, that crazy bastard was right.”
To my horror the potato sprouts fast green shoots around my fingers. I hurl it into the dark. I can hear rustling at ground level and Jeff is whining louder now. We need to leave, but I think there is something more I can do before we go.

Walking back to the shed I reach into my back pocket for my cigarettes. I open the door as quietly as I can. The gardener is still mumbling inside. The stench is appalling, whatever gas is being released into this dark room, I dearly hope it is the right one. If Jeff taught me anything it’s that natural gas can be pretty dangerous.
I place a cigarette in my mouth and light a match. The farmer looks up at me.
“No,” he whimpers, confirming my suspicion. Stepping back I toss the match into the room, sacking starts to burn. In the light of the flames, I can also see canisters. “Looks like we lucked out eh Jeff?”

Before he can answer with a bark, we race across the car park, no longer bothered by the freaks inside.
I try to open the door casually, hoping that no one inside with notice. Jeff jumps in just as I hear the diner door slamming.

I leap into the car and lock the door as the waitress runs towards us apparently waving a cleaver. Behind her, the shed explodes and her step falters just as I managed to get the keys to work in the ignition. We rev and speed away into the night.
In my rear-view mirror I can see the waitress sag and turn back to her cafe, it too has begun to burn along with the shed. Jeff barks, it sounds like triumph.
“Yeah not yet dude, let’s just wait until we hit some real civilisation.”

A few miles on and light is starting to show on the horizon. The gas is looking low but it is enough to get me into a metropolitan area, I think. A petrol station shows up ahead and Jeff parps excitedly.
I open a window to let the stench out and peer at the cafe attached to the gas pumps. A sign in the window says “NO CAKE, NO BREAD, NO CEREAL”. I don’t bother stopping the engine. A voice calls from near the pumps, “Can I help you miss?”
I wave a “No thanks!” out of the window and turn the radio on.

Jeff whines at me licking his teeth. “I know smelly, I’m hungry too, you saw the sign though. No cake, no bread, no cereal. I’d be guessing the corn has ears.” I laugh at my dog and he barks in my face as we start singing to rock and roll on the radio.

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Get your freak on

Happy Halloween all.

I’ve been indulging in the eve where the grumpier English people I know like to mutter about “Americanisation” and children turn up at the door dressed in bin bags and ask for sweets. Cheerier friends have been carving pumpkins and dressing up, it’s been a lot of fun.

In the weeks headed up to this festive eve, I have been researching scarifying sites online. Looking for the traditional, the innovative and the unreal. Usually the web shows me that there is very little under the sun that has not appeared online in a digital form. However, a real spooky scare online somehow escaped me. It could be that I have been looking in the wrong places, but allow me a moment to illustrate what I mean.

The horror genre floats my boat. I love the creativity, the use of the human reaction to silence and surprise, our imaginations in the darkness. I think it’s a great art form for cutting through our complacency when consuming media. We react to it rather than passively accepting it, sometimes we’ll think about it, other times it is an almost involuntary reaction to fear.

For many years cinema has been my wind up weapon of choice. I had nightmares as a teen watching movies I was too young to see. For years I didn’t dare hang a limb over the edge of my bed in case Freddy came and took that limb away. It poked my imagination from a young age creating fantasy paranoia (what’s that noise!?) and enjoyably sleepless nights.

Audio also does a great job of raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Podcasts and radio shows commanding sound effects that are not of this world, telling stories directly to my brain, forcing my mind to summon up terrifying images. The work of the foley artist amazes me through film and audiobooks, they take the story that was already frightening and send it up through the stratosphere of fear.

Traditional examples right? Radio, television, film. The rules of horror applied to media that we already understand.
So as many of us move to a digital life, how does horror translate in a mainstream way?

There are about a bajillion (that’s the scientific count) ways to get your Halloween fun online, read blogs on carving pumpkins, play games on social networks, collect pictures of cats in costumes. Fair enough.

The idea of the horror monsters though appear to have become displaced from their stories. There are many zombies roaming the web – they’re kinda fashionable. Vampires apparently write blogs – to sell films and books. There are tips on what to do should you choose to become a werewolf. I wonder if Frankenstein’s monster might return and blog about his divorce and fall from grace in the public eye?

There are also games – oh so many games. In fact, I’d put my money down at this moment and state that I think this is the last bastion of horror online. Getting into an immersive and fearful state with a couple of hundred strangers online in a MMORPG being hunted by the undead. That’s pretty scary. In fact, I own a copy of one of the games related to the Alien film franchise and frankly I didn”t get past level one because I was immobilised by a fantastic fear. I also killed everyone in sight trying to play resident evil whilst in a blind panic, waving wireless controllers wildly and basically screaming at the screen (there is no decorum in the gaming part of my life).

But that’s an annex to the genre I think. Movies and radio are still more commonly accepted, not everyone is a gamer – even I am a part-timer. But I do browse the web probably more than is healthy and I could not seem to find an innovation that described horror for me in a satisfactory manner.

There are sites with stories and sites with audio and sites that play video. I see this as porting older creative formats into a new arena. They’re still aces – Dawn of the Ted is clearly especially wicked and frightening. But web based, creative shocks – this I could not find. If you know one, please do let me know.

I guess I wonder if there is a way to align the format with the genre. To put the horror in the code (there are some that would say there is already plenty of horror in code of course). I think the last time I saw something that really matched these ideas in a new way, it was something like Transylvania. Yeah, I’m *that old* – my lawn, get off it.
The text based gaming of course was based on something like choose your own adventure books. But entering the PC screen age at the time, it felt like new territory and rather than already knowing I could cheat and skip chapters in a familiar object like a book, I had to learn, search for the right terms to move on and still the monsters were right behind me, so I had to learn fast. It felt pretty tense, even if it is old fashioned today.

I’m still looking for the horror online that is not a video nasty or a cruel comment. Those attempts are ten-a-penny. If you find the real deal – let me know, I’m all set for a web based scare this Halloween, or any other time of the year.

WooooOOOOOOOOoooo! Etc.
– JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Trying to embed Storify

….after three attempts – I am guessing that the embed code from Storify doesn’t work with WordPress.com. If only we could all play nicely together, rather than leaving me with an empty post like this.
If you want to see the Storify messing around, its here.

Meh.

Weird science or web science?

Not so long ago I was fortunately asked to join Bill Thompson and Les Carr to be a twitter chair at the Royal Society for their Web Science event. (Thanks to Bill for this opportunity). The event was amazing with incredible minds such as Sir Tim Berners-Lee, Jennifer Chayes, Pierre Levy and so many more. The topics covered mathematics, engineering, physics, medicine, networking and beyond. But did it get the message across? What is Web Science?

For me – and I was in the thick of it having my mind boggled for two days, I didn’t get the gist of things until day two. That might have been just me. But when that penny dropped – I realised that there has been something missing in academia for a while that has been in journalism, marketing, sales. The science of the internet. Not just participating by making more things to put on the web, but actual integration of skills as the walls fall down from the World Wide Web app and we begin to see the edges of the mechanics via the use of mobile phones, internet browsing tablets. The way we access the web and internet is changing – is there a course for this?

Those of us who have been studying web science today, went to college and university before there was a web science to study. We read books, follow updates, teach ourselves to program or take the odd course to puzzle piece together a map of learning that seems to almost summarise what we do. So far, a formal course that encompasses these skills for the sake of themselves, has been elusive. Media and marketing courses appear to take a look at some of the human machine interaction, but from the angle of sales, mathematics and engineering can lead you to programming, but does that include design awareness for script kiddies or is that part for the art students.

So far it seems that the skills have been following the money and some books arrived along the way. The academic side of things is on the way now though in the UK. The Singularity University in California recognised a good few years ago that integration of skills is almost as important as divided disciplines. Their applicants are apparently superhuman in their intellect already though – so what of the usual suspect here in the UK?

Currently I am studying a BSC with the Open University that will lead (hopefully) to a qualification in Ai and human machine interaction. Not bad for a fine art student and journalist. Back when I was studying fine art, there was no way that I thought a skip over to the dark side of engineering and computing would work for me – it was a chalk and cheese affair. It was my secret interest while I curated at galleries and wondered what I was going to do.

Studying Ai has made me realise that the interdisciplinary nature of the topics that lead to an understanding of artificial intelligence blend java coding, psychology and a little maths. The fact that the internet is starting to reflect almost all walks of life, must mean that a mixed skills base to cope with the breadth of people on earth and their lives online is necessary.

Already there are break outs where skills are crossing over. Hacks and Hackers already looks at “rebooting journalism”. I am a firm believer that skills should be blended. A journalist with the skills to pull her ass out of the digital fire is useful. I can see that coders and technologists might shudder at the thought of my putting my inky paws into their clean code – but I don’t mean messing with someone else’s work in that way. Respectful boundaries are still very important – but knowing what your coder colleagues do can also redefine your expectations.

When I was at school, access to computers was dreadful. There were few and we were taught about how to use Word. Basically the Microsoft Office manual in a classroom. Today that seems both product biased and incredibly naive. Stepping over the line into a little light java and html, understanding something about CSS even if you don’t get under the bonnet with your screwdriver, makes working in the digital world that little bit easier. Especially if anything ever goes wrong.

Whether it is mobile or desk based, satellite or broadband, personal or publishing, building or blogging web science should be a part of what most of us do. Journalism especially, but in so many other walks of life. Not only does it provide working skills, it can also, idealistically, provide emancipation, liberation of data and well, sometimes, it’s just nicer to be able to make your own LOLcat rather than just laughing at all the others even better if you can host that kitteh on your own server.

Come on then – tell me where I’m wrong

~ JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

On my mind this week…

So I don’t forget – but do chime in if you have thoughts on these words.

Trend

Customise

Push

New

Popular

JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Messy messages

As a follow up to the LCD cakes, this is my second attempt to create some cross over between the nerdy and the tasty. Although you do find tasty nerds around if you know where to look!

The ideas for the cakes came from a day out on the DorkBoat. Fun times on the Thames, wonderfully brainy people, amazing presentations and a game of Pong played in a way I don’t think I should recall here and now in case children are reading.

Whilst on board the boat, the terribly talented Sophie McDonald was raising some funds for a Chai-tech project for Mz Tech. She presented her case well and opened a cake tin to reveal – cupcakes with LED lit cherries on top. Oh my! They are wonderful. I bought one of course with a light on it – great cake and a lovely idea. (In case you are worried, the LEDs and batteries were covered in cling film and no, they didn’t bake the batteries).

The gauntlet was down. What baked goods would come after this? A chit chat with @Retrophile, @9600 and @Rainycat hashed around a few ideas for geek bakery. Fluorescent food – not a great thing to digest. Lemon juice batteries – not a bad idea at all. There could even be room for a light up cocktail in there somewhere.

Inspired by the cakes and conversation, I went home to do a little research. The weekend cried out cupcakes! So what could I do with smaller spaces? Code cakes of course. Initially binary was appealing – but hell – translating text into binary – that’s either a lot of cakes or the kind of miniature icing skills that would test the patience of a sugar artist. Not one for me.

I called up a translator online. It changes text into binary, hex, ASCII etc. I tried a few key phrases and the characters in binary were way too long. Hex looked a lot better, it would mean two characters per cake, I wouldn’t have to bake a batch of a bazillion and with the phrases I chose, it could ice a “69″ cake for um, Bill and Ted fans….

I chose a recipe online that sounded delicious – apologies to all my dieting and vegan friends. The ingredients included sugar, golden syrup, creme fraiche, butter….yeah. Well, I make great cakes, not diet cakes. They came out light and fluffy and tested well on the passing guinea pig flatmate who got first taste from the oven while they were warm.

Iced with a nice ganache and then set to with the characters. A top tip for people like me – I make my icing bags out of spare paper. Fold into quarters and snip a tiny bit off the corner. No need to clean out a messy piping bag or kit. It doesn’t make fancy shapes, but it does serve me well for writing edible messages on baked goods.

Here are the codes on the cakes. I think they look rather neat. As usual, I have virtual company in the Knight Patisserie – social baking if you like. It’s really nice to add some updates and chat with friends all over the world online while I am in the kitchen. Though it does mean I have icing all over my keyboard – and a few other places besides – it was a messy evening!

So, I added the codes to twitpic and set the wild web to solve the puzzles. It was not a hard task and many people got it right away. I’m not a coder or a code breaker either, but I had a lot of fun learning new things as well as practising my skills with sweets.

Lovely people got back to me with retweets and comments as they solved the pictures. “The Knight Patisserie” and “Save Bletchley Park” were soon revealed as the answers. I am delighted also that people let me know in their cryptic way so as not to spoil the game for others. Yay, you lot!

There’s always time for a little messing around with spare icing too.

All in all a nice time online and in the bakery. Learning, cooking and chatting – even if I went to bed with chocolate ganache still in my hair. One more thing though – there’s a message in the method of my madness – go and visit Bletchley Park. There’s much better codes to crack there than I can bake and well, they could really do with your help too.

JK
Knight Patisserie

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Lunar memory

I think I was probably not much older than you when my best friend Pete moved to the Moon. We getting to the end our first year at big school. The Summer stretched ahead of us along with the knowledge that
even when it was time to go back to school, we would no longer be at the bottom of the academic food chain.

Our projects for the Summer included painting my tortoise Jeff with day glow colours and seeing how long it would take to wear off, finding out how mad Pete’s mum would be if we made another flour bomb
inside the house, ignoring all of our homework for the new term and working out ways to set toy planes on fire for a more realistic re-enactment of various and assorted wars. We had plenty to do. One more warm week where neither pupils nor teachers seemed to be too bothered by lessons.

We walked home having worn the jibes of the older boys and girls as usual and finally turned off to our street. We had been neighbours for as long as I could remember, Pete always lived next door.
That afternoon we decided to draw plans for the cardboard tank to be assembled at the weekend.

Pete’s mum greeted us with cold drinks and a snack while calling my mother to let her know. I always forgot to tell her – but I would always be at Pete’s. We took our papers and felt tip pens outside to
work.

Following an excitable discussion about camouflage, Pete looked thoughtful as he took the tip off a pen and started to colour in shapes. He always did this, a kind of pause when something big was coming up – like being grounded or going on holiday.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to build this tank,” he said.
I stopped colouring and looked at him, he kept colouring, didn’t meet my gaze.
“Why not?”
Sometimes Pete had to spend the weekend at his Grandmother’s, but he always came back and there were other times to catch up on our projects. Not building the tank at all, that was an extreme statement.
He coloured in more slowly, concentrating on not going over the lines.
“We’re moving to the Moon,” he said.
“You’re what?”
“We have to move house and we’re going to live on the Moon.”
“The Moon?” It didn’t sound right to me, but sometimes Pete knew best.
“How do you know you’ll be going to the Moon?”
“My Uncle told me.”
There it was. No hesitation, no time to make something up. Pete’s Uncle told him and he and his family were moving to the Moon.
“I’ll show you,” said Pete putting the cap on his felt tip pen. “I have a map.”

We abandoned the tank plans and went up to Pete’s room. I wondered if Pete went to the Moon if I could spend all Summer there and the new things we could work on.
On the wall, next to posters of Spiderman, Wolverine and Marty McFly was a new picture. It was a map, of the Moon.
In fact, it was more than just a map. Pinned on the wall next to it was a certificate of land ownership. Many acres of land on the Moon had been purchased by Pete’s Uncle and given to Pete as a present.
“Wow,” I said softly, nodding in appreciation. “You have your own land on the Moon.”
“Yeah,” said Pete causally. He flopped on the bed and picked up a small replica of the Millennium Falcon. “I don’t know what we will do with it yet, maybe get a dome and have a farm or something.”
“A farm? Like with cows and chickens?”
“Yeah,” Pete grinned. “Cows in space!”
“Zero gravity milkshakes!”
We collapsed into giggles and spent the next hour impersonating cows floating about on Pete’s Moon farm until it was time for me to go home again.

Over dinner, Dad asked how school was going as usual. My sister Marie rolled her eyes, “How come you has him about school when I’m the one with the exams coming up.”
“We know honey,” said my Mum smiling. “We don’t want to pressure you is all.”
Marie rolled her eyes again and huffed.
“Pete’s moving to the Moon,” I said, pushing unwanted cold peas around my plate. Marie snorted. “You’re such an idiot,” she laughed.
“Don’t call your brother an idiot,” said my Dad. “Pete’s moving to the Moon huh? When’s that happening?”
“Next weekend,” I replied. Realising that I was suddenly not hungry at all. Next weekend was going to be bad.
Mum and Dad looked at each other.
“You know sometimes people move to a new house and a new school,” explained my Mum.
I nodded into my chest. I didn’t want to think about it any more.
“Yeah, but not on the Moon, you dork,” added my sister. Mum gave her a look.
“Can I be excused?” I asked. Suddenly sitting at the table with Mum and Dad looking at me that way, I felt exposed.

I went upstairs and lay on my Muppet Show bedspread staring up at the planes that hung from my light. I wondered who would make tanks and paint tortoises with me if Pete was on the Moon. Maybe we could talk on a video link, like in the movies, that would be cooler. But then I wondered if Pete would have cooler space friends who would know all about Astronaut Food and silver space suits. Would he still
want to be friends with me back here on Earth with all of our normal boring things?

My walkie talkie buzzed, Pete was trying to hail me, “Foxtrot Charlie this is Papa Sierra, are you receiving? Over.”
My mind was full of big important thinking. I didn’t feel like talking to Pete. I turned the walkie talkie down and hid it under my sports kit. At some point, speculating upon my big thoughts, I must have
fallen asleep. I woke up worried and it was time for school again.

We walked into the playground and there was some sort of event about to happen. You get a sense of the atmosphere when you get to school and this didn’t feel too good. Pete and I walked in through the gates and a group of girls near us started laughing.

Not good at all. We looked around for Seb and Sam, the other boys that made our usual school day quartet, but they were standing further away, apparently reluctant to greet us as usual. I turned to look at Pete but instead realised we were face to face with James Sixsmith, the biggest boy in my sister’s year and not a nice guy at all.

He leans over Pete who scowls up at him. “You’re moving to the Moon?” he sneers.
“Yes,” says Pete. Somewhat confused by the attitude.
The playground starts to laugh in unison. Girls point and even our closest friends are grinning. The bell rang, providing a temporary reprieve.

Thus began a week of endless jibes and tricks. Not the final week at school you might expect. We were nicknamed space-cadets, kids told us we were mad and made rude comments in the corridor. I started to
wonder if they had a point. I couldn’t think of anyone else who had gone to live on the Moon.

As we walked home on the last Friday of term, Pete kicking his football in a bag in front of him, I had to ask. “Are you really moving to the Moon?”
Pete stopped and looked hurt. “Don’t you believe me either?”
I looked into my best friend’s face, his expression questioned my trust, our friendship. Our last day before he went away.
I couldn’t betray him. “Of course I do,” I said. “I just wondered if I needed to take a proper address to write to you there, or if I could just put, ‘Pete, The Moon.’”
Pete smiled, reassured and started to kick the ball again. “That should be fine,” he said.

That Saturday I watched Pete’s mum and dad working with removal men to take things out of the house. I didn’t much feel like coming out of my room to say goodbye. I watched the move happening from my bedroom window ignoring mum and dad’s attempts to distract me.
Late in the afternoon, they put Pete in the car, carrying his Millennium Falcon. He looked up at my window and took his walkie talkie out of his pocket.

I grabbed my unit and turned it up.
“Foxtrot Charlie, this is Papa Sierra, do you read me?”
“I read you Papa Sierra.”
We paused. Looking at each other.
“See you Felix.”
“Bye, Pete.”
The car drove away and I wondered if our walkie talkies would work all the way to the Moon.

Your Aunt Marie still reminds me of Pete’s move from time to time. We did our best to drive her nuts every time it occurred to us, so she must have been relieved. A girl about her age moved in the following
week, so now the neighbours were her friends instead.

But when she laughs at the idea the Pete moved to the Moon. I remind her that the range on those walkie talkie toys wouldn’t make it all the way to the Moon and well, I never did see Pete again.

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Old school games

I had a birthday a while back and very kindly some friends who know me well bought and posted a lovely gift.
LCD baking pans. Basically little cake cases to make the cells that create the numbers on a calculator. Nice eh? I think so too.

It has taken some time but finally I had the opportunity to get a little project going that included some of my favourite elements. Baking, photos and nerdery.

The baking was great fun. I was using a stock box of cake mix from the supermarket. Mostly because it’s easier, creates a smooth cake mix and leaves part of my addled brain free to think about the rest. Quantities were the initial problem, clearly I don’t need to fill the cases to near the top as the cake mix rises well. As they rise, they make a rounded top – tasty but not great as I needed them to lie flat in order to create the numbers. Timing was also a bit fluid as they cases have instructions for microwave baking (which is against my kitchen religion). I’m accustomed to baking freestyle – so I simply used sense of smell (yummy!), keeping an eye on the cakes and a clean knife to check when they were done. They don’t take long to bake.

Once baked and cooled I let the cakes rest (time to do the washing up!) Then used a sharp knife to level the cakes into nice flat shapes and take some photos. As you probably know, if you have enough shapes to make an 8 you can make any of the other numbers. The figure 8 is a seven segment display – you need seven bits to make the number.
I had company in the Knight Patisserie too – albeit virtual. Many people dropped into twitter to comment on the twitpics and Flickr images as I uploaded my progress. It’s lovely to have that kind of support and discussion, without of course everyone under my feet in the kitchen

Is that all? No Siree! Anyone who messed about in maths as much as I did, no doubt learned very little (as I did) but, also played games with a calculator. Enter the right numbers, turn the calculator upside down and you can read a word.

I had no idea there is a name for this. Apparently geek slang says it is “Beghilos” – but I have yet to find a source for that. It’s not a bad example as it uses nearly all of the numbers 0-9 apart from 2. If you do know the origin of the word – please let me know.

So – cake numbers became cake number photos. Then I found a resource which lists 250 calculator words and I was ready to go. I had a little chart to help me work things out in photoshop. Each of my numbers was in an image 200×300 pixels and this helped me work out how big to make a new file to drop each one in to make a word.

Here are some examples….

So from being distracted in a classroom decades ago, to loving making cakes, a birthday present from people who know me well though miles away and a few funny words made of numbers on a red breadboard. It’s funny how things come around.

Thanks to Colleen and Tony who sent me this marvellous kit and who are also celebrating their 6th wedding anniversary this weekend. Hugs to you both!

- JK

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

As a standard….

*Singing*…”All of these things are not like the others…”

Standardisation in mobile feels as though it is a long way away. But in technology time seems to pass like dog years on amphetamines, so by the time I write this – maybe the solutions will already be apparent. She says – optimistically….

In an interesting chat with a VP in San Francisco, we came to the topic of mobile devices. He stated the obvious so succinctly that it felt like a revelation. He said he could not wait until mobile was standardised. With data in the cloud – the object you hold in your hand, the small computing and telecommunications device, would be so cheap that when you lose yours or dunk it in a toilet, you can head to the corner store and pick up a new device or portal and download the same settings as before.

This seems like an elegant solution to me. It has many very appealing aspects to it. Not only would it mean that standardisation is key, it would also go some way to democratising the technology involved so that more people would be able to be connected. But there are also a lot of questions that I still have about this scenario. Things that would become associated with that tale and progression.

At the moment, being charged an arm and a leg for a smart phone is not a barrel of fun. At time of writing to buy a new iPhone at Tesco would cost £479 – and they’re out of stock online just now too. That’s a lot of money on an average wage to those who are not so tech obsessed.

Sim free HTC Desire – £429 unlocked on Amazon. Nokia N900 £389. Again these are not exactly cheap and accessible prices. So there’s a starting point – cheaper handsets.

But what does that lead to in a wider picture? For sure it might mean that the strangle hold of the bigger companies making these items will fall away. There may be a truck load of new models created by unheard of companies from all over the world. That seems like a fairer idea to avoid monopolies and other tricky business.

So where does cheaper technology come from? Maybe the same place that cheaper clothing or any sort of manufacturing happens – out of sight, out of mind and at the expense of others. I’m not sure how much I like the idea of an unsustainable product created by blind orphans in impoverished countries. That’s a broad sweep, but I don’t think it is out of the range of speculation. Keeping an eye on where our shiny things are made should be a priority.

Data in the cloud – this also seems key to making this idea work. But there would have to be standardised protocols for connecting to that data from any cheap replacement handset we buy. It also has to perform in an invisible and natural way. Expectations high? Yeah – probably. Most of us are still ignoring apps that force closure four times out of ten for the sake of keeping up with social appearances.

Will we be charged for this? That would seem to make some business sense. I will hold your data, nice and safe away from bad hackers and criminals and let only you have it back when you need it. That’s a service worth paying for. Is it one worth insuring too? I’m not actively promoting that my provider should charge me more by the way – not after my last trip abroad and the following roaming bill.

Closed and open development? The infamous Wired article is still being furiously discussed around the web and beyond and it makes a good point about our relationship with the internet. Mobile applications create many separate silos – does this have an effect on getting our profiles to cross boundaries? Are we really only going for the path of least resistance or should there be a way for mobile developers to offer services without having to be in Ovi, Android market and the iTunes store? Should there be a standardised market for all of these things to be adjusted and offered across Symbian, Android, iOS? Wouldn’t that be beneficial to consumers?

That said – it doesn’t seem so long ago that text messaging was more expensive between networks. So progress comes – eventually. Once providers can maybe no longer put up with complaints.

Pushing ahead

There’s many problems ahead and no doubt anyone reading this can happily list a few more – but getting through those issues toward standardisation still appeals to me. Running briefly through past examples where standardisation has helped us – the industrial revolution is a good one – it’s hard to imagine a time when screws were all different and bullets didn’t fit just any gun other than the specific example (actually -that’s not such a happy example).

In a geekier sense, TCP/IP allowed military and early ARPA development, diversity and won a battle with Telcos. But does the right one always win?

There are still slightly amusing arguments about VHS and Beta Max – which was the better format? But which one became the de facto market choice? Why are we still using Qwerty keyboards if this layout was designed to slow the typist down? Sometimes it’s a matter of the winner being the most accessible, the most common and the easiest to pick up rather than the best.

Lower the entry level of technology and it often becomes the most successful option, even if in hindsight it was not technically the best available.

So in my sketch of happily disposable (maybe biodegradable?) technology with standardised platforms and access – the focus would switch to the content. (Does that make content king again? I forget which current web buzz phrase we are quoting this week, I think that’s an older one.)

I wonder sometimes while researching how we get online and what we use to do it, who we meet and link to on the way if anything has changed in the objective – why we go there. I fall into the camp where I want the quality and timeliness of information to be a high priority.

I want all the right people to be there – my friends, inspiration points, contacts. I want the information available to be correct, presented in the most useful way. That still points to creators, writers, news organisations, program makers, entertainers, musician and artists to be the same fantastic resources they have always been – no matter the business model or portal through which I access them. After all – even if I standardise my access, if there’s no one there and nothing to do, why go there in the first place?

But before I can do all of these things – those data areas do need to be accessible and while the field is so fragmented and companies are still scrapping over this territory, it’s just not going to be easy for consumers – in real years, internet years and probably dog years too.

Arf! Tell me where I’m going wrong….

Add to: Facebook | Digg | Del.icio.us | Stumbleupon | Reddit | Blinklist | Twitter | Technorati | Yahoo Buzz | Newsvine

Telling stories

So, to those who know me – the fact that I am reading another book of essays on citjo will not be a huge surprise. Reading around the topic for a handful of years I’m getting used to the formula for this sort of academic writing.

So – open with a hot example – a war, a crisis – something newsworthy and set the scene. Something big happened and people who are now enabled with recording tools to tell as story choose to bear witness and publish to the web so that they can share. Then use this to illustrate your theory – whatever that may be – “People are sharing”, “Some content is free”, “Sharing can disrupt mainstream media and politics”, “It can reshape civic action”, “It can bring your life closer to your relatives thousands of miles away”, “It can show how clever and funny you are within a shared context”. Yes, yes and yes all over. I totally agree and within reason, I enjoy the context and the examples, although many are repeated as it is usually the higher profile cases that make the grade.

With relation to news, one thing struck me as an odd chord. More than one commentator claims that citizen journalism or reporting started either with the London attacks of July 7th or the Asian tsunami of 2004. I was starting to wriggle at this idea…it didn’t sit right – so I had a think and a search and here are some notes for discussion should anyone else want to chime in.

I don’t think that’s right. There – I said it. Citizen journalism for crisis reporting for sure had a much wider platform to appear for these events. The rise in ubiquity of the mobile phone with added camera helps and the way we use the web without silos for access, also useful. But journalism and news was already granular on the web by this time. People take what they need, the specify their interests. Blogs and discussion boards were already rife with comment and witness statement, I’m just not sure we were all looking and reading.

Back in 1997 an author named JK Rowling (you may have heard of her) finally had her first Harry Potter book published. Do you remember? I was already pottering about on Aol around this time. Silo? yes. Fun? definitely. I had access to people all over the world – we talked about everything that was of interest to us. At this time America Online had chat rooms split into interests, I enjoyed roaming around talking to people in Japan, or to people who liked gaming and of course to those who were interested in books.

Roll on 1998. The Harry Potter series progresses to book 2 and by now there’s a fever about it online. I dropped in to the book chat rooms regularly and often there was little else on the agenda. At the time I made friends with a guy in Texas, he was dealing in books. I got to know him and his wife – lovely people – hot after copies of the UK release of HP because they knew it would sell. They would ask about the popularity in the UK and we’d chit-chat for hours.
Naturally as we became friends, the topic would change and we’d hop channels so that we could talk about our general gossip and not bore people looking to talk about books.

Something else was happening in Texas at that time. The heatwave of 1998 killed at least 21 people. The couple I was chatting with were elderly and of course the heat is a danger to those of advanced years – they were worried too, about their health, the people around them, water bans, their garden. The usual things you talk about in this situation. It was news for us – and for the headline writers of newspapers and online publications.

These are the people I would be trying to talk to during an extreme heatwave in a particular area today. They were bearing witness to an extraordinary happening. Though they were not self publishing on a blog, many others were and it was possible to find those writings often with their sparkly Geocities gifs and additions. People do what they can with the means available to them.

So – citizen reporting starting in 2004? No, I don’t agree. It was not as simple to find the right texts for the untrained and people were not so self aware about their publishing, nor was it a classy presentation of data with multimedia collected via cameraphones and flip cameras. But I think that people (citizens) tell their stories (reporters) no matter where they are.

The thing that has changed maybe is that many of these people act in with way with a purpose now. To attract the attention of or compete with mainstream news outlets. Also to report the stories that mean more to them if they feel that larger media outlets are not providing adequate coverage.

Naming the beast doesn’t mean we invented it. But paying attention to those original outposts and methods can be very useful as not all news comes via Twitter (although many hot tips these days do). Reading blogs is still a good discipline, the dynamic is different and the selection of writers also differs from Tweeters and Facebookers in some areas. But the original voices bearing witness to news – both fluffy and for crisis reporting still remains a strong point when it comes to gathering information.

Jump in – let’s talk.
JK

Flapjack – whole

The nice thing about starting a new project is that it usually means you finished the last one. Right?

Yeah right…

Anyways, I’m thinking on writing something else to be published in parts on here, but I had something niggling at the back of my mind to do. Just a tidy-up job really.

The cuts were never the smoothest, but the voices still move me and the total trust and abandon people gave me to make it happen is ever going to be a wonder to me.

Now, finally, the entire story of Flapjack’s adventure in one big fat file. It surprised me how long it runs.

Grab a cup of tea, or maybe do some housework while the story unfolds. For once, I thought it was a pretty good one.

JK
:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

My hero is the underdog and he’s a natural.

I’m having a stretch here after being away from the blog with various and assorted.
Hell – I can’t claim that this is a regular outlet not matter what the “bloggers rules” might say.

I’ve been privy to conversations and ideas lately about viral activity online for various and assorted organisations. In one way or another they have been “planning a viral”. Yep. I think you can see it too – already.

Lookit. I’ve never been a web marketeer and I don’t play well with sales but one thing I have been watching closely for more years than is socially acceptable, is the web and it’s slightly unpredictable cultural successes. Memes, themes and virals.

Listening to people talk about planning these things is like listening to someone plan an accident to fool their insurance company. In most cases, people can smell when something is not right. I have the horrible habit of snorting derisively at people who “make virals” in an inexperienced manner. You really do need to be Willy Wonka to get these things right. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware that snorting derisively is rude and I do *try* not to – sometimes it is involuntary.)

I know there are many manufactured videos that go viral and they are excellent – but deep in their roots, tucked away, drawing that kernel with a pencil on a napkin, is an artist with a really good idea. Usually a small and slightly off schedule idea, something that breaks the current rules. That’s the point right? Creative people, having good ideas that don’t fit in, it’s how we make new things.

Anyway. More to the point of this current rant. The people who often make these seeds, or the people who posted their happenstance or makings online, often they are not a committee, not cool and slick organisations. They’re underdogs.

I love the underdog, the antihero, the zero cool and the anti fashion. I can’t quite live up to that myself I guess, but I know it when I see it and I think it’s full of win. Whether they still win when they go interstellar – well, that’s maybe a different post.

So looking at a selection to prove my point (and I’ll take all your objects and counter points as the exceptions that prove the rule – because I’m like that) -

Where the hell is Matt? – Quit his job, travelled about, did a dance, and then became a chewing gum hero.
Keyboard Cat – A guy films his cat “Fatso” in 1984, may years later, he posts it on YouTube and ends up in the viral hits of all time.
Star Wars kid – Led to an unfortunate end after the boy involved did not mean to become a number one meme.
Numa Numa dance – This guys films himself lip syncing puts it on Newgrounds and end sup running contests and appears as one of the “funniest moments” on TV.
David after the dentist – Kid recorded on the way back from the dentist after anaesthesia acting as you might under the influence. At time of writing – 60,375,904 views on YT.

Okay, so not a comprehensive list of memes and doesn’t enter the world of shock and pr0n, but it’s not a bad assortment.

These are normal citizens, doing what they do because they are sharing with people they know. I don’t believe they were aiming initially for the big time meme fest of the web. Individuals doing very human things. Not companies trying to construct a human element.

Personally I prefer these individual, home grown videos. They add to the viral theme and they say good things like, “You could do this too, what’s funny about your life?” It has a truthfulness that you can sense. It’s that truth, the barefaced and fresh, the unbeguiled. This is what sells the viral meme to me.

Y’know it’s not new of course. (What the hell is these days?) These moments of people’s lives, that reminds me that I am a little like them and we are all a little funny and weird sometimes. It’s natural and unscripted. Just like my favourite moments of live TV or radio.

You know that time that presenter got that bit wrong? When the serious news anchor laughed instead of reading? Or someone burped on the radio and giggled? Yeah, that’s what it reminds me of. The things you cannot predict that make us feel a bit closer to our presenters and icons. The things that tell me that we might have something in common and that I was able to see that.

These days, instead of having to be there, listening live to the moment when things went a little bit wrong, or veered off the path of planning to comic effect. We can watch it back, again and again and send it to others to share that human element.

Like a choreographed flashmob, I guess that’s a tough one for viral designers to script…

But come on in and take a pew – tell me why I am wrong. I like a good discussion – otherwise I’d take the comments box off. I’ll put the kettle on.

JK

“Ideas suppository”

I had an idea, what do you reckon?

I have the great fortune to know a great many creative and technically talented people who work with the internet every day. I connect with them often on social networks and they have the grace and time to put up with my stupid questions and ideas over impromptu Gchat sessions and lengthy strings of DMs over twitter or FaceBook.

I also occasionally get time to go to meet ups and conferences where the usual suspects turn up and I get to meet new and inspiring people. It’s not breaking news that in this environment a great many ideas come up. Sometimes we talk seriously about the feasibility of a business strategy, sometimes we gossip about minor eruptions within the network and sometimes we chase down ideas that are so dumb that we keel over with giggles and grin at our own tenacity to think something silly through to a theoretical conclusion.

Often these ideas can be a foundation for something more important. Things that we might work on for our “real jobs”, stuff we get paid to do at work. Other times they are a dalliance, something to chat about or refer to as in-jokes or social references. It struck me that many of these ideas are actually good ideas, even if they are not worthy of creating a start-up and generally most of us are so busy that there is little chance that we can actually make something from them or realise their potential on the internet.

There are also ideas that are discussed and whipped up that have no basis in some of the work we do separately. For example: as a journalist, my ideas for games are not something I can dedicate time to, but that does not mean I am not interested.

Personally, I don’t have the coding chops to make something exist on the web, unless a platform is presented to me in which I can do so. I also lack the time generally to eat properly and sleep enough. So where do these ideas go and isn’t it a bit of a shame that they never come to life?

I would rather share some of these things in the hope that people with more time and better smarts can have a go at making things if they want to. I’m not about to flatter myself to the point of thinking that all of my ideas are worth pursuing. But I’d also rather not let them fade away like whisps of smoke, never proven or shared. So, I’m thinking about an “Ideas Repository”.

I chatted it through one evening with @Papa_Knight. Much to his amusement I was in my usual state of tired confusion and managed to fluff the words and call it an “Ideas Suppository”. I know there are some that might think that is quite right as a label. But y’know, it sort of has a ring to it (dirty pun acknowledged…) Maybe it’s better to share it than shove it.

So, how to?

There’s an element of openness and trust within an idea like this. People interpret ideas in a different way, like the open source community, the data is there for you to work with however you please, or like a creative commons attribution share-alike license, please take the idea and use it, but please credit the source.

There are bound to be cross overs. The hive mind influences itself and heck, I can hardly remember where I heard things sometimes so I am willing to admit when I am corrected that I probably was inspired by something long forgotten. But at least opening ideas to discussion might lead to better things or even put an idea to bed if the issues are thought out properly.

But if there is an idea you have no time to chase after and don’t want to forget it. Write it up. Drop it on your blog, or if you don’t have one, send it to me and I can paste it here in quotes to share. Send blog posts this way if you like and I can jot a summary and point to the details at your place. Like a networked uh, suppository… If this turns out to be something that needs more room, I am prepared to open up a separate blog area or a Posterous or similar to add things. I’m not the most prolific bear, but I have the odd moment. Maybe you do too.

Maybe this is a bad idea, but I’d rather share it than shove it, right?

Throw comments, messages etc in the box below as usual.

JK

j4m1774h at gmail dot com

A song for Ada?

So – this morning Ada Lovelace post on-line – feeling chipper and reading some cool blogs about the ladies who do…

The video that I attached to my post stuck in my mind. Is there more music that celebrates ladies and tech?

Sure there is.  I asked someone who would know much better than me. In a short version of he said – she said.

Enter @DJStoney – I asked him….

To which he replies -

..and so I said…

..and he said …

….I thought “yay” and replied  -

and then ….well he came up with all sorts of good ideas -

Cool right?

Yeah – I think so too. But I also think there are a great many others around too – if you think of one – please post it in the comments. Hopefully I can get  short story from it all.  Oh – and follow @DJStoney too – he’s pretty cool when it comes to chatting about music…she said.

There she is

Ada Lovelace day. Ashamed to miss the first round, I vowed to make the pledge on the second.

It’s not easy picking a single woman to illustrate the fine work of women in tech. So I have chosen a theme and by no means will this be conclusive. I guess it is more of an observation.

I’d like to discuss two women who have played roles in the interests in my life. One has always been a scientific light to me. The other, well, she’s kinda new to the field and has already created controversy.

Let’s go back to the eighties. Yeah, sorry about that, but I can’t change the time. As a cub, I had a microscope, I had a truck and for a long time I had no Barbie. But my friends did. I was somewhat envious for a long time, the doll that every girl at school seemed to own.

Time came around when I was given a hand me down. Barbie – at the frizzed hair part of her life. She came with a kind of three-storey apartment with a pulley system lift. You can guess what happened – the doll of strange proportions and platinum hair was cast aside and the repeated destruction and construction of her home was the main event. Cardboard and plastic and string. I loved building that house. Before long, I moved on to Lego. But that’s another story.

Not too scientific or even technical – yet.

Scroll forward a few years. A different country and another school. An average flat chested brunette, bookish and nervous and keen on drawing and science. Curious and a little bit shy with people. I thought that a slightly dull life of research and being dowdy lay ahead. High school was a slightly daunting proposition, socially speaking.
Watching TV when it’s nearly time for bed, there’s something on like Tomorrow’s World or something similar that would have rocked my world then – and now.

A woman arrived on the screen. Tall and blonde and pretty and smarter than any woman I had watched before. She’s a neuroscientist. (Wow, thinks little me – must look that up) It was Susan Greenfield. Now Lady Greenfield to use her full title.

I was rapt. Just who was this woman who blew away all of my expectations for academia and knowledge? The long legs, the long blonde hair. Familiar…but not familiar among the women I had been reading about or learning from.

It was a revelation and a celebration for me. I could still dress up and still be interested in and work with technology. The important thing about the way Susan Greenfield presents herself is that she is still taken seriously.

Currently she has seen coverage in the press about her position as the former director of the Royal Institution. The Institution’s statement says that her position no longer exists.
“The Trustees of the Royal Institution of Great Britain have completed the first stage of a governance review and as a consequence have concluded, that the requirement for the functions of the role of Director as currently defined has ceased to exist. We are therefore sad to announce that Baroness Susan Greenfield left the Ri on 08/01/2010.”

So, now there will be a review. The media has been circling and the possibility of a tribunal has been mooted with themes of sexual discrimination. Any action would have to be taken in April 2010 and meetings are set to take place before then. So this is far from a conclusion. But it does raise some questions.

I don’t think these decisions are made with looks in mind. But, it is undeniable that Lady Greenfield is the first woman director in the role. I do query why that position if any would ‘cease to exist’ and wonder if this would happen if a different person were doing that job.

What it does still, for me, is indicate that women are proven to be outstanding in their field. No matter how this case turns out and whether or not Lady Greenfield returns to her position, the fact of the matter is that she was there and lead that institution. She is a pioneer by taking that role and making it her own.

The general hoopla surrounding this situation also draws attention to her career. Scientist, writer and broadcaster, Professor of Synaptic Pharmacology, Chancellor of Heriot-Watt University, a specialist in the physiology of the brain and researcher who brings attention to Parkinson’s disease and Alzheimer’s.

All of this and the general politics of being a woman today. She was born in 1950, though doesn’t look it. She’s media savvy, an entertaining speaker and a person who highlights science in ways that is relevant to the general population. I find it admirable.

Recently I was sitting behind Lady Greenfield at a web event. I was maybe not in total agreement with her views, but inspired none the less. I noted her intellect and also that she had that season’s Valentino handbag. It made me smile. I realised that she would make science more appealing to more young women who have different priorities to the ones I had at high school. Maybe even influence them to work in a similar field.

So, why was I prattling on about Barbie again?

Oh yeah. The Mattel Barbie hype machine has a section where the public can vote on the career of the oddly proportioned pop culture icon. This year one of the options was for Barbara Millicent Roberts to try her hand at being a computer engineer. I voted. I wanted her to do that job. She has had such a wild and varied career already – she has a pilot’s licence as well as having been a flight attendant, she’s been an astronaut, a doctor and allegedly there has been a Nascar Barbie (fill in your own comment at the end).

But in some ways she still failed to represent the women around me, the women working in technology, the everyday wonders that I laugh and drink coffee with. I voted. I voted for Barbie to be a computer engineer.

Turns out a heck of a lot of people voted for Barbie to be an engineer too as she has now taken up that role as the 2010 Popular Vote. (the Girls Vote winner was News Anchor).

So are we happy now?

Possibly not, maybe so. The decision divided a blogging audience. The presentation of this computer engineer did not seem so realistic. Why was she carrying a pink laptop with giant rows of binary on the display? Why was she wearing glasses? Why were they pink??

Therein lies a problem based around stereotype and expectation. Many coding women I know wear glasses. I don’t know why. I suspect it follows a fashion, they could wear lenses too. Barbie’s T-shirt has binary in the design – lauded as a cliché by some – but excuse me if my web mistress friends don’t also adorn themselves with attractive fitting apparel with LOL cats or other nerdy jokes on them.

So is it really the presentation?

I admit I didn’t feel as though Barbie represented me as a woman with an interest in tech. The platinum version never did. I wasn’t that girl and I’m not that woman. But what she can do – is make technology appealing to girls at a very young age.

This is so important. There are not enough women in science and technology, it is still not the first choice for some very ancient reasons. So if this doll, with its cliches and curves can help to change that. Then maybe I can agree with it on some level. Then again – maybe I would like to see Barbie’s past theses and her doctorate too.

To set the record straight. I don’t think that Lady Greenfield looks like Barbie. What both of these women currently represent to me is a change. A slow change and a hard fought one. Ada Lovelace may have been in the running early on, but there are many women who can bring different, maybe sometimes even better, values and choices to science and technology. The only way to encourage this is to provide as many varied and wonderful examples of women already working in this territory, whether they look like my scary biology teacher with her unshaven armpits or whether they have surgery to look like Barbie. They are important for the work that they do and the inspiration they can bring.

I’m still never going blonde again though…
JK

P.S.  Something that made me smile about girls and tech – “She makes me wanna update, to be a better man..”

Flapjack Chapter 8

So finally we come to the end of this tale. I guess it means the end of my working on this tale too. I like writing stories – whether they are OK or whether they are not so good. This one provided an opportunity to work with people who are talented, accepting, interesting and committed – that’s worth any amount of hours mixing and scripting to try and provide something worthwhile.

It takes time to get something like this together. The story was written last year at the end of the summer and then things started to happen to get the tapes together from around the world much later. This means that after all these months, I will feel rather strange not having the characters on my mind. I think you have to leave them to get on with other things though – maybe we’ll catch up with them again when Flapjack is older.

When the scripts were sent out – almost no one had the full script – and so each worked with a rather limited outline to read from. The results were spectacular. I was moved and excited and inspired by everyone’s interpretations. I was not present at most of the recordings. You could say this might be a gamble, but less in the way of control really made this all come to life for me. When I write fictional characters, I often find them telling me their story, rather than me guiding them along a plot. This reinforced that feeling.

So, for your final delectation, the final chapter is here in audio, badly drawn form and written at length. Beneath the audio player and the written version of this final chapter there is a cast list of everyone who joined in. There is also a fun tape of outtakes and comments from some of them – all of which makes me laugh out loud. I am impossibly grateful to them and hope that in some way some day I can return the favour.

Settle down now, we’re headed to the end of a long journey.

JK

_________________

Audio Version – press play here

From the bottom of the tower looking up, Flapjack would have sworn that it tapered inwards to the sky, but inside the opposite seemed to happen. The stair case wound around the edges of the tower and it appeared to be getting wider and wider. The gloom was brightening as they climbed higher, Flapjack was starting to feel tired but the Wheatsoldier behind them kept up the pace with a sharp jab with his sword.

The staircase stopped and turned abruptly in front of them into one of the largest rooms Flapjack had ever seen. The ceiling seemed to be miles away and a black circular floor stretched out before them, covered in shining ridges. Here and there across the floor, wheat soldiers and spider ladies dressed in the finest suits and dresses leaned against one another fast asleep.

On the far side of the room a sparkling crystal cage held two figures that Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse recognised immediately. Strung like puppets and resting uncomfortably, Flapjack’s mum and dad were being held. His father strapped to a guitar, his mother arms strung open in mock performance. Flapjack made to run across the floor, crying out to them, but the room was full of soldiers who promptly awoke and held him fast.

“It seems we have a gatecrasher to the eternal ball,” a loud voice called across the hall.

“Quite rude to try and sneak in without an invitation,” agreed a female voice.

The Wheatsoldier that had mustered Cannibal Corpse and Flapjack into the room bowed low beside them as the couples on the floor awoke and stood aside. The King and Queen of Arachnopolis.

The King was tall with jewels in the sheaf of wheat about his face. The Queen was coldly beautiful, dressed in spun silver that glistened as she walked. Flapjack was afraid but he tried not to show it. He could hear Cannibal Corpse muttering beside him and something moved in his bag.

“Boy,” said the Queen. “What brings you to our Kingdom to so rudely break into our palace?”

Flapjack looked into her many black eyes and set his jaw. “You stole my mum and dad,” he scowled at her. The King and Queen look at each other confused. “Who?” asks the King.

Flapjack points to the crystal cage, “My Mum and Dad,” I’ve come to take them back.”

The King, Queen and their finely dressed audience turn to look into the cage. The Queen leaned closer to Flapjack and whispered, “It’s too late for them now. We have them to run the machines. If you turn around now, we might even give you a head start.” She smiled at him, revoltingly.

“Never!” Flapjack shouts at her.

The Queen laughs heartily. “Start the dance!” she screams into the crowd.

A dozen candles are lit around the cage and his parents are woken and illuminated. Wheatmen and women on each side of the cage pull on the woven spider webs attached to Flapjack’s parents and tiny microphones drop down surrounding his mother’s hair like a dark halo.

“Stupid boy,” said the king. “Now you’re here, we can make your parents sing forever. After all, they wouldn’t want anything to happen to their little boy.” The King and Queen laugh and return to their thrones. A low and winding bass tone starts to fill the room and Flapjack’s mother sings a song with no words and more heartache than the world has ever heard. The couples on the floor turn slowly and begin to dance around.

Flapjack and Cannibal corpse are grabbed from the peculiar dance floor and are dragged struggling to the feet of the King and Queen. In the rough and tumble, no one sees the stealthy mouse jump again from the bag and run helter skelter through the feet of the dancers toward the crystal cage.

They watch the dancers slowly revolve around the room. “I’ll never tire of this view,” comments the queen.

“I thought we’d never see it again at one point,” says the King. He gives Flapjack a light kick. “You see boy, our music machine turned the dancers on the floor. The music resonates through the crystals in all of the machines that run our city. It was a dark time here in Arachnopolis.”

“But now we have your mother and father,” said the Queen, “We no longer need the ballroom to turn.” She gestures across the room at the cage and smiles.

Flapjack looks miserably across the room at his parents. They look so tired. His father’s fingers are red, his mother looks pale. As he scans the ballroom, he realises why it looks so familiar. The couples are waltzing across a giant record that no longer turns around. Above them bearing a sharp, broken needle, the giant stylus gleamed in the candle light. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place.

Suddenly the tempo of the music changed. Flapjack looked over at his parents who appeared to have found more energy. Cannibal Corpse tapped him on the arm and whispered in his ear, “Don’t panic, our friend the mouse has been talking to them. I had an idea.”

Flapjack looks into his friend’s face. Cannibal Corpse shows him a defiant look of grim determination.

The music increases in speed and changes key, getting higher and higher in pitch. The dancers on the floor struggle to keep pace and begin to step on each other’s toes and crash into one other, getting dizzy at the pace.

“WHAT’S GOING ON!?” the Queen demands to know. She’s glowering at the cage and getting angrier. “Stop all this at once, I didn’t say the music could change!”

The pitch gets higher and the music more frantic. Flapjack’s father plays faster and his mother sings notes he has never heard before.

“Stop them!” shouts the King above the din and the Wheatmen and Spiderladies at the cage start to tug on the web spun ropes that control Flajack’s parents. But the ropes fall loose in their hands.

On the top of the cage, Flapjack can see a very tiny animal scurrying about. The little mouse has gnawed through the ropes and his parents are no longer puppets of the Arachnopolis monarchy.

The King and Queen are on their feet, trying to see what is going on. The Queen is shouting with rage, but cannot be heard above the din.

The song is growing impossibly fast and the notes incredibly high. Cannibal Corpse grabs Flapjack and shouts into his ear. He covers his friend’s face as they crouch together, turning away from the cage.

The bass line stops abruptly and a single note rings out high and sharp across the ballroom. Flapjack’s mother sings a note so high and so clean that the crystal cage shatters, sending shards across the room. Flapjack and CC break away from their captors and push through the panicked dancers on the giant record. The sound has not only shattered the crystal cage but appears to have shaken the tower itself.

As he reaches them, Flapjack’s parents are climbing quickly from the broken cage. He runs into his mother’s arms as his father sweeps up Cannibal Corpse and pushes them on.

Chaos has broken out all around them. They push and shove at terrified Wheatmen and Spiderladies. As they step through the doorway an almighty crash ruptures the air behind them. The giant stylus has smashed down onto the record, cracking the surface and sending shock waves across the floor.

They turn to see the Queen screaming at them as Wheatmen and Spiderladies scramble about on the uneven surface, trying not to slip through the cracks. Flapjack looks across the room into the King’s eyes and a terrible sadness connects them for a moment. He climbs out of his mother’s arm and digs around in his bag.

“Stop!” he shouts. The room quietens. All eyes are on Flapjack as he stands on the edge of the floor. Aiming carefully he throws something hard across the ballroom to the King.

The King catches it and winds it up. It plays music, just enough to make the crystals of the machines of Arachnopolis work. A familiar song plays as everyone turns to listen. “love, let me in…”

The King smiles at Flapjack. “Leave them be,” he commands. He shows the radio to his wife who inspects it suspiciously. “We can make this work,” he tells her.

Flapjack, his parents and Cannibal Corpse head down the steps to the bottom of the tower. Night is falling as they walk through the cobbled streets and a few of the citizens are out of their homes, looking up at the tower and wondering what all the crashing is about.

As they pass through the gates, Flapjack’s mother picks him up into her arms and carries him. He looks over at his father who smiles as he cradles Cannibal Corpse. Twilight is settling over the fields as they walk back toward the Mindmill. Flapjack is exhausted. The sound of his mother’s heart beat and the sway of her steps lulls him, before long, our little hero has fallen fast asleep.

**

Sunlight streams through the window across Flapjack’s face as he blinks awake. He can hear Mummy singing in the kitchen and Daddy making those low, deep noises. Wondering whether it’s too early, Flapjack passes time playing with his feet for a while and then turns over to sit up.

He looks over at Cannibal Corpse and starts to remember that he has been having an incredible dream. Curiously he shakes the doll’s arm, but it does not stir.

“Can you talk?” he whispers to it. But before it can answer the blankets move and something skitters from under them and out of the side of his cot. He peers through the railings and a tiny mouse runs across the floor. He’s not sure, but he thinks he heard it whisper “Hello – Goodbye Flapjack!”

He looks at Cannibal Corpse. The doll looks back at him, wearing a smile, one of slightly less grim determination.

The End.

Cast – in order of appearance

Wheatmen and Spiderladies letter

Mike Atherton. Mike’s writing has inspired me on many occasions, as a blogger, scriptwriter and reviewer. Funny and uncompromising he effortlessly has a following wherever he goes. I watch with wonder as his own projects, like Slingers, grow to become greater with each passing week. I’m grateful to know a scribe who can be as measured as he is creative whilst wielding the digital pen. @Sizemore

Cannibal Corpse

Rob Spence is a friend afar in Canada. Always supportive, frankly very funny and brilliant in many ways. He is also the Eyeborg, pioneering experiments on himself to make a recording eye or an eye with a laser in it (because chicks dig that sort of thing he tells me) Rob took on one of the longer roles as well as reading an early draft of the script. No one I know could make CC sound quite like Dirty Harry in the way he did. @Eyeborg

Hugo Rat

Ilicco Elia. When not innovating with news and mobile in ways that make my head spin, Ilicco is funny and charming in many, many ways. Without question he took the role and made it sound menacing and wonderful. A great counterpoint to Victor without even hearing the other tapes. @Ilicco

Victor Rat

Ben James. I’m not entirely sure where to start describing the whirlwind that is Ben. Crazed in all the best ways he creates output that would put most of us in hospital. I cannot imagine Victor appearing in any other way than the frankly chilling presentation that Ben came up with. He even put up with me forgetting to send an extra line and read that extra part whilst continually creating his own projects. A master madness. @Bennycrime

Don Quixote

Ben Walker. Songwriter, blogger, videomaker. The guy who wrote two songs that I get stuck in my head like a viral ear worm every few weeks. Ben’s charming bass timbre so suited the character of Don, that I don’t think I know what I would do if he were not able to fit the recording in around his own work. Initially I wanted Don to sound a bit like Boris Johnson; to say that inspired me to contact Ben to read the part sounds a bit mean, Ben’s much prettier. @Ihatemornings

Multiple mice

Jennifer Shepherd. Hula Hooping mistress with a mind like a steel trap. Jenni speaks many languages fluently and translates for many important organisations worldwide. Naturally that meant I asked her to translate the voices of mice for me, although that does seem a waste of her incredible linguistic talents. With the aid of a pitch shifter and Jenni’s excellent delivery, she helped to create the voices that still make me laugh without fail on the tapes.

Mouse with the key

Sally Taft. Sally is a good friend and supportive voice in a slightly mad world sometimes. Her great humour and warmth inspired me to ask her to read this role – also the fact that she could reach the high squeaks of the mice leaving very little for me to do with the pitch shifter. If you ask her nicely, she might also do impressions of the mice in Bagpuss, she’s very good at it.

Two headed Nanna

Colleen Lin. The web brings wonderful happen-stance to my doorstep every day. When working on the American elections, I made contact with a talented designer in Texas who agreed that I could use her on-line comment. Turned out that we have the sort of humour that probably leaves many cold, but we share every other day. We met last year briefly and noted as we sat down to lunch that it felt as though we had been friends for years. I hope this means many years to come. Her wonderfully warm Texan accent makes me wish I had a two headed Nanna. @Stealingsand

Laura Kidd. I’m almost at a loss to describe the multiple talents and strings to this woman’s bow. Not only is she shockingly attractive (something I tend to ignore otherwise I’d have to kill her out of envy) but she also plays bass for I Blame Coco, touring the world and entertaining thousands. She also records high quality documentary material as an exceptionally qualified camera bod and still finds time to engage with the world on her blog and produce her own albums, oh and work with other bands – oh and record her dog, Benji who also makes a brief appearance. @Warriorgrrl

Wheat Soldiers

Christian Payne. Prolific new media reporter, general mad man and risk taker. What more could you want for a Wheatsoldier? Christian makes it all look easy, I hope that there is room for him to enjoy a soft story from time to time. @Documentally

Asher Pearcy. He’s my flatmate! Cool cat and easy going. He got very excited about the audio-book, so who am I to turn down that sort of enthusiasm? It helps to have that kind of support.

Benjamin Read. Literature ninja with the kind of book shelves that make any self respecting nerdy-girl faint. Usually strapped for time with film making and other assorted and exotic projects, it’s very cool that he found time to record some lines for me. @Bookpirate

The King

Xander Cansell. Who could sound more regal? Without question, Oxford’s book man and quiz writer accepted the challenge of playing the king and pulls it off brilliantly. I’m not entirely sure that he is not in line to the throne already…@quitexander

The Queen

Kate Day. One of the great on-line photographers who manages to not only show off great skill and creativity with a camera but also make us all feel included with her photography blog and more. I knew I wanted Kate’s voice on tape, but little did I know what a big voice and a fearsome monarch she would make. @kate_day

Music:

“Love let me in” by Miriam Jones.

“MMFSOG” Steve and Lobelia Lawson

Proof readers

Knight Senior. Put up with me reading down the phone, over Skype, calling about continuity. Spotted spelling and much more. Always putting up with my stories since 1977.

Mrs Knight Senior. Always being beguiled by my tales.

Creators

@Solobasssteve & @Lobelia. Without which, and much love.

Narrator/Flapjack

That’d be me then.

If you got this far – then you deserve to hear the bonus track…..

Flapjack – Chapter 7

A bit of a pause again but we find ourselves at the penultimate chapter of the adventures of Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse.

Hopefully soon they will find Flapjack’s parents – they must be close by now.

As I sit cutting tapes for the final chapter and running through the script in parts, it feels odd that I am coming to the end of this project. It’s fun to come home and hear the voices of friends come alive in digital wave forms to tell the story.

I’m looking forward to writing all about them at the end of the final chapter. It’s funny how listening to people’s voices that closely changes how you see them subtly.

Well, we must go on, otherwise Flapjack and CC will never get to the end of their quest. So make a hot drink and curl up somewhere comfy, it’s time to go.

JK

_______________

Chapter 7 Audio

As flapjack and Cannibal Corpse get closer to the city they realise that it was much bigger than they had thought. “Must be a distance thing,” observes CC wisely.

They approached a set of tall metal gates with “Arachnopolis” written across them in glittering web letters. To the right and left of the gates stood some odd looking soldiers. Their bodies and heads were stalks of wheat. They had spindly arms and legs and appeared to be armed with pea shooters. “HALT!” shouted the one on the right. “WHO GOES THERE!?” shouted the one on the left.

“I’m Flapjack, “ said Flapjack. “And this is Cannibal Corpse.” The Wheatmen soldiers peered at them. Flapjack wondered if they would be able to get past the pea shooters into the city at all.

“WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS HERE?” demanded the Wheatsoldier on the right.

Flapjack was about to answer when Cannibal Corpse stepped forward. “We’re on holiday,” He said. Flapjack kept his mouth shut and nodded. Trying to look like a tourist arriving at a web spun city at night. The Wheatsoldiers looked at each other and then at the unlikely pair at their gates.

The Wheatsoldier on the left shrugged. “Okay then,” he said. “Welcome to Arachnopolis, we hope you enjoy your stay.” He pulled a cord next to the gates and a series of cogs and gears squealed and turned as the enormous gates opened inward toward the city.

“How did you come up with that?” asked Flapjack. “No point declaring war outside of the gates,” replies Cannibal Corpse.

The friends pass through the cobbled streets of the city. Spider Ladies in long skirts wearing many shoes tap around them. All of the shops are open and there is a general hustle and bustle as fruit sellers shout out their wares. Arachnopolis is a city of night. So the citizens are up and about, getting on with their lives in the soft moonlight and gas lamps.

All of the main streets seemed to lead to a large and ornate tower. As Flapjack and CC get closer, they realise that the music is louder. Flapjack’s parents must be inside. They walk around the building slowly, trying to act like tourists. There only appears to be one door at the top of a set of stone steps. More Wheatsoldiers are standing to attention at the doors. Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse look at each other without much hope. “This might be better attempted when everyone has gone to bed,” says Cannibal Corpse. “We should find somewhere to take a nap and come back in the daylight when everyone else is asleep.”

The pair find a guest house with a vacancy and sign in to get their room. As Flapjack puts his bag on the floor to sign the visitor’s book, he fails to notice a tiny creature that jumps out of his bag and scuttles off out of the door into the street. Flapjack and CC wearily climb the stairs to their room, the daytime night will be an active one for them and they will need to be clever and quick if they are to get into the tower.

A pale blue light is touching the room when Flapjack awakes. He can hear a tiny voice urgently saying “Hello! Hello-goodbye! Hello!” There’s a scuffling noise on the edge of his bed and something scampers over his pillow right up to his nose. It’s a mouse, from the library. It peers into his sleepy eyes and says “Hello-goodbye! Flapjack!”

Flapjack sits up. He has been sleeping top to toe in bed with Cannibal Corpse who appears to still be asleep. He gives the doll a nudge. The mouse jumps off the bed into the floor and drags something to the side of the blanket. It’s a key.

Cannibal Corpse wakes and mutters something about chicken Wellingtons. Flapjack gets out of bed and kneels down next to the mouse. “What’s the key for?” he asks.

“Key to the tower, yes!” says the mouse and runs in a circle around the key and then twice around Flapjack.

“Where did you get this?” Flapjack asks the mouse, turning the key over in his hands.

“Sleepy guards!” squeaks the mouse, “Hello-goodnight, goodmorning!”

Flapjack looks up at Cannibal Corpse. The doll looks impressed. They have a scary task to hand but now at least it seems they might have a way inside the tower at least.

Flapjack packs the key and the mouse in his bag and he and Cannibal Corpse creep down the stairs and out of the Inn. The morning light is pale and the streets of Arachnopolis are deserted. They head toward the tower in silence as the town sleeps on.

As they approach the stone steps to the tower door, they see the two guards asleep on either side. They are wearing blindfolds, to keep out the light of day. “Not terribly secure,” observes Cannibal Corpse. Flapjack agrees. They hesitate, unsure about how deeply the guards might be sleeping. “How are we going to get in there without waking them?” wonders Flapjack.

The mouse with the key jumps out of his bag and streaks up the steps before them. Flapjack and CC freeze as it dashes over the foot of one of the guards. Miraculously, he doesn’t stir. The pair hold their breath as the mouse scales the rough stone work up the side of the doorway, the key wound up in it’s tail all the way. It perches next to the keyhole and in a feat of gymnastics flicks the key up and pushes it into the lock with a deft paw. It jumps over the key, snagging the handle on the way and turns it in the mechanism. With a soft click and a whine, the door opens inward and the mouse hits the steps an inch away from a guard. Still frozen, they watch the mouse disappear into the tower as one of the guards snorts in his sleep but does not wake.

Flapjack feels like applauding their little friend. They tip toe up the stairs and into the tower after the mouse, Flapjack removes the key and locks the door behind them. They stand for a moment in the dark, they can hear that the mouse is scratching around nearby. As their eyes adjust to the shadows a voice says, “Welcome. You tiny friend here shows merit and bravery, but I think you should not be in here and that is a matter for the King and Queen.”

A flame sputters into life and a candle is lit. The mouse runs back to Flapjack and climbs up his leg and back into the bag. A Wheatman stands before them holding a sword and candle before him. He gestures for them to take the stairs ahead of him and they gloomily start their journey to the top of the tower.

To be completed…

Flapjack – Chapter 6

So, I said that all the voices and contributors would be revealed at the end, when all of the chapters are in place. But I’m going to change that here and now – because I can.

This episode of Flapjack’s adventures includes some music. It is a very specific piece of music for a very special reason. But I’ll leave that for the people who know – they can tell you, if they like.

The song in the story is “Love let me in“ by the fantastically talented Miriam Jones. Please go and find more of her songs, you have my word that it is worth purchasing them and listening to them again and again. They’re full of that heart breaking beauty that so few are able to create. If you missed that first link – look here.

Oddly, I’ve only met Miriam Jones once. She is as lovely as her songs. At the time, I may have been holding a baby too – one that you might be getting to know in this story. It’s a good thing that I have this chapter mixed down, every time I got to her song, it brought a tear to my eye. Frankly I should be buying shares in mascara.

The more familiar piece of music that you can hear at the start and finish of each chapter is from an  album called “Live in Nebraska“ by @Solobasssteve and @Lobelia. If you find them on Twitter – be sure and give them a hug from me. The track is called MMFSOG. I’ll let them explain that one to you.

I think that is quite enough from me. Apart from mentioning that I feel rather lucky to know some brilliant musicians. Everyone should know some brilliant musicians, I may even know more than my fair share.

Settle down now, it’s time for the next chapter.

JK

________________________________________

Chapter Six Audio

The afternoon is spent playing with puppies and creating a plan. With the use of the Mindmill, Joan prints out a map to Arachnopolis. Nancy takes Flapjack’s bag and fills it with apples and bread to take with him. Cannibal Corpse is still oddly silent, but has the air of someone a bit more chipper now that he has new feet.

They sit together for an early supper of delicious stew. The Nannas recommend not mentioning this to the chickens. The plan is drawn up. Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse must leave at night. The moon will help to guide them to the city through fields and up to the correct gate for entry. The Wheatmen and the Spiderladies are awake in the night time, so if he gets there while the moon is still up, they will not feel as though they are being ambushed.

The sun sets in glorious technicolour as the final details are added to Flapjack’s forthcoming journey. Joan has a gift for him to take on the road. She winds it up and hands it to him. It’s a clockwork radio. The music begins as the receiver tunes in.

The Mindmill’s rhythms click in time to the ballad and the Nannas sing along in beautiful harmonies.

“…and I would swear through everything to stay.

Love let me in, I’m standing in the cold I’m waiting at your heart
I’m guaranteed to love you guaranteed to make it up
I would drink you in like sunshine and I would love you in the dark .

But you stay just where I can’t reach you and I beseech you
Love let me in ….”

The radio has wound down. The music fades away on a breeze. Outside the round window of the Mindmill, the moon has risen, painting the surrounding fields with silver.

Flapjack packs the radio into his bag. The Nannas reach over and hug him till he feels he might break. As they step back he sees they have tears in their eyes. Joan sniffs and Nancy wipes her eyes with a red handkerchief. “Go on with you,” says Nancy. “The puppies will follow you so far but then they have to come home again.” The dogs scamper in circles, eager to take a walk.

Joan opens the door and wishes them the best of luck. Flapjack turns to wave at them every ten steps until he cannot see their door any more. The puppies run ahead, jump around behind and chase each other through the fields around him. Presently Cannibal Corpse says, “You can put me down now if you like.”

Flapjack jumps at the sound and puts his friend back on his feet. “What happened to you?” he asks the doll. “Why wouldn’t you talk to me?”

“Well, you wouldn’t feel like talking much if you had your feet ripped off either.” They trudge on down a faint path shown only via the moonlight.

“But what about the Nannas? You didn’t talk to them either.” says Flapjack.

“I can’t talk to them, “ says Cannibal Corpse. “They’re grown up and it was day time. Don’t you know anything?”

“Clearly not,” says Flapjack a little taken aback. “I’m glad you can talk again now though, are your feet better?”

“Better than ever,” says Cannibal Corpse. “I can probably dance now too, clever thing that Mindmill and those ladies.” he does an experimental turn on one Wellington. It’s a pretty stylish move. Flapjack is deeper in thought.

“So, if you can’t talk in front of grown ups, what will happen when I’m a grown up?”

“You won’t really need to talk to me then,” says Cannibal Corpse in a small voice. “You’ll have other grown ups to talk to.”

Flapjack stops in his tracks staring at his friend until CC notices and turns to look at him. “But I’ll always need to talk to you.” Flapjack tells the doll. They look at each other in the dim silver light.

Cannibal Corpse’s features are as always stitched in one place, but for a second, in the moonlight, he looks as though he might be smiling. “Then maybe you won’t be like all the other grown ups,” he says. “Come on, we have a city to reach and the dogs are already starting to turn back.”

Indeed Flapjack had hardly noticed but the gambolling pups had stopped racing ahead and were now jumping and yapping in the distance behind them. The pair climbed to the top of a gentle hill finally saw the city. Silver webs and bright yellow lights spread out before them. A woman with a beautiful voice was singing, though the sound was faint at this distance. A low bass sound accompanied the music. That must be his parents. Cannibal Corpse gave Flapjack his best look of grim determination and they set off to where the moonlight had settled on a set of enormous gates to the city of Arachnopolis.

To be continued…

Flapjack – Chapter 5

Well, that was a grim last episode. Nobody likes to have their stuffing chewed out from their feet!

Thank you to everyone who has been tweeting this about. It’s fun to write stories and even better if there are people to read them or pass them on. That’s what storytelling is about right?

Looking back at the origins of this tale – I asked one of Flapjack’s parents to fill me in on a few random details. I’ve woven as many as possible into the story. There is a reason why we have Wheatmen and Spider Ladies to contend with, Cannibal Corpse is named so for a very specific reason.  It might sound like utter nonsense to you and me – but I get the feeling there’s at least two people who know exactly what is going on.

So. Will CC survive being attacked by the rats? Get yourself comfy and let’s find out.

JK

_______________________________

Chapter Five Audio

The closer they get, the more enormous the windmill seems. Its sails sweep wide and long, painted white and reflecting the sunshine. It is surrounded by a rather ramshackle farm; strange vegetables that Flapjack doesn’t recognise grow on bushes and out of the ground. There are some chickens clucking away in the yard. He opens the gate and notices that the hens and chicks are all wearing mismatched Wellingtons and there is a goat peering at them through magnifying spectacles.

Hitching Cannibal Corpse up to avoid trailing his unravelling feet in the mud, Flapjack makes his way to the door where there is a pull cord for a bell. It chimes loud and clear inside the windmill and something starts to crash about, getting closer. The door swings open and Flapjack stifles a cry as a large figure with two heads towers over him. It looks over his head for a moment, out into the yard, perplexed. Finally both heads look down and see him. The faces of two older women smile at him mischievously, “Hello there,” they say in unison. The one on the left leans closer and looks at Cannibal Corpse. It turns to its other face, “Looks as though we have a casualty, better get the needles and thread.”

The figure bends low toward Flapjack offering to take Cannibal Corpse. He’s not sure about handing his friend over to this peculiar stranger.

“It’s OK,” says the head on the right. “We’ll have him right as rain in no time. That’s what we do is fix things, we’re the two headed Nanna.”

Flapjack feels that he can trust these strange women, or is it one woman? He feels tired and wants to rest somewhere safe and warm, away from rats and dark places. He can smell bread baking inside the windmill and finally cannot fight anyone any more. One Nanna lifts the doll from his arms and the other scoops him up to their ample and warm bosom. “Look at them, exhausted they are,” the chatter softly to each other and once again in a strange place, Flapjack falls asleep.

When Flapjack wakes up, he initially thinks he may be back home. He is warm and wrapped in something soft, he can hear people moving around in the next room. He reaches out for Cannibal Corpse. But the doll is not there.

He feels around to identify fluffy blankets and sniffs at the warm air, it smells like flowers and baking bread. Slowly he moves the blankets away and sits up to take a look around. He’s sitting in a circular room, filled with all sort of interesting clutter. There are gardening tools over there, a nest of wires and a laptop on a table. There are round windows letting in plenty of sunlight still, so he has either been asleep for a long time, or not long at all. He feels rested though and hungry.

Suddenly a loud YAP! comes from the doorway. This is followed by a lot of other yaps and some scuffling. Five tan puppies come gambolling into the room in a mess, they chase each other around the mat for a while barking and snapping at each other’s tails. Flapjack starts to giggle at their fun. Footsteps can be heard from outside the room, coming closer. A woman’s voice calls, “1? 2? 3? 4? 5?! Stop that noise!”

The puppies line up on the mat and sit obediently looking at the door. The two headed Nanna comes in and looks over at Flapjack. “No wonder you’re awake with all this racket.” She frowns slightly at the puppies who wag their tails enthusiastically but remain seated.

The Nannas step over to Flapjack and sits on the end of his makeshift bed. She peers at him, “Well, you look a bit better than you did,” says one head. The other takes a light pinch of his arm, “Probably just need something to eat.” Flapjack considers them warily. Such a strange pair. They seem ok, but he’s never seen a two headed anyone before.

The two headed woman reaches into her voluminous cardigan and pulls out something familiar. It’s Cannibal Corpse, looking cleaner and wearing his usual look of grim determination. He’s wearing a red Wellington and a yellow Wellington. The women carefully take the Wellingtons off to show neatly stitched and re-stuffed feet at the end of CC’s legs. Flapjack cannot be sure, but for a moment he thinks that CC may have offered a small and brave half smile. They are putting the boots back on, “This should help keep him clean,” says the one on the left. They hand the doll back to Flapjack who gives it a greeting hug. “Let’s get something to eat,” says the Nanna on the right, “The bread should be ready any minute.”

Flapjack follows the Nannas downstairs into a large kitchen. He can hear the mill running underneath his feet and the warm smell of the bread is making him very hungry indeed. He sits at a large wooden table as the Nannas take a golden loaf from the oven.

She places the bread on the table and makes some tea while it cools. As the pot brews, she turns to survey Flapjack and his friend. “Well, we better get to know each other,” said the head on the right. “I’m Joan and this is Nancy.” She gestures at the head on the left.

Joan has a head of soft white curls. She wears glasses on the end of her nose and appears to have some sort of electronic earpiece. Nancy speaks with an American accent, the kind Flapjack has heard in some cowboy movies. She keeps an eye on the puppies as Joan opens a laptop computer at the table.

The pot of tea is brought over, warm bread cut into chunks is smothered in butter and honey. The two headed Nannas sit down. They place the afternoon tea in front of Flapjack and ask, “So, who are you and what brings you to the Mindmill?”

Mindmill? Thinks Flapjack, wondering if he should be afraid, but he takes a bite of the bread and tells the Nannas about his journey. At the mention of the Wheatmen and Spiderladies, the Nannas show some concern. “That’s going to take some preparation,” says Joan. She taps lightly on the keyboard and turns the screen toward Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse. Nancy throws some knotted rope to the puppies to play with and smiles at Flapjack. “Joan can tell you about these things,” she says. “She’s the one who runs the Mindmill.”

“What’s a Mindmill?” asks Flapjack. He’s part way through his bread and honey, fast realising that the bread is not really very nice. But he’s so hungry and the honey is still sweet, he carries on munching.

Joan taps more instructions into the laptop. “The Mindmill,” she says turning the screen to them to show illustrations of the windmill on the screen, “is a knowledge machine.” Flapjack looks nonplussed.

Joan continues, “The sails pick up all the clever thoughts of people on electronic devices. They label their thoughts so we can catch the right ones of course, otherwise we’d be overrun with all sorts of things. Once the information is caught in the sails, it is ground down in the mill and processed to appear on the computers. There’s a sort of satellite dish out the back too, that transmits questions, just in case we happen to need something that has not already been asked.”

Flapjack looks amazed. It’s like the library but on a screen. Maybe that’s what his Daddy has on the mobile object he looks at all the time. A connection to the Mindmill. “Does it know the way to the city?” he asks the Nannas.

“How to get there, where to stay and what the best rated hotels are probably,” says Nancy. “Best to call it the right thing though. Something I know without the help of the Mill for once,” she smiles. “The City of the Wheatmen and the Spiderladies is called Arachnopolis. It’s named after the Wheatmen. At some point a single Spiderlady got into the city and met a Wheatman. Of course Spiderladies lay a lot of eggs so the population grew very quickly. The Spiderladies soon spun annexes and new areas though. It’s really rather pretty. Thing is, the Wheatmen have always been a little um, light-fingered shall we say. So they take things for people to add to their city and the Spiderladies weave around them. Quite the engineers I guess.”

Joan fills in more detail. “Truly admirable engineers,” she says. “The city was barely a village when we built the Mindmill. Very basic it was too. But after a few months we noticed that it had electricity, the town was lit at night somehow. That was shortly after we had our record player stolen. Funny thing to take, naturally no use getting it back now that it’s woven in. They started a little mining business too, crystals I think. Goodness knows why.”

“Have you been there?” asks Flapjack.

“No love,” says Joan. “The Wheatmen and Spiderladies are not invaders as such, but they can take care of themselves. They don’t take to visitors. Some people have tried to trade with them. Many didn’t come back.”

Flapjack looks at Cannibal Corpse’s mismatched Wellingtons. Wondering what to do. It sounds as though he may never get his parents back at this rate.

Joan and Nancy look at each other with concern. Then Joan says, “I wouldn’t worry about that. Nothing ever worried us in our adventuring days.” Nancy grins, “We’d only ever set out against insurmountable odds, it’s the only way to fly!” she laughs.

Flapjack is not sure if they are in fact a bit mad. But he feels a lot better for having had something to eat and someone to believe in him.

To be continued…

Flapjack – Chapter 4

If you were looking for more – then you’ll like chapter 4.  A little scarier in the dark, so wrap up warm and settle down, it’s time to find out where Flapjack and CC are headed.

You can listen to the audio as you read along – no cheating though, if you skip to the bottom, you’ll only leave the characters behind!

If you have any questions for the characters – let me know in the comments and I’ll see what I can do.

JK

_____________________________________________

Audio

Cannibal Corpse leads Flapjack down the tunnels, shining the dim light of the torch on his map and occasionally up ahead of them. Damp bricks glisten in the gloom and a constant drip-drip accompanies their damp footsteps in the dark.

Flapjack wonders about the time. He can’t tell the time yet, so a watch would be no good. He’s hungry though so it must be long after he had his last rusk. He taps Cannibal Corpse on the shoulder who spins around and shines the torch in his face, momentarily blinding him. “Stop that! Move the torch CC!” exclaims Flapjack, throwing his hand up in front of his face.

“I can’t hear you if I can’t see you,” grumbles Cannibal Corpse moving the torch around.

“I’m hungry,” says Flapjack. “Let’s stop to eat.”

“I don’t eat, I’m stuffed with fluff,” says CC.

“Well I do eat and I need to eat now. So let’s stop a minute while I get a rusk out. We can sit on that shelf,” he points to a pair of bricks that jut out of the sewer wall and they wander over to rest. Flapjack pulls a rusk out of his bag and munches on it. He’s thinking about his Mummy and Daddy and a lump forms in his throat. He clears a mouthful of rusk and moves Cannibal Corpse’s mitten hand so that the torch points at his face. “Do you think we can get them back from the Wheatmen and Spiderladies?” he asks, squinting through the torchlight at his friend. Suddenly he’s not so sure if a baby and his doll can negotiate with a city of creatures determined to keep his parents hostage.

Cannibal Corpse points the torch at himself, illuminating his expression of grim determination. “Course we can,” he states. “We’ve managed to get this far, we’ll work it out along the way, there’s always a solution.” The torch in his mitten hand flickers, the light fading and disappearing altogether. “That’s torn it,” mutters Cannibal Corpse. “Whatever,” he continues as he takes Flapjack’s hand in the dark, “we’re not that far away from where we need to climb out again. It might be daylight outside.”

It’s a good job that they are close to their exit from the sewers. From behind them in the pitch black, voices travel through the tunnels. “Hello Dolllleeeeeee. Heheheheheh. No more light to see the say? That means no more light to see us coming to catch you!” Victor and Hugo are somewhere close. When it comes to the sewers, the rats have a habit of knowing every way into them.

Flapjack drops the half chewed end of his rusk and snatches up Cannibal Corpse’s hand. He gives the doll an urgent nudge, hoping that this would make him understand the imminent danger. CC seems to take the hint. Hand in hand they splash quickly through the darkness. Cannibal Corpse runs his free hand along the damp wall, feeling for something as they run.

The voices in the dark are getting closer. “Oh ho! Sport Victor! I likes a trot in the sewers! Nowhere to go round here you know…”

Flapjack is starting to become short of breath. Just when he thinks he might not be able to run any more, CC caught hold of something that nearly threw them down into the sewer stream. “Up!” gasps cannibal Corpse, guiding Flapjack’s hand to what feels like the rung of a metal ladder. Flapjack starts to climb, hand over hand. It’s hard work as he is still out of breath from the run. Cannibal Corpse gives him a shove from beneath, urging him on. He can hear skittering under the ladder now, Victor and Hugo have arrived and are calling up to them.

“Think you can escape up a ladder little boyyyy? Hard work in the dark for a little un…” The rats are giggling and choking with excitement, Flapjack tries to climb faster, soon enough he can see a dim light from above and fresh air wafts down to greet him.

Not a moment too soon he crawls out of a hole and into some grass. The sewer cover has been dragged aside and there’s just enough room for him to get through. Once he is outside in the sunshine, he turns to grab Cannibal Corpse’s mitten hands and drag him out too. But something is pulling hard the other way. The rats have a hold on Cannibal Corpse’s feet, hoping to drag him back down into the darkness. Cannibal Corpse is being terribly brave, he looks into his best friends eyes, “Pull harder!” he urges.

With a final huge tug Flapjack pulls Cannibal Corpse up and into the air, flinging him into the grass nearby. Thinking fast he heaves and pushes the sewer cover across so that only a crack is left. The rats dirty paws scratch and scramble desperately at the gap. “Very clever little boyyyyy…” says Hugo. “But we’ve had our taste of the Dollleeeeee. We’ll be keeping a look out for you, especially as we can see in the dark. Better keep a look out for usssss if you want to keep that Dollllyyyy whole….” The paws disappear and Flapjack catches his breath. He looks around for Cannibal Corpse, there’s no point calling out to him. Finally he spots him caught in a briar patch and untangles him carefully.

Cannibal Corpse has seen better days. The stitching on both feet has unravelled and there are tiny bite marks on his fabric. Some of his stuffing is missing already. Flapjack looks up into the doll’s face, “You’ll be alright”, he says. “We’ll find someone to fix you.” But the doll lies still, it can see him but it does not speak. Whatever magic occurred in the library has changed and Cannibal Corpse can no longer walk and talk. Though he still wears the same look of determination, Flapjack can see a glimpse of pain in his friend’s stitched on eyes. He draws the doll to him in a hug and looks to the horizon. A windmill is turning not far from where they stand, so putting on his bag and carrying his silent friend, he heads off to see if there’s someone in the windmill to help them.

To be continued….

Flapjack – pause for breath

If you are looking for chapter four of the Flapjack story, it is not here – yet. I am waiting for one more voice to arrive for this next episode. This is all good, fitting in a passion around working life is fine.

I remember being told “you have your entire life to write your first novel, it’s the next on that brings the pressure” – I imagine they were quoting someone more famous. I suspect this is entirely true, but I have not pursued the life of a published author, there are many more talented scribes I prefer to read and enormous book stores waiting to break me financially when it comes to those terms.

Putting a story on a blog seems to break some of those rules though. I know there are “gurus” who say that you must post regularly and frequently, but in this space, I have always preferred to wait until I have something to say. Otherwise I am churning out rubbish that no one would really want to read. (I hope I am not too guilty of this already!)

Another reason to be patient with the series is that each of the voices in the audio has taken the time and effort of people who are outstanding in their own right, busy as all heck and still willing to grant me their work when I have asked them for a favour. Can you knock that? I don’t think so.

If you are puzzling over the voices in the story – that’s good. A full cast list will appear at the end. Suffice to say that they are all superstars.

I am extraordinarily proud and grateful for all of the voices in this text and the proof reader too. They have all committed to making a proper effort to do this for the sake of joining in.

Also – publishing here when the audio is ready, means you won’t miss an episode. Even if you have just arrived (welcome!) then you can scroll back to the past editions and start from the beginning, or listen again to your favourite bits. It will always be here and I hope that it will still be enjoyed when we are all done travelling with Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse.

Rest assured I am still mixing when I can. It’s something I love to do. But read a short book in the mean time – we’ll have another episode for you in just a little while.

JK

Flapjack – Chapter 3

It’s very exciting having things read aloud and mixing them into context. The mix might be a little choppy here, lots of voices and lots of late night work, but I reckon the wonderful job done by the artists involved will make that forgivable.

If you have been very good, then we will continue. If you have not, then I suggest you go to bed now, without your supper and you can catch up tomorrow, when you’ve had a good think about what you have done.

JK

Chapter three

Hugo is drooling at Cannibal Corpse and Victor is staring fondly at Flapjack’s sparse whisps of hair. Flapjack shuts his eyes and wishes for something good to happen when an almighty shriek cuts though the darkness. “AZERBAIJAAAAAAAAANNNN!!!!”

Flapjack opens his eyes to see an animal, a bit smaller than himself, covered in feathers with four legs and a tail land heavily on the desk, just in front of the rats. “AWAY WITH YOU RATUS RATUS, OR I’LL MAKE YOU INTO A BOLERO!” it booms at them, hissing and swiping with clawed paws.

The rats scramble off to the other end of the desk. Victor jumps of the end quickly but Hugo looks over his shoulder. “You’ve not seen the last of us. Don’t think crazy Don here will always be around to watch for you, he’s radio rental you know. Forgets his own name, let alone what he’s meant to be doing.”

Don hisses at him menacingly and Hugo hops off the end of the desk after making a very rude gesture at them all. The feathered animal mutters to himself and turns on the spot to stick a hind leg straight up in the air and lick at his back end. Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse, unsure of where to look raise their eyebrows at each other, wondering who this odd saviour might be.

After a while, the furry animal stops licking his bum and stands up on all four feet. For a moment, it looks at them with large green eyes filled with confusion. Then a spark arrives and it nods enthusiastically, “Oh yes! I rescued you from Victor and Hugo, shame they never chose more interesting names from themselves given the choices available here…” it tails off absent mindedly.

Looking closely now that the creature has stood up, Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse can see that it is a cat. It is mostly chocolate brown, but patches of ginger and white speckle its coat in no particular pattern. It’s wearing a bandanna made from a handkerchief and rather oddly has bits of feather duster strapped to it’s side with some knotty lengths of ribbon. Altogether it looks mad as bag of carrots in winter.

Flapjack steps forward, “I’m Flapjack and this is Cannibal Corpse, who are you?”

The cat refocuses on Flapjack and says, “Um…” It looks a bit perplexed and then it’s furrowed brow eases and it grins with all of its teeth. “That’s it, yes. I tend to be a bit forgetful these days. Comes of reading all these books, you can only cram so much in between your years before some of it starts to fall out again. My name is Don Quixote, I’m the night librarian.” The cat bows low before them, its rump and feathers sticking up into the air. “Pleased to meet you,” laughs Flapjack as CC shakes his head.

The cat straightens up and sits down, neatly curling his tail around his feet and takes a half interested lick at his own shoulder. “So,” he asks, “What are you doing in my library at night?”

“We’re on a quest,” says Cannibal Corpse. “We have to get to the city of the Wheatmen and Spiderladies. They have Flapjack’s parents.”

Don considers them and blinks slowly. For a moment it seems he has drifted off in thought. “Hmmnnn,” he mutters.” Yes, Wheatmen and Spiderladies. Their city. Yeah, no idea where it is.” He nods at them and smiles.

Cannibal Corpse takes a deep breath and lets it out again patiently. “We know where it is,” he says,” But we need to get out via the cellar here to set off in the right direction.”

Don nods at him amiably, showing absolutely no sign of comprehension whatsoever. Then he perks up abruptly. “Wait!” he exclaims. “I know exactly where the cellar is! It’s right underneath us. I could even take you there!” He seems surprised and pleased at this unimaginable coincidence.

Flapjack looks at CC, who appears to be struggling not to say something rude. “Can you take us there now?” he asks the cat. “Definitely,” says Don. “Why don’t we go there straight away?” CC sighs audibly and they set off into the darkness, worried about rats and whether their guide can safely lead them through the bookshelves.

As the three wind their way from the lamp light, the library gets darker and darker. Don seems to know where he is going, so Flapjack holds onto one of his makeshift wings for direction. In the dark, next to him he can hear the soft tread of Cannibal Corpse. CC leans over and says in a small voice, “Flapjack, I can’t hear you in the dark, I can’t see your face,” he sounds terribly scared. Flapjack reaches out and takes hold of CC’s mitteny hand. The doll grips back hard. Flapjack is glad that CC has no ears, floating voices from the deepest shadows giggle and call out. “Dolleeeeeee…..Hello Dolleeee” they giggle and jibe. The rats are following them and Flapjack hopes they are not too close.

Finally after turning corner after corner in what Flapjack suspects was a loop, they come to some stairs that lead down. Don springs energetically upward, scaring the ghosts out of Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse. “HASTA!” the cat shouts, the stair well is lit by a single bulb and the frenzied feline is swinging from a light switch pull cord. “Takes practise,” he barks jauntily at them “I’ve fallen down the stairs plenty of times learning to do that one! You’d never tell though!” He drops down onto the stairs and leads off downward. “Probably fell on his head,” mutters Cannibal Corpse.

The cellar is large and filled with books and paper. There’s some scurrying as they get close to the floor and Cannibal Corpse stops, frozen with fear as the papers shift revealing tails and movement. “More rats?” he asks. Flapjack looks at Don who doesn’t seem too fussed.

“Ohno,” says Don. “The rats don’t often come down here, they’re outnumbered by the mice.”

“Aren’t you supposed to catch and eat the mice?” enquires Flapjack. Don looks a bit sick and sits down. “Eat the mice?” he queries. “EAT THEM? Oh goodness no. Who would eat mice? I feel a bit sick just thinking about it.” He belches and then heaves. Flapjack wonders what he has done.

Don stretches and twitches, retching and belching. Flapjack is panicked. “Are you ok?” he runs toward the cat which is now convulsing. “I didn’t mean, it. It’s just…” he’s at loss for words. With a final large belch and heave Don throws up a large, grey and wet ball of mess on the floor. “Euegh,” he grunts, swaying a little. “Oh my, how embarrassing. I’m so sorry you had to see that.” He belches again. “Hairball. Comes of having to clean oneself with one’s tongue. Turned my stomach a bit with all that talk of eating the mice.”

He sits up and licks a paw as Flapjack and CC stare in mild disgust at the small pile of grey gunge. “No,” continues Don. “I don’t eat the mice. I’m a vegetarian. We’re all friends down in the cellar. Come on out mice!” He shouts out to the edges of the room and cautiously, little faces appear from under books and piles of paper.

“It’s alright,” shouts Don. “They’re friendlies. Just off to the sewer through the floor. Thought you might like to say hello-goodbye to them.” Little mice start to appear at the tops of stacks of books and peer down at their guests. Tiny voices raise up and repeat, “Hello-goodbye!”, “Hello-goodbye!” some of them are waving.

Other mice scale down a length of rope in the corner of the cellar. A rope pulley system runs though a hook in the ceiling to open a trap door. Flapjack watches as the mice push a stack of books from a shelf. The books are bound with the end of the rope which falls with the, looping around the hook in the ceiling and raises the trap door. “Clever aren’t they,” notes Don proudly. “We read that in a book.”

A bad smell is wafting up through the hole in the floor. It’s dark again down there and Flapjack is not keen on getting down the ladder into the unknown. He looks at Don who appears to now be singing a song about apple sauce and dancing with a circle of mice. “Don!” he shouts. The cat stops dancing and looks around in confusion, finally finding them and grinning madly. “That’s MY name!” he says, altogether pleased and surprised.

“Will you come with us?” asks Flapjack gesturing at the trapdoor.

“Ohno dear boy. I can’t go into a sewer. Comes of having to clean oneself with one’s own tongue you know..” Flapjack looks downcast. The sewer seems dark and smelly and his journey feels longer than before.

A very tiny mouse approaches them, rolling something ahead of him with some difficulty. “Hello-goodbye!” he squeaks and gestures at the object. It’s a small torch. “Lost and found!” it squeaks at them proudly. “Clever aren’t they?” notes Don vaguely.

Cannibal Corpse picks up the torch and switches it on. It shines a small light down on the floor which lends them some hope. It’s time to go. Flapjack and CC climb down into the hole to a squeaky chorus of “Hello – goodbye!” Don sits on the edge of the entrance looking down at them, blinking his green eyes curiously and as always in some confusion.

To be continued…

Flapjack – Chapter 2

A simple reminder before we begin again. This is a blog. (I know you know) That means if you want to start listening and reading from the beginning of the story, you need to scroll down or click back to Chapter one.

Are you sitting comfortably?

Then let’s begin….

JK

Chapter two

In a dusty darkness Flapjack opens his eyes and sneezes twice. “Shhhh!” a voice next to him hisses urgently.

“Who’s there?” asks Flapjack, sitting up fast and hitting his head on the underside of the chair. No one says anything. He can hear something moving around next to him and further away a skittering noise. His eyes become accustomed to the gloom and he remembers that he is in the library. In front of him a small figure is climbing from under the chair and heading toward a reading desk. A lamp pops on and standing beneath it is Cannibal Corpse, beckoning to him.

Now Flapjack has quite the imagination, but he had never seen Cannibal Corpse look quite so animated. He supposed it must be some sort of library magic. Slowly and carefully he crawls from his hiding spot and approaches the desk.

“Hurry up,” hisses Cannibal Corpse from above his head. So he clambers onto a chair and up onto the desk. There are some open books that CC appears to have marked on several pages as well as drawing a rough map. Flapjack looks in mild disbelief at Cannibal Corpse and rubs some sleep from his eyes. The doll is scrawling on paper again.

“What’s going on?” asks Flapjack. Cannibal Corpse doesn’t look at him. He taps the doll on the shoulder, unsure if his friend is still the same now that he can walk and talk. Cannibal Corpse starts and looks at him squarely in the face. “What!?” he demands. “Can’t hear you unless I can see you I’m afraid. No ears see?” He angles his head this way and that to show off his absence of ears.

“Oh”, says Flapjack, at CC’s enquiring eyes.

“Well if that’s all you’re going to say, there’s not much point in looking at you,” grumbles Cannibal Corpse, going back to his scratchy map.

Flapjack taps him gently on the arm to get his attention, “What are you doing?”

“Well, you want to find your parent’s don’t you?” asks CC. “I’ve been researching while you have been snoozing. The Wheatmen and Spiderladies live in a city. So I have drawn this map so we can get there. Not easy to find the right place, it looks as though grown ups don’t really believe it exists. But these books put together a few clues that will help us.” He gestures at the brightly coloured picture books.

The story books show pictures of long legged Spiderladies dancing with spiky headed Wheatmen. They stand on a revolving disk with an enormous needle resting upon it. Flapjack taps Cannibal Corpse on the arm again, “Is that record player?”

Cannibal Corpse shakes his head. “No moron, it’s a music engine. The music vibrates the crystals all round the city. It keeps the place running.” Flapjack doesn’t seem too sure, but he lets the comment pass. CC is making great progress with his directions and notes.

While CC works, Flapjack moves to the edge of the desk and looks off into the darkness. He can hear things skittering about in the dark and some giggling. He leans further to see, but the lamplight doesn’t spread far enough. “Who’s there?” he asks, loud and clear. More giggling floats up from the shadows.

He walks back to Cannibal Corpse who is packing his notes into their bag. He waves at the doll and asks, “Who’s giggling out there?”

“What?” asks Cannibal Corpse. He grabs the bag and shifts from foot to padded foot. “If you can hear them laughing, it’s probably time we got going. We need to get to the cellar and oh, oh no…” He tails off, looking past Flapjack at the end of the desk.

Flapjack turns to see what his friend is so worried about and agrees that this doesn’t look too good. Perched on the end of the desk, giggling maniacally is an enormous rat. It grins at them and giggles some more as another rat, oddly wearing a miniature trilby hat hops up onto the desk and starts sniggering.

Cannibal Corpse backs away toward the chair, their best means of escape without hurting themselves, but the rat in the hat scampers across blocking their route. It leans toward Cannibal Corpse, grinning with its sharp yellow teeth, “A dolly!” it exclaims madly. “We likes dollies, don’t we brother?” The other rat laughs. “Course we do Hugo, we likes dollies cos their stuffed with tasty fluff! Heheheheheh!”

Cannibal Corpse shudders and steps away as Flapjack moves in to block their approach. “Stay away from my friend!” he proclaims. He sounds braver out loud than he feels inside.

The rats fall over laughing. ‘They’re mad,’ thinks Flapjack as he takes a quick look around, wondering how they will get away.

“We likes children too,” says Hugo. “We likes children because we can steal their hair for our nests and bite off their fingernails, don’t we Victor?”

“We do Hugo, lovely soft baby hair too. I likes me some soft baby hair.” The rats have stopped laughing. Flapjack and Cannibal Corpse have backed away so far that they are about to fall off the end of the desk.

Flapjack – Chapter 1

So. My friends had a baby. This is a good thing. It appears to be a good baby too – which is even better.

I’ve met him. To me, his name is Flapjack.  Mostly, I have no idea what to do with children. I am also aware that they are showered with “stuff” from the get-go.

As a child, my world was filled with stories. It still is today and this represents some of the greatest explorations, adventures, lives, loves and inspirations all encompassed in a tale that is told or written down. Audio books have also been a part of my reading all of my life. The phrases “Turn the page when you hear the chime”, and “You can read along with me in your book” fill me with nostalgia.  You can read along with us on these pages if you like.

So instead of buying more stuff (though I tried that too, I have no idea if Flapjack really got much out of it, I know I was a little confused and slightly unfulfilled by the process of trying to navigate a store for nippers) I decided to write something down – and then get a reading too. Though Flapjack is too small right now, he might like the sounds.

I owe a lot to many people for the following chapters as you will find out. Some of it will be rough and ready. Some of it, I hope might make us all smile. Especially that long-legged baby that my friends have.

JK

Chapter one

Sunlight streams through the window across Flapjack’s face as he blinks awake from his afternoon nap. Usually he can hear Mummy singing in the kitchen or Daddy making those low, deep noises by now. Wondering whether it’s too early, Flapjack passes time playing with his feet for a while and then turns over to sit up.

His home is all quiet. Starlings sing outside and he can hear the big machines rumbling by on the road, but inside his home, nothing is stirring.

Flapjack is a somewhat unusual child. Though he may not let on to most people, he can do things when he puts his mind to it that most small children would not even attempt. It is in this advanced manner that he unlocks the side of his crib and throws his bedding down to the floor. Cannibal Corpse, the hand stitched soft toy doll and companion takes the first leap. It’s not far to jump, but better to have a soft landing.

Grasping his blanket in one hand and Cannibal Corpse in the other, he heads off to the living room, wondering if there will be a snack today if there is no one around to make it.

The living room is empty and so is the kitchen. Flapjack’s home is warm and full of love, it is also not very big, so when it comes to exploring and seeing who is around, it doesn’t take much time. There is no one around.

Flapjack frowns at the empty flat. Have they forgotten him? Up on the table he can just see that there is a box of rusks. He climbs up on a chair and drags one out of the packaging. There’s a piece of paper on the table too, it has writing on it.

Flapjack can read. The only thing is, as a baby, he’s not a great talker. It’s frustrating. It also means that no one knows he can read. Flapjack suspects this is for the best. He sucks thoughtfully on the rusk and then drops it abruptly on the floor. The note says:

Flapjack’s lip trembles. He doesn’t want to live with foster parents. He wants his Mummy and Daddy back. Just as his eyes start to fill with tears he glances at Cannibal Corpse. The doll permanently wears a look of grim determination, it’s stitched onto is round face.

“You’re right CC,” says Flapjack. “We have to get Mummy and Daddy back. I’ll pack some rusks, we leave in five minutes.” But Cannibal Corpse has no idea what he is saying, mostly because Flapjack’s not great at talking, but also because the doll has no ears and it’s not looking at him.

Flapjack has never been outside on his own. Via a series of determined looks, Cannibal Corpse reminded him to dress warm and bring a bag for his rusks. Together they pushed a chair to the door and opened it. Outside suddenly looked much bigger than before. Flapjack bit his lip and climbed down from the chair. The world may be big, but he had an idea where he could start to find his parents.

The biggest buildings in sight were Lewisham Town Hall and Catford Library. Flapjack decided the town hall was not going to be useful and remembered his Mummy and Daddy had taken him to the library plenty of times. They told him how it was a place where all sorts of stories and information could be found. He had seen his Daddy access a similar place via an object he held in his hand, but presumed that this would have disappeared with his parents as it was rarely far from his Daddy’s side.

After one run in with a curiously clucky woman in the street, Flapjack took side routes and learned to follow women with strollers on the way to the library. This way, no one would realise that he and Cannibal Corpse were out on their own.

The library was large from Flapjack’s point of view. He managed to crawl in around the door without attracting attention and find a chair in a dark corner to hide under. Adventuring of his type was certainly exhausting and within minutes, his bag under his head as a pillow and Cannibal Corpse keeping watch, Flapjack fell fast asleep.

To be continued….

Gyno-binary

When it comes to matters of gender, I’m usually a dullard at the best of times. I’m mildly intimidated by feminists and mildly bored by misogynists. I’m broadly aware of the issues.

This week three things combined to make me think about things a little more closely. At the start of the week, someone flagged up Clay Shirky’s blog rant about women being terrible self publicists. It chimed with me. I’ve heard jerk after jerk blow hard and strut about like a peacock. It happens a lot. His blog makes many interesting points and examples related to this – read it here.

I read it on the way into work and let the ideas settle a little bit. Later that evening I was due to go to a talk at the British Computer Society. A friend I respect greatly was kicking things off – Dr Sue Black (she of Bletchley Park brilliance and more) mentioned it and I was curious to see who, how many and what sort of women would turn up. I’m not a brilliant math mind, my programming maker skills amount to zero (one of the few numbers I can count up to with some confidence) So who were these women and what were the issues?

I left that evening meeting trembling with rage and spitting tacks down the phone line explaining why I found it so annoying. Put it this way. Say the parameters of the problems are right (I’m not assessing that here) UK women are getting a hard time, there’s not many of them in tech, they don’t get paid enough and hey, they’re really, really clever so they deserve better. (I know, I couldn’t imagine a broader brush, please harass me at the bottom of this post).

If these are the Machiavellian uber-minds that can make things that run our on-line and off-line world. Then why don’t I know the name of every single woman in the room? Don’t get me wrong, there’s a metric tonne of ladies on-line who are loud. Many of them are PR girls, booth babes, presenters, journalists (yeah me in there too) writers, analysts etc. But they’re not makers. People who sit and create something elegant and wonderful, complex on the inside and simple without. It was like being faced with dark matter, I know it’s there but I can’t see it.

I picked on Sue after the talk. She was gracious and patient with me as ever. She’s doing good work highlighting the issues and getting people to talk about this for starters. She told me there were about a thousand members and more on her women and computing network. Clearly I need to do some homework and find these women. I spend a ridiculously anti-social amount of time on-line, I note many, many voices in the crowd – not all, Internet’s a big place I hear… But I still could not pick out one of these thousand female voices. It was disheartening.

This made me angry. Not with society or men, the tech industry or the old boys network, but with those women – that one thousand or so ladies in the know. Much as this is repeating “Clay Shirky and the self aggrandizing jerks” (incidentally sounds like a band name to me – though not a terribly flattering one, I’m not saying he’s a jerk), why the hell don’t they speak up?

I don’t mean lie and be an idiot and talk bollocks – we have many men for that (forgive me chaps, I’m allowed a dig here and there, it comes with the ovaries). Saying that you have done something, that you know something and even better than all of that – that you can make something or have made something. That has to be one of the cool things about doing what we do. Standing back and looking at a piece of work and acknowledging that you did that. People who craft something out of nothing are few. So it really is something to be proud of.

So where are the UK ladies who made something? Those fresh voices? I hear a new tech voice every week and it’s usually wearing testicles.

The third thing? Proving that I can indeed count this far. The third thing was a scoot about looking for news updates highlighting the work of youth on-line. Kids that make cool stuff. Before long I had four different kids under 18 who were creating amazing things, a ten year old programmer, an eleven year old with his own iPhone app, a fourteen year old news editor. Yes, boys, all of them.

Going back to the ladies in that room, telling the world that it’s a bad place to be a female. Where are your daughters? What do they make? I am guessing I will be told that there are no role models…ahem…but there are a thousand of you on a network some place?

I looked for girls making apps and platforms but I was not successful in finding ones that had taken that risk, done that work and then shouted out that they had done something cool. If you know some, let me know, I want to hear about their work.

And here’s a fourth thing. (yeah – proving my counting skills are ball park rather than exact again). I know a very clever programmer who is female who discussed being a woman in tech and wanted to form a group. But this is seen as campaigning and you strike that bargain and many women think you will become a target or you only have negative things to point out.

Maybe it ‘s not about forming a group – but getting to know girls who do tremendous things individually. I don’t pick my friends based on their gender. I don’t choose my heroes that way either. But if I saw more high profile work being run up the flagpole, marked for everyone’s attention, maybe there would be less need to create these groups and I could just appreciate smart creative people for being smart, and creative?

Note – Yes I know there are other places in the world where being a woman is not a great thing for survival. Yes I know there are darker topics about feminism and I’m not aiming at those issues here. I’m talking about work and creating things – so don’t bother training your sights on me for those things, that’s another issue entirely. I just thought this might be a good minefield to open up again…(adopts the crash position).

Turn on, tune in

In 2008 the Wenchuan Earthquake in Sichuan province, China killed at least 68 thousand people. The epicentre was in the mountains but the force of the event spread far enough to be felt in other countries. With a seismic event of that magnitude, it was recognised that the extent of the damage would be terrible.

The scientific information arrived quickly, but the human elements were so quiet through international media. That’s not a criticism, it’s something that happened. The plain fact was that reporters would not get anywhere near the centre and the areas most damaged had their communications knocked out. Getting information in and out of affected areas was going to be slow via traditional means and this could cost lives as well as increasing panic and concern around the world as the families and friends of those in Chengdu and other places were unable to find out if their loved ones were alive.

Haiti has faced a similar situation. The entire communications network came down as the latest earthquake wreaked havoc. The initial news had been released but the important, personal details were impossible to collect by regular methods.

In both cases, satellite and internet communications brought forward the fastest updates and connections I had ever seen. In China, volunteers and teachers were accessing the web and putting out word via Twitter. While the TV crews and mainstream reporters were unable to gain access due to safety issues, people were on-line, telling us what was happening just minutes after the initial tremors. If these people were on-line to use Twitter, it was possible that they could be found using Skype or other voice over internet methods and soon a picture of lives disrupted was being created.

One of the outstanding things about these stories for me was that they all came from alternative sources. These were not practised presenters creating a summary of events, they were not people who had just arrived and had to pull together what little information was available. They were the lives lived in that location, they understood fully the impact and the horror of having a neighbourhood torn apart. They had heard the peaceful ambience before and could compare the disastrous clamour afterwards, their knowledge exceeded that of the media many times and their choices of stories to tell were revealing what was important to those communities.

I’m not at all against reporters summarising and creating our news reports. These are practised professional story tellers, they know what is vital to an audience, but at this time, my news was broken from the inside and it was more moving and vital than I had heard before.

In Haiti people were uploading via satellite internet connections. The immediate realisation of the urgency to get that information out was so fast. Individuals were distributing personal satellite phone numbers so that loved ones and news outlets far away could make contact and spread the word worldwide.

These people don’t have to do any of this. They could be wandering the streets, or getting into dangerous areas to find others caught in fallen structures. The division of labour and organisation in these situations humbles me. The knowledge that something simple, like setting up a communications hub in a disaster could bring reassurance to millions of people via one satellite mobile set up. To tell the right stories. That to me is both moving and incredible in its nature.

Self organisation on-line via web pages with message boards, translators working for free, constant updates, images, video and more importantly human voices spread around the world to send the message when things are definitely not okay. That connected society seems a long way away from Tim Berners Lee’s initial network. But it shows to me what people can do with something designed for one purpose that utterly changes in a different situation.

Admittedly, in many ways, networks of on-line society are very small. Though the media hype is that everyone should be on Twitter – they’re not. It’s a small percentage of the world, but it’s just enough to make a difference and it’s growing.

So, for those who want to tell me as a journalist that twitter is narrow casting and blogs are a waste of time. Please let me know how best to help people far away, to learn about what is happening to them by traditional means? Those habits that seems so inconsequential when you’re talking about your regular daily activities. Those innovations by 17 year old computer kids stuck in their room all day, making things that seem stupid or weird. These things can become transmitters for the most powerful and moving human stories in mainstream news organisations all over the world.

That chain of communication is what brings those bulletin reports at the end of the day to your TV set. And its because a few individuals make the choice to try those silly things and turn them into something amazing.

Merry Christmas Hoby Robot

Just before the dawn on Christmas morning, Hoby wakes up. He sits in the dark for a moment, trying to focus with his box fresh eyes.

With a soft whirr of gears he tries to move, but he’s wrapped in something thin and cold and crackly. Drawing on his power supply, he punches outward with one tin arm and through the paper that binds him. His brand new eyes refocus on a shadowy room and he spins his arms around to rip off the rest of the paper.

New information. Hoby looks at his new surroundings. Everything is very large. Huge furniture that he cannot climb sits hunched around the room and he looks up into the branches of an enormous tree that flashes red, then blue, then yellow. Shining packages glimmer in the changing lights.

On tracks he moves forward cautiously into the room. Lights in his display flash as he gets near to other large objects around the room, proximity. He doesn’t know what these things are, there’s no one there to tell him.

Hoby scoots under a low table and peers out again, he can see a big door, but it’s closed. Another machine is sitting on a shelf not far away, its red light shining in the gloom. He rolls over to it.

“Hello,” he says.

The machine says nothing.

“Hello?” he tries again.

Again he machine says nothing. Hoby looks around for more machines, but no other lights or electrics seem to be switched on. A control unit lies on the floor not far from him, he rolls over and presses a button.

The machine on the shelf speaks now. It is loud.

“….he’s put a great big smile on somebody’s face…” it screams loud and noisy. Hoby panics and hits more buttons until the machine stops.

He looks sideways at the machine, what an odd thing to say.

Hoby checks himself for more information. He can see on his arm that someone has written his name. Blue shining tin and bold red letters. His eyes move and his audio sensors work. His tracks are clean and he can move about, but he’s locked in a room and there’s nobody there.

For the next hour, Hoby checks the perimeter of the room. Nothing but dust, parcels, the big tree and enormous furniture. He wonders when someone will come for him.

He looks out of the window and watches white flakes fall slowly and silently under lamplight.

Eventually the horizon grows brighter and the lamp flickers out. Muffled sounds from outside the room begin and he can hear music playing softly from afar. He rolls to the door, hoping someone will come soon.

With a crash someone does appear, the opens wide and fast turning Hoby over, off his tracks and into a panic. His head turns sideways and his tracks spin in the air, stockinged feet step into view and stop.

A warm hand reaches down and places him upright on the low table. He checks his system a bit, slightly embarrassed as someone is inspecting him closely. The pick up the wrapping paper he fought his way out of and something slips out.

He monitors the face of this new person and blinks his mechanical eyes. Will they put him back in the paper?

They are reading something that came with his packaging and smiling as they look up into his little tin face. Slowly they turn him around and take something from the packaging. An upgrade? Already?

He feels a new data-pack being inserted into his driver and winces with discomfort. With a click and a silent yell his world dissolves into darkness and for a second, everything is gone.

Slowly Hoby wakes up again and his vision returns his view of the room. The warm hand turns him around to face his new friend. “Merry Christmas Hoby,” they say.

He looks at the brand new data pack with his brand new eyes. A bold red heart is printed on the packet. He looks up into the face of this new person and blinks.

“Merry Christmas,” he announces, feeling warmer and learning something new.

His servers whirr as he considers what might be for the rest of the day.

JK

Mobile Home

Here’s another length of writing based around mobile living.  They are not meant to light up the literary world, but allow me to explore a few ideas. It was crowd sourced as you can see by the clips. I found this one a little tougher to get done – maybe being stuck at home with the character!

I’m very grateful as usual to everyone for their comments that made the story come together, it shows a lot about some of our attitudes to mobile ideas at home. Thanks also to Jerry at Kingswood Warren for additional notes.

…and yes I would like my own Fizzgig.

- JK

06.30

Alice’s mobile screams an alarm. It’s time to get up.
In sync with the device on her bedside table, the digital radio adds to the clamour with a music station, pounding loud morning chat and cheery tunes.

Of course none of this is actually that loud, but the cold and flu season has Alice in its grip and being ill and sensitive to these things, the audio assault seems particularly savage this morning.

“Stop,” she croaks.

Nothing happens. Her voice recognition software doesn’t recognise her tone through her throat infection and stuffed nose. She opens one eye, swipes the device from the bedside table and hits the snooze button. The silence is bliss. For a moment she recognises why head bangers do what they do – to experience the relief of stopping.

She sighs. Alice is under five day quarantine with Nuflu. It’s day two and the symptoms are breaking left and right. She wants to sleep on, but work from home beckons. Once up and washed, she might feel about ready to face another day at home.

She swings a leg out of the bed, something makes a clink, something else makes a swish and something switches off. Her foot is cold and wet. This doesn’t bode well. Her sleepy mind sharpens up and she sits up casting a volley of curses and coughs hard. Looking down she sees a water glass turned over, a laptop open and powered out. Not even seven am and she’s managed to put her laptop out of action and cover the carpet in water. She sneezes and grabs tissues to block her running nose.

With a snotty sigh she gets out of bed, moves the glass and towels down the carpet. As she lifts the computer it leaks more water onto the floor. It’s going to be a while before that thing dries out enough to try and find out if it will ever recover. She props it on its side, hoping more water will run out of it.

She sneezes again, coughs and shrugs on an out-sized dressing gown. Popping her mobile into one of the pockets and stepping into slippers, she acknowledges that today is not likely to be one of her best.

As she walks into the bathroom, the taps start to run hot water and she pops the plug in. The mobile device has triggered the sensors in the door for morning and it knows what she will be doing. Alice sits on the edge of the bath and checks in to various accounts online. Social network messages and email. There’s nothing too urgent. She shoots an email in to her team at work to let them know she’s alive but not coming in.

Alice squints at the screen of her mobile, no use talking to it at the moment. She swipes the page over from Work context to Home context and her device settings adjust to suit being out of the office.

Next on her home to do list is to check in with her GP. She switches on the mobile camera and adjusts the view to look back at her. It has a camera on each side, one for photos and the other for video calls and as a mirror of sorts. She pokes out her tongue. Yuk. She’s looking a bit grim. There are grey shadows under her eyes and her face is puffy from a rough night of troubled sleep.

She uploads a photo of herself and her tongue and steps onto the scales. The device collects the data of her current weight; still heavy enough to be healthy, so at least being sick has not changed her dangerously. She monitors her high temperature and taps the numbers into the device. Altogether she creates a health picture for today and sends the file back to her GP. She knows she will get a text back saying she needs to stay indoors, stay warm, eat well and drink plenty. But she keeps adding the data just in case anything comes up that might be out of the ordinary.

At the same time, her details are added to a crowd sourced database and network. Later on she will add a post and possibly some audio about symptoms and what to do whilst housebound. She’s comforted by knowing that the outbreak has a community to talk to, most people recover, it’s a matter of time though to try and slow down the speed of the Nuflu spread.

Having phaffed about in the bathroom for so long, her usual routine is shot. Usually she would be in the bath at the same time as the live radio headlines. She chooses a bulletin on demand and cues a lecture for 20 mins off the back of it to listen to whilst bathing. Might as well take her time on a day like today.

The mobile chimes softly alongside the lecture tape, bringing Alice around from her reverie. It’s time for Nuflu medication, “to be taken on time, every time to be most effective”. She gets out of the bath and wraps herself in towels, padding off to the kitchen and taking her pills.

In the bathroom the lecture ends and the mobile emits a short whining tone, it is now more than 20 feet away from her, the sensor recognises that she is not close and sends the audio cry to remind her not to leave it behind. She sighs, no pockets in a bath towel. The tone carries on while she checks her office to find the device bot.

The small robotic harness on wheels seemed ridiculous to her when she was first presented with it a year ago. To make it more appealing her friend Archie had covered it in fake fur and put a collar with a name tag on it. “Fizzgig” like the ball of fluff in the kids’ movie. Though the furry cover is removable, it makes her smile and she keeps it on, refer to the assembled object when it has the phone in place by name, anthropomorphising tech.

Fizzgig’s set up has a small camera and sensor attached. Basically it follows at your heels. A good mic attached plugs into the mobile device allowing verbal instruction, so no pockets required. In a small way Alice tends to acknowledge it as company when she is at home, but would find the whole thing far too embarrassing to take outside.

She collects the phone from the bathroom, places it in Fizzgig’s cradle connecting the two and switches the whole thing on again. Fizzgig barks an MP3 of a small dog at her, she smiles to herself.

It barks again, a different tone – Archie programmed a translator into Fizzgig to translate the various tones from the mobile into a basic language of barks. Not for the first time Alice wonders how he finds the time to make these things work.
“What is it?” she asks Fizzgig as she dresses. The email is read to her – a video attachment and a message from Sally at work. Not related to business, a personal message.
“Video” states Alice, noting that being up and about has at least made her voice a little clearer.
The screen on her bedroom wall flickers into life and a You Tube video starts to stream. Without the femtocell in her hall, this would be a pain to look at, she’s glad she invested in the upgrade. The video streams. Sally has voiced over a bad impression of a Scottish nutritionist lady from the TV. The visuals are of the woman ritually inspecting someone’s stool as she does on her program to shock people into taking note of their own diet and health. It’s pretty grim. Sally’s giggling bad impression says, “Soooooo. Alice here is definitely not well, as we can see here in her pooooo”. Alice starts to laugh, it’s a bad mash up but the effect is cheering her.
The giggling stops and Sally’s voice reappears “Get well soon and come back to work! Things are the same as usual her, but we miiiiiiis youuuuuu!” The video stops.

Alice touches the screen and tells Fizzgig to show her email. She drops a line to Sally. “I can tell you are really busy at the studios then if you have time to record your own version of my health check. By the way, you want to run that back again, that’s not my poo at all, you should have recognised that or at least verified it first
I’ll be back before you know it, getting a bit of cabin fever, but I think the main symptoms are nearly done. Thanks for the video, it really cheered me up. Now go do some proper work!”
She sends it back to Sally and heads off to the kitchen to make some breakfast with Fizzgig right behind her.

As they enter the kitchen she tells Fizzgig to stream live music radio through the speakers and send a trigger to the kettle to turn it on. Looking into the fridge she sees that there’s not a lot in the way of food in there. Old ketchup, a dried out lime and half a carton of soya milk. She grabs the milk and looks at the fridge screen, it’s red with missing items on the list of her usual groceries.

While the kettle boils she touches the fridge screen to reorder various items to restock. Adding a few more to improve her liquid intake to get over the Nuflu and a few treats to make the time pass in the coming days. She arranges the delivery for the afternoon and Fizzgig barks an email. It’s likely to be the receipt for her order on auto reply. She ignores the bark and makes some coffee and toast.

Fizzgig follows Alice to the living room; the combination of sensors turns the TV on and automatically switches it to a news channel. Alice has set up Fizzgig to signal the TV for particular times of the day, unless she states otherwise.

Having heard the headlines on the radio, Alice tells Fizzgig to switch to analysis on a couple of stories that interest her. A court case for a millionaire’s divorce and some local updates on transport. She munches on toast and lets the TV bring her what she needs.

News and toast consumed, Alice calls Fizzgig closer within reach. One of the things she still loves about Archie’s design is the flip trigger to retrieve her mobile. She places a toe on a trigger next to one of its wheels and presses down. A spring in Fizzgig throws the mobile into the air, to about shoulder height on a standing adult. Pleased, Alice puts out her hand and catches the device easily. She smiles, small things make her happy like that.

She scrolls through the device to a home based to do list. It’s a little different to her work schedule with more domestic activity. One or two items have been tagged for both home and office so she can get some work done remotely. She emails an extract of a research paper to one colleague and lines up appointments for the following week with another, adjusting her calendar automatically.

Satisfied that her work world will not collapse without her, she opens the browser on the device and throws the view to her TV screen. When she found out that she would be quarantined for five days, she decided to get involved with the Nuflu bloggers network. Between them they are logging symptoms, changes and medication tips with each other. They map their location to show where the outbreak is spreading and how it is being managed as well as tagging and adding articles from news outlets and government health statements. It’s a rich resource as well as being comforting that she is not the only one at home all day worrying about whether or not the “Keep calm and carry on” government statements are really true.

She logs in and reads a few updates. Someone else from work is also quarantined now. She takes a look at his profile, it’s not someone she really knows well and he has not added much to the data pile so she dismisses him for the moment. Her favourites have been updated; a woman in America has a very funny take on managing her quarantine. She’s had to quarantine her husband and children too, something they are not so happy about. Alice spends time reading the comic aspects and then formulates an update of her own.

She opens a page on her own account and adds her medical statistics – everyone is about the same, bored, high temperatures and generally a bit tired. Snotty noses and a bit of a cough. Basically manageable but not something that should be spread to high risk categories if it can be avoided. She adds that she has taken her medication and which one that is. The USA has chosen a different brand of medication to the UK and the comparison is a topic of hot debate on the NuFlu message boards.

She grabs a wireless keyboard from the drawer in her coffee table and attaches it wirelessly through her mobile. The TV shows her typing. She writes about food this time. Her tastes are dulled at the moment so she has been choosing strong flavours. She also writes about the grocery delivery later, wondering if she will have to get the delivery guy to push the digital signature unit through the letterbox and leave the bags on the doormat if she is not meant to mix with others. She notes that it might be a good idea to have an option for details on this when you order something so that delivery people are not likely to catch NuFlu.

It’s not poetry, but it’s an update and that’s been useful to her from other people. She considers adding an audio file the next morning to talk about her voice recognition software failing as her tone has deepened through illness. No point in doing it now that she’s warmed up a bit.

She publishes her post and has a brief browse around a few social networks and news sites. Her favourite TV show is being discontinued. That sucks. She reads a few messages from friends and says “hi” in return. She can feel an encroaching fidgety mood. She’s running out of things that really need to be done and getting into the time where she can do something of leisure. Naturally she wants to go out. She thinks about the TV show being cancelled, it reminds her that she still has some episodes on her server. She tells her mobile to call them up and then turns off its communication notifications for a while. If she has to veg’ then she’s going to do it completely.

Lost in a world of treachery and adventure, it takes a moment for the message alert to sink in. Alice looks with irritation at the bottom right hand corner of her TV screen, there are only three people who can override her ‘no comms’ wall when she has set it up, this one is her mother, blinking urgently on the screen, its a call. She tells the mobile to pause the program and reel back one minute then accepts the call.

“Hi Mom”
“Alice dear, hello. What are you doing? It took you a while to pick up the ‘phone.”
“Well..”
“Calling to let you know that we’ll be away this Christmas if you were thinking of coming over.”
“Sure, that’s…”
“Of course your father wanted to……”

Alice tunes out. Sometimes she wonders if she might just get the text highlights from her mother, it might make things easier. She takes the mobile away from her ear for a second to flick the control back to the keyboard and add subtitles to the TV show which she starts to play again.
Interestingly one of the characters is wearing a pair of boots she admires. She stops the playback and opens the search option in the program. She writes “boots” into the box and the screen highlights the character’s feet. She hits enter and the screen divides showing the show on one side and a shopping page online on the other.

“Hmmnnnn” She makes a non-committal yes or no sound at her mother on the phone who is still talking.

The boots are expensive. Maybe not for this month. She takes a quick look over various online catalogues for meat-space stores and some online shops then returns to the original site and bookmarks it. If she is still thinking about them next week maybe she will save up a little and treat herself.
“Hmmnnhummm” she mumbles at the phone.
“So?” asks her mother.
Alice bites her lip, attention now fully on the phone where she’s been caught not paying attention.
“Sure.” She gambles.
“That’s what I said,” says her mother and launches into another monologue. Alice rolls her eyes and sighs.
“So what are you doing?” asks her mother.
She’s a little more tuned in this time, having been caught out before.
“I’ve got NuFlu, I’m under house quarantine.”
“Well, you will flit about all the time. I hope you are eating properly. Are you eating properly?”
“Yeah, I just ordered from the grocers”
“Ok dear. Well, I can’t sit here all day chatting I’m afraid. Things to do as always. Drink plenty of fluids. Love you.”
“You too Mom” Alice stares into space. The call ends and she’s exhausted.
She sets an alarm on the mobile for an hour or so nap. She calls up a book that she has been reading on her usual commute to work and sets it to audio playback. A voice picks up the story where she left off reading and she sinks under distracted by the characters and their adventures.

An hour and a half later the alarm is ringing through its third snooze reset and Alice is attempting to uncrumple herself. The grocery delivery will arrive soon, she had better brush her teeth again and try to be awake. She takes the comms wall off her device and places it back into Fizzgig who barks. It follows her to the bathroom where she shuts the door on it. Something about a camera on a device makes her unwilling to take it into the loo to watch her pee.

She brushes her teeth and washes her face. A glance in the mirror shows a wild haired woman with tired eyes. Nothing to be done about it and she’s not inclined to try make up for a grocery delivery. Outside the bathroom door Fizzgig barks an email.

She opens the door and gets it to read to her whilst it follows her back into the kitchen. She’s hungry; at least NuFlu hasn’t taken her appetite. Fizzgig reports that a journalist has messaged her from the NuFlu network, would she be willing to do an interview about her quarantine and that he wants to ask her a few questions about the medication.

The doorbell rings. Food salvation has arrived. Hanging next to the door is a bag containing facemasks. The sort of thing people wear when they are sanding down a floor. She’s drawn happy smiley faces on them so as not to appear quite so threatening, though it’s possible they just make her look a bit mad. She opens the door and the delivery guy raises his eyebrows as he offers her the signature pad. She stamps on Fizzgig’s trigger and snatches up her mobile, she opens the commerce setting and sends a wireless signature to his machine via Bluetooth.

“NuFlu?” he asks.
She nods at him, trying to make her eyes smile so as not to seem quite so gross as an infection case.
He looks unimpressed. He pockets his sig pad. “I’ll leave those there then rather than adding to your fridge. I’d rather not go into a quarantine home if that’s ok.” He sets off down the stairs. Alice rolls her eyes and mouths rude things at his back. Naturally they cannot be seen through the smile on her mask. She understands that it’s not desirable to go into a NuFlu home, but she was hoping for a little more sympathy. She grabs the bags and closes the door with her foot.

She packs the fridge and cupboards with her groceries. The timer for her medication goes off on the mobile. As she goes to fetch Fizzgig from where she left it at the door, she ponders on what to eat. With not much in the way of working taste buds she is tied between ‘doesn’t matter’ and ‘don’t care’. Being idle at home is making her indecisive.

She remembers the call from the journalist and gets Fizzgig to dial his number while she gazes into the fridge and opens and closes cupboard doors, uninspired. The journalist tells her that there is some question about side effects with her medication. How does she feel? Well, she has NuFlu, so how can she tell? Vomiting and dizziness? No. She touches the screen on the fridge door, changes it from the list of contents to a news website that has an article about NuFlu medication. She scans it while the journalist asks more questions. Will she be able to do a quick interview? She’s not keen on appearing on web news whilst looking pasty and gross. Only a short clip, he says, one of many views from those who have NuFlu. Can she get to a web cam?

Alice’s mind returns to the wet laptop. No, no webcam. But she can do a video call on her phone. Or record something. The journalist agrees. He says he will email some questions, can she send over video in the next hour? She agrees. She finishes the call and flips the screen on the fridge, she tells it to note the contents of her grocery list and come up with something interesting to eat. Fizzgig follows her into the bathroom while she applies some make up, it’s not going to do much, but at this stage she hopes not to look too terrifying for TV. Fizzgig barks. That would be the questions arriving from the journalist.

She heads back to her office and clears a space so that it doesn’t look like a paper-bomb in the background. Taking care to have light in front of her and boosting the mic, she lifts the mobile from Fizzgig and sets it into a tripod cradle on her desk. She checks the frame and tests the sound, reading off the questions. In one miraculous take she shows her container of meds and talks about being at home. She adds that she cannot identify any bad side effects and mentions the NuFlu network too, hoping that more people will pay attention to the advice that is posted there. She sends the file to the journalist and goes to look at the fridge results. Lunch might be interesting after all.

***

Well fed and medicated, Alice returns to the couch to read. So far with spare time on her hands she has read all of her relevant papers and articles from work. Maybe a novel. Her server contains many books, so she lifts her mobile from Fizzgig and browses her collection. A short story should keep her in line rather than sending her to sleep. Before she settles, she notes that the flat seems warm and uses the mobile to log into her environmental monitors. She turns the heating down a little in the hope that she will cool off whilst sitting still.

Half an hour and half a short story later, Alice is concerned. She’s broken into a fever and has abandoned her reading to research issues on the NuFlu message boards. It appears that she is not the only one to be sweating with NuFlu. The recommendation on the network is to check in with the GP and get a nurse over.

She takes her temperature, a snapshot of her face in the stark bathroom light and sends it to the GP tagged as urgent. There are rumours on the message boards that this may be related to adverse reactions to the medication she is taking. She tries not to panic and decides not to post until she gets some professional advice.

A text message returns from the GP. A nurse is heading over to check her out. There’s a contact number for the nurse and some ID. Alice can feel herself sinking under. Woosy and unstable she sinks into the sofa, this is not good. She pulls herself together enough to look at the number for the nurse. She sends the bar codes for her door to the nurse’s mobile and promptly faints.

The nurse has been sent access codes to the apartment block and the details of the patient. He has brought the appropriate kit based on files already shared with the medicloud. He is licensed to access personal information of a medical nature.

He finds Alice in the living room, passed out on the couch. Her mobile is beeping like an alarm clock. He turns the sounds off, pulls a NuFlu mask over his face and attempts to rouse her.
“Alice? Alice?” he’s repeating her name.
She appears to be coming around. He checks a thermometer on his mobile, the room is very warm and is likely to have been for some time. He takes her temperature directly and adds the details to her file. From his bag he collects a bottle of sterile water and rehydration salts.
“Alice? Drink this.” He passes the solution to her. “You fainted.”
She sips at the solution and grimaces, expecting water but tasting the salts.
“I fainted, ok. Is it the medication?”
“No”
“But the message boards say..”
“The message boards are useful to a point, they also spread a lot of panic. It’s double edged on there,” he glances at her TV monitor and frowns. “Could do with an update as to why people are passing out to avoid that sort of thing.”
Alice still feels fuzzy, but makes a note to herself to post something later.
“So, what’s happening to me?” She sips at the water and winces. It’s salty and sweet.
The nurse nods at her glass, “Rehydration salts. You fainted because it was too hot in here and you’re not hydrating. You need to drink more water.”

Alice feels silly, she knew this, but didn’t take her own advice, or that of her mother. She sips at the solution.

“Can I access your home medical card?” asks the nurse.
Alice nods, and gives him the key to access her home server and further routing through her femtocell to collect more data faster.
“Okay, looks as though it’s just a peak today.” The nurse is reading her home data on his mobile. “I’m going to leave you with some video advice cards. Also more that you might want to do at home so that you feel better.” He uploads to her server via her femtocell. It’s only accessible to those who have permissions from Alice. The key she has sent to him is time sensitive and although it should run out and although the nurse is a registered home visitor, she will also sell a kill message to wipe the key when he has left. Just in case. The medical access key can only see her health files at home and her environmental control stats for her flat. Then nurse searches his cloud files for the right advice clips, pulls them in and stores them on her server. She can browse them at her leisure. A reminder goes to her mobile so that she won’t forget to take a look.
Finally after asking a few more questions and ticking a few boxes on his mobile to save back to the GP files, he wishes Alice well and lets himself out.

Feeling a bit shocked and restless now, Alice turns to the message boards and picks a thread about fainting and medication. She sends a kill note to the nurse’s mobile, erasing the bar codes for her door as a precaution. Generally they should do it automatically, but she has never been sure about this. She turns her phone camera to herself and live streams an explanation about what just happened to the message boards. The video live streams onto the boards and she can see herself over her mobile enacting the same thing a second or so delayed. The she can see the viewer numbers going up and hopes that this might help a few people out so they don’t panic.

She turns it off for now – mildly irritated by the constant updating. She checks her laptop – no longer dripping water, but unlikely to start so she turns it over near a radiator, hoping that this might help.

Returning to the couch with a cup of tea and an extra glass of water, Alice is still feeling restless but not in the mood to the ever shifting boards. She sends a micro payment out on a search set up on her mobile, it returns the news she is interested in – global headlines, local headlines and a few entertainment snippets. She considers paying more to dip deeper into the life of a golfer but changes her mind, it’s likely to be on TV later. She scans her email – nothing of particular consequence appears to be happening for now.

The evening is drawing in, she uses her mobile to adjust the lighting in the room and turns on the TV. She checks to see what’s on.

Using her mobile as a remote for streamed television she plays back last week’s talent competition show. She’s already seen it and it’s resting on her server, but the next episode will be on later so she’s taking a reminder. She splits the screen and browses online for something to cook for dinner. She sets the timer on her mobile to remind her to watch the next episode and at the same time sets the PTV to record for her, just in case she feels too shoddy to watch.

It’s time to eat again. Although Alice has perused the world’s most exciting recipes online as well as having stocked up, she’s in no mood for cookery. She checks her handset to run through local take out food. Pizza sounds like good comfort food. She sends payment and her order.

She puts her mobile back into Fizzgig’s dock and heads to the kitchen to wash up and prepare a plate for her pizza. She tells Fizzgig to tune into some streamed radio and flicks through genres until she finds something suitably calm to fit with her mood. Remembering the journalist she redirects Fizzgig to find the news on the last hour to see if she made it into a bulletin.

Alice has not made the headlines, US political decisions in the Middle East in relation to some UK politician have shifted the agenda. She’s mail the journalist later and see if it went out so she can listen back. She gets Fizzgig to flip her back to the radio, but hankers for more familiar and comforting sounds, she retunes him to choose from her music library on her server. She tries to sing along, but in her current croaky state she is soon exhausted.

The chime of the doorbell never sounded so sweet. The pizza has arrived. She dons her mask and opens the door. The delivery guy is sympathetic and sends a voucher to her mobile for her next purchase. As she shuts the door she checks this on her screen and sends a tip code back to the driver for being nice and being on time. The pizza feels hot.

With plate and kitchen towel, a soft drink and her pizza, Alice settles in right on time to watch her favourite talent show; Gymnastic Comedians on Ice. After a day at home feeling a little disconnected from regular people, this will give her a chance to hook up with her friends as they bitch and comment on the participants and judges.

She grabs the mobile from Fizzgig and uses it as a remote. She calls up her twitter list for the show via a hashtag search and transfers an already fast moving river of comments to run down the side of her view screen. She then turns to her personal stream of replies and posts a note that she is settled to watch, excited to see who will be voted out. A couple of her friends send a greeting and hope that she is coping with being ill. One tells her that her favourite is bound to be knocked out in this round because it’s a rubbish act. Their comments are added to the main stream via their hashtags but it moves too quickly for her to find them, better to screen via her mobile while the action is on.

The trials and tribulations of the show carry on. Some think the judges are biased, others comment that some of the contestants are not so funny or limber on the ice. Alice throws herself into the argument with gusto, cheering on her favourite act and debating ice techniques with her friends. It’s fast and fun and engaging. The performances come to an end and it’s time to vote. Alice has almost changed her mind about her vote this time, nearly convinced by some valid critical points made by anther tweeter she doesn’t know. She adds her to her friends list for the next show as she makes really good points and links out to research on the topic which is good for the ad breaks.

Alice has registered her twitter account with the program for the duration of the series, so her profile is available to others who also register. These people can vote, their actions and origins checked to try and avoid gaming the results. Alice makes her choice and goes to do the washing up. She’s placed the mobile back into Fizzgig and he turns on the radio as they enter the kitchen having learned her home habits during the day.

Her mobile sounds a soft alarm. Time for more medication. She’s feeling pretty tired after a strange day and all of the excitement of the TV show. She sets her PTV to record the results so she can pick them up in the morning and decides to head to bed.

Alice checks the laptop. No leaking and no steam, she is reluctant still to plug it into anything. She takes out the battery, it’s dry. Time to give it a whirl. The button says click. The laptop says nothing. Yawning now, she recognises this is a task for tomorrow. Both she and the laptop will do well for a night’s rest.

After a registered amount of time, the TV and lights in the living room acknowledge her being away and power down. She climbs into bed, taking the mobile from Fizzgig and tells the unit to power off for the night. Alice has one last scan of her email and then picks out a radio play to stream her to sleep. A timer turns the play off after 45 minutes and Alice is asleep.

Mobile Web

I asked this, as you can see, on Twitter a few weeks back. Friends online were kind enough to give me their thoughts and I wove them into a story about mobile. It’s not meant to be high literature. It was fun to write and even more satisfying to collect and include almost all of the replies I got. My Twitter status is hooked into my Facebook account, so some of the cut out replies you see on this page are from that network too. I’m really grateful that people picked up the idea and ran with it so that I could make this story happen. Thanks chaps!

The Hesther house is bustling with morning goings on. Jay scrambles into the kitchen, snatches up toast and crams it into his mouth whilst checking his emails on his comm. He posts a note on the family’s calendar to remind Hannah that they both have to go to see their son Alex’s teacher that evening. Then he sends a signal to start Alex’s alarm clock to encourage him to get out of bed and go to school.

Upstairs Hannah is awake. She runs her comm over her swollen, pregnant belly. It monitors two heartbeats, shows a picture scan and collects data about her blood pressure and the general well being of her second child. She looks over the stats. Satisfied that they are both well, she sends on the data to her doctor to collate and look at in the hospital. She puts the comm on the bedside table where it syncs with a radio streaming service and sends a wireless signal to the bathroom. There will be music to sing along to in the shower. “If only it also made a good cup of tea,” she mutters on the way to the bathroom.

The shower is already running hot when she gets there, triggered by her comm on the bedside table which has made a note of her morning activities. She starts to sing.

In the other bedroom Alex is tunnelling further under his duvet cover and scowling at his bleeping comm. It’s a note from his dad telling him to get up. Nag, nag, nag. He turns off the alarm and finds the latest album by his favourite band. Jake has shared the file with him as he bought it already this morning. Music blares from his wireless speakers.
He gets up checking messages on various social networks and looking up news on technology forums. His friend Jake has the latest AR MMOG game and will probably have it at school. It’s probably worth going in after all.

Hannah is dressed and getting ready for her day. She is making a list on her comm and checking the family calendar. She works from home as a virtual English language tutor and has a session this later this morning. First off to the supermarket and back in the late afternoon to meet Jay for the school meeting. She opens a list for the grocery store and knocks on Alex’s door as she walks down the hall. The door opens immediately to her surprise. Her teenage son is up, dressed and ready to go. He’s got his wireless plugged into his ears and she can hear music blaring away. She mouths at him that he can still get a lift with his Dad if he hurries. He scowls as usual and they head downstairs to the kitchen.

Alex and Jay get into the car. Jay plugs his communicator into the dash and checks the directional system while uploading the latest news bulletin. There is flooding in the area, automatically added to the data which corrects the map and route to the school. Alex hopes his school is flooded but the voice in the local news bulletin says otherwise. He scowls. They’re going to school, just via a different route. Jay pulls into traffic and adjusts the communicator to listen to a music station and sings along, mostly to annoy his grumpy teenage son.

Back at the house, Hannah is wrapping up warm. She switches her communicator to audio recognition and tells it to remind her to pick up some nappies. She feels as though she is close to the time when this will be essential. She waves the communicator near the fridge and via blue tooth it adds missing items to her grocery list. On her way out the door the house acknowleges that all three communicators are out and it shuts down power and locks the doors and windows.

The day is dark, grey and stormy. As Hannah approaches the bus stop the lights flicker on making her feel a bit safer. She checks the display to see when the last bus passed and when the next one will come. Cold and wet, she is reassured that the wait will not be too long.

At the school Jay pulls up. “Have a great day Sunnypants!” he grins at his son. Alex grunts at him and leaps out of the car before anyone at the school can see his dorky Dad. Jay smiles, opening all the windows he sings loudly to the streamed radio. Alex practically runs in through the school gates. On his way in they register his communicator and the truancy monitors know that he is there. He turns on his finder and sees on a radar screen that Jake is already there and sitting in the rec room before lessons, he heads off hoping that there will be time to mess around with their comm games.

Jay turns the music down in the car and plays a few email messages in audio while he is driving. There are a few appointments that need to be scheduled for regular fixes. He calls up his calendar and adds each one via speech recognition to plan out the day efficiently. The traffic is heavy as more of the roads are closed due to flooding. He stares curiously out of the window and hopes that Hannah is ok today. Jay records an audio message for her “Hi, just checking in on you two. Take it easy today and come home if it’s too wild out. I love you.”

At the Supermarket Hannah is scanning the bar codes for jars of baby food. She is checking them against her favourite sites that keep an eye on fair trade and ecologically sound products. A private message arrives and she places the communicator next to her ear rather than play it out in the supermarket. It’s Jay.

Smiling, she changes the program and records her heartbeat and that of their baby. The stats collect and the audio is added to a file that she sends back to him. She adds to the message, “We love you too.”

She pushes her kart to the checkout. She found almost everything she needed and added her comm id number to an item that was out of stock so that the supermarket can notify her when it comes in. The comms device recognises the auto till and pays for her groceries, uploading a digital receipt on the way. She chooses a packer robot from a selection of till options and a machine arrives to put her groceries in bags.

Jake and Alex are giggling. In the rec room students mill about and chatter. The boys are looking through Alex’s AR tagger and adding offensive tags to their schoolmates. Reputations are ruined and rumours are spread as the networked phones light up and people check their comms AR screens. Annabell Jackson storms over. “You two are disgusting.”
The boys guffaw.
“You don’t even know what that is, let alone if I have done it!”
They laugh harder.
She continues. “I don’t need an AR screen to tell me how lame you are Alex Hesther,” she proclaims. “Your ex girlfriend already told us about what you can’t handle”.
Alex stops laughing and Jake is trying to suppress a grin. She has him there, whatever she’s talking about. Everyone knows that Alex was not pleased about being dumped.
Annabell flicks her hair and saunters off across the rec room as the bell rings. Alex calls her things that Jake notes to look up later in the Urban Dictionary.

They pile into the classroom for lessons and their comms are registered at the door. As the teacher walks in a jammer opens up and all the comms devices are no longer linked to anything. Every morning this solicits a collective groan as gadgets go back into bags and the students log in to the locked down school learning system on desk top computers.

At Jake’s house, his mother Eleanor is waking up. She works late at the club and never sees Jake leave for school. He’s a good kid, but she checks her comm all the same. The school has registered that he arrived and is in his first lesson. Hopefully he won’t be tempted to play truant with that Alex kid. She’ll check again later. Setting an alarm to snooze, she rolls over and sleeps on.

Jay is still in traffic. It’s crawling through the rain, though finally he can see why. A fire engine is blocking some of the road so single lane traffic from here to as far as he can see. He lifts the comm from the dash, snaps a shot of the scene in front of him and uploads it to a travel site for the area while sending it to the local news station too. The GPS tracker picks up his location and verifies his whereabouts. There’s something happening around the fire engine.

An ambulance whoops and slowly makes its way through the slow moving cars. Fire fighters are gathered around looking at one particular thing. Jay pulls up along side them, his cameraphone at the ready. As soon as he spots the issue, he smiles and switches the camera from stills to video.

One fire fighter has a different battle on his hands. A slippery ginger tomcat, soaked through and loudly unhappy is clawing at his coveralls. He’s trying to get it into a kitty box to take to the vet and it’s not having it. His colleagues are helpfully laughing their heads off. Jay records the scene. The cat is yowling louder and louder as eventually, breathless and irritated, the fireman gets the cat into the box. Jay stops recording and waves at them, the fireman gets a round of applause. Jay asks the nearest fire fighter what is happening.
“The estate’s flooded,” she points toward a street of new build houses. “One our guys tried to go back for that critter after we evacuated the place. The houses are not up to much it seems. A law suit waiting to happen. Bet he wishes he didn’t try to rescue that cat after all.”
Jay nods, starts his engine and crawls forward in the car. He sends the video and the sound bite to the local news station and sends a message ahead to the office to Chris to let him know he will be late.

In the local news room Jay’s message and video raise a smile. He’s a registered user with them and they know his material is likely to be kosher. The local reporters recognise the estate and forward the cat video to their TV and online teams. The note about the housing estate is interesting, something to look into at for follow up stories.

At work, Chris is bleary eyed and checking a few social networks to see what his ex-wife has been up to. She hasn’t updated for a week. He suspects she has found someone new but wants the confirmation to torture himself with. His comm beeps and he sees that Jay is running late. This means no more browsing and that he will have to pick up any urgent jobs that Jay will not be able to make. He uses the remote viewer on his comm to see if there is coffee in the refreshment area pot. He has a feeling he will need the extra caffeine today.

Hannah returns to the house with her shopping. As she puts it away her refrigerator and cupboards scan bar codes and adjust the shopping list on her comm. A reminder sounds and she puts the kettle on to sit down for today’s teaching session. She’ll be helping a grade three English language student. Sometimes she wonders where they are and what they do, but the lessons can be thorny enough without wondering too much about other things like this. She’s glad their comm data doesn’t arrive with their appointments.

Leyla’s reminder has also woken up. She works late so this lesson seems quite early. She’s been practising new words and trying to improve her sentence structure. English is such a funny language. A lot of the time she gets lazy. At the club she has her comm linked to her cochlear implant so she can automatically translate things from English to Russian. But often when her boss Linus gives her a hard time, he uses slang, so the implant is not always fast enough to pick it up for her. Better settle into a lesson then, otherwise she is sure one day Linus will catch her out.

Eleanor is also finally up. She is clearing a space and setting her comm in a cradle with the camera facing her. She has a pay per view fitness stream every day. She’s fairly sure that a high percentage of the people who tune in are not keeping fit. But while they still pay to stream, she’s not complaining. It helps to pay for Jake’s comm fees and at least she gets to keep her clothes on.
She warms up and starts the camera. “Hi there! Who’s ready to sweat off some pounds!?” She grins enthusiastically at the camera and wonders if it is really worth it.

At the school, the students are taking a short break between lessons.
Annabell Jackson is tittering with her friends. They are looking at something on her comm and glancing over at Jake and Alex. Jake is shy with the girls, uncertain, but Alex is braving it, showing face after this morning’s put down. “Looking at kittens are we?” he calls over to them.
They giggle some more. “Ask your friend Jake if he can touch his toes like his Mum.” Annabell shouts back. Alex keeps a straight face as Jake reddens and hopes this will pass quickly. Most people in the school know that his Mum does exercise videos, he hopes he can get through high school without them working out what she does in the evenings.
Alex shouts back at them, “At least she gets paid for looking good. You’re mom’s on another website entirely.”
Annabell looks livid. It’s time to move. Jake doesn’t feel much better about this. Annabell is smart, he worries that some day she will work it all out and he will be living in a hell of digital bullying and worse in person. Alex looks at him, “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get outta here.”
“I can’t,” says Jake. “If the truancy monitor registers my comm leaving again, I’ll be in real trouble.”
“Not a problem,” says Alex. “I’ll send you a new file. It masks your comm for you so it can’t be registered. We can come back and adjust the class room monitors tomorrow.”
Jake is unsure, but he’d rather be elsewhere than end up as the focus of Annabell’s wrath. He uploads the software file Alex has sent to him and they head off toward the gates.

Jay has finally made it to the office. He greets Chris and apologises.
Together they catch the latest video update from the local news network. Jay’s cat video has made it to the floods coverage. Included in the report is a crowd sourced map of the local devestation. It looks pretty serious, buildings have been damaged and many roads are not passable. The weather report is adding fierce winds to the mix.

Chris opens up his comm and orders a grocery delivery, more scotch at home, just in case he cannot get out in the evenings. A few videos are sent to his home viewing system too. Jay worries about Hannah but decides to wait until later rather than mithering her. She’s probably running a lesson anyway.

Alex and Jake have passed through the school gates. Alex’s comm was cloaked. Jake’s software didn’t upload properly, so the truancy monitor knows that he is out of school again and sends a note to the headmaster and to Eleanor. They decide to go and look at the flood waters on the way to Jake’s house. His Mom will be on her way to work, but not yet, so they have some time to kill.

As they approach the storm drains and sidings, they can hear the rushing water. It’s exciting. They film each other messing about, pretending to go fishing or swimming. Then they start to throw things in.
“I wonder how deep it is,” Alex ponders.
“Dunno, hard to remember it without all that muddy water.”
“We’re going to have to go the long way around to your place if this is rushing all the way down to Park St.”
“Yeah.”
The boys are getting bored of being out in the cold, home seems further away as it starts to rain again and the wind bites through their coats.
“What about near the turning, where the siding is narrower?” asks Alex. “I bet we could cut across there. We’d get a bit wet, but it’s got to be better than being rained on all the way to your place.”
Jake considers it. They head off to find out.

Eleanor is putting on make up and checking her LED tattoos. Her phone is programmed with music that set the lights moving under her skin. If any of them are damaged the display fails to mesmerise and she won’t get tipped. She monitors each one. All working. Time to go to work.

As she dresses her comm sends her a note. It’s the truancy monitor. Jake’s out of school. She sighs angrily. She acknowledges the message and confirms that she cannot be at the school meeting tonight. Another reminder chimes, she’s going to be late for work.

By the time the boys reach the turning, the water is crashing around a bend. The sky is darkening early in this bad weather and it’s cold.
“C’mon!” shouts Alex. He’s taller than Jake and has longer legs, he can probably jump across the narrow gap, but Jake is wavering.
Alex takes out his comm and films the rushing water. He then films his leap across the current. He makes it without too much trouble and laughs with adrenaline. The water’s really fast. He waves across at Jake.

Emboldened by his friend’s performance Jake takes a run up and jumps. He jumps too early and realises as he does so. With a cry Jake crashes into the cold water and is swept fast away from the bank. Alex is horrified and unsure of what to do.

Finally coming to his senses he sends an emergency message out to the services. A fire engine and ambulance to come to his geolocation. He then starts to run down the bank of the water to see if he can spot Jake along the way.

Leyla has finished her lesson. She stretches in a yoga position and flinches. Her ankle is giving her trouble after slipping in her work shoes. She adds and attachment to her comm and runs it along the aching muscle. An infra red signal helps with the pain a little, she will have to be careful at work tonight if it is to heal properly.
Thinking about her language lesson again she is pleased to hear that she is doing well according to her tutor. Leyla uploads a remote lesson to her comm and transmits it to her cochlear implants so she can listen and practise on the way to work.

Leyla gets the bus and notes how dark it is. “The nights are drawing in because it is winter,” she mouths to herself. Draws in, she wonders. English really is a funny language.
She gets off the bus and starts walking through the dark to the club.
Her audio lesson finishes and she can now hear footsteps behind her, quite close. She thumbs across the comm in her pocket and sets the personal alarm. It makes a racket and alerts the cctv to focus on her geolocation. Her heart beats fast as the steps draw nearer, a bit faster.
Almost ready to turn and hit the alarm, Leyla jumps as the man behind her runs forward to flag down a taxi. She almost cried wolf. She reminds herself not to listen to her lessons in the street when it is dark next time and turns the corner to approach the club.

Alex is in tears at the side of the water. Around him lights turn in blue and red and yellow. A police man has his comm and is finding the numbers to call his parents. Jake is shivering with the paramedics.
They found him clinging to the bank as Alex went into shock. They are cold and miserable boys dreading their parent’s reaction. Jake’s comm is wet through, so they cannot get to his mother just yet. He’s still getting medical attention so they will alert her when he has come to his senses. In the mean time Alex is being lectured by a policeman and waits for his parents to return the message. Grounded, he thinks, is not going to cover it. At this rate, they’re going to block his games and music from his comm.

Jay is trying to cheer Chris up. Since his divorce, his obsession with his ex wife is bordering on stalking.
“Why don’t we go to a gig?” Jay suggests. “There’s some great stuff happening at the forum soon.”
He draws up a page on his comm and shows it to Chris. They agree to head out for some live music the following week. Jay downloads two tickets to his comm and pays for them then and there. He gets the feeling Chris might not come, but Hannah likes the music too, so they won’t be wasted.
His comm beeps in his hand, smiling he expects a message from Hannah, probably not to be late for the school meeting. His smile fades as he reads the screen.

Eleanor steps out of the cab and pays automatically in the back of the car with her comm credit scan. She should probably update that with some real currency, but not just now. She’s spotted Leyla walking in so she’s not too late, but it’s close. She hurries inside.

In the dressing room the women hand over their comms. Linus prefers that they are not distracted while they are working. It also means that they cannot leave a shift without him knowing about it. Eleanor is up first. She changes and checks her hair. Linus plugs her comm into the sound system and checks the audio files. Her song is first on the list and ready to run, he mutters into a mic on his jaw and she hears him in her cochlear implant. Ready to go. As she steps onto the stage, Chris walks through the door and takes a seat at the front.
Linus smiles. He wears a visor in a dark club because it has a video relay and heads up wirelessly hooked up to all of the cameras in the club. Eleanor’s ex husband is easy money.

Hannah calls Jay, he’s on his way home. The police are bringing Alex.
She paces the living room, angry and scared. Why would they be so stupid?
The doorbell rings and there’s a policeman standing with her boy, soaked to the bone, cold and exhausted. Hannah’s not sure whether to scream at him, but she rushes to hug him instead. He’s safe. Then she screams at him.

By the time Jay has arrived home, the police are gone and Hannah has details of the events. He had to take the long way home again, but at least this time the traffic as not so bad. Alex is sitting surley on the sofa. He’s had a hot bath and something to eat, Hannah is passing him some tea.
He gives his wife a squeeze and checks that she is ok. They sit down and look at Alex, he wonders how best to handle this without making things worse or stressing out his pregnant wife.

Eleanor is dancing. Men are watching. Linus is watching the remote cameras. She keeps an eye on the customers but Linus’ eye is keener.
He instructs her to head toward this client or that. The more empty glasses they have in front of them, the more easily they part with their money. The more she visits other men, the more her ex-husband puts on the stage to call her over. The music heads toward a crescendo and the programming in her LED tattoos lights up her body in an explosion with each swish and turn. She moves in light and music, mesmerising her audience.
From behind the curtains, Leyla watches Eleanor dance. She cannot afford the tattoos yet, but she does have a camera in her eye for feeding back data to Linus. He gets a better view of the punters from her close up view and can puppet her around the stage to find the cash. She’s next but there seems to be some altercation with Eleanor’s act. There’s a man on the stage. She hears Linus in her ear instructing her to move closer so he can record for the police if there is a problem.

Alex is explaining the afternoon’s events to his parents.
“So where is Jake?” asks Hannah.
He shrugs, “I think they took him to the hospital.”
“Is his mother there?” asks Jay.
“She’s probably at work.”
Hannah and Jay look at each other.
“Get your coats on,” says Jay. “We’re going to see your friend.”

Jake’s comm is fitted with a water barrier to avoid total destruction when wet. At the hospital a policeman is switching it back on and sending a note to his mother. Jake coughs raggedly. He presumes he is going to be expelled. His Mum’s going to be furious, but he still wishes that she was there.

Linus registers a message on Eleanor’s comm. Something about her kid again. But the bouncers are closing in on her ex. He’s going to be some real trouble tonight it seems. He monitors Leyla’s feed, she’s getting good shots, all recorded for later. He wonders if he should offer her enough of a raise to get some LED implants.

Hannah, Jay and Alex are in the car. It’s quiet and none of them feel like hearing the music Jay usually plays on journeys. Jay’s comm is chattering on directions to the hospital, they have to drive almost out of the town and back in again to avoid the flood water. The wind and rain are gusting hard against the windows, when suddenly everything but the dashboard turns black. A power cut, a network cut.
Jay pulls over to check his comm and Alex takes his out of his pocket.
Nothing is connected. Jay squints across to look into town, no street lights. In the dark, in a very small voice Hannah says, “I think I’m having contractions.”

Notes on writing this piece:

Listen!

And not mobile?

I have a problem at the moment – with the word mobile. So I wanted to ask you – whoever you are and whatever you do – what you would do to relabel that object?

Let me give you a short explainer. I have an HTC Hero. A smart phone. Once excitedly unboxed and charged up, I spent many hours adding apps from the market, rearranging the interface to suit my tastes and generally getting used to the touch screen and trying to find things like contacts and photo albums easily. It was utterly absorbing and quite fun. Then the object rang loud in my hands. I nearly dropped it and had heart failure. I had totally forgotten that what I had in my clammy fists was also a mobile phone. I had explored the wireless comms side of things via Twitter and text but an actual ringing telephony device had slipped from my ideas about it.

A similar thing happened when a friend and mobile expert was exploring my new gadget. It rang and he nearly crapped himself. (No mild amusement for me there.)

I see that brands are changing the way they name their objects, not so much smart phone or mobile phone or cell phone, but single word naming nouns – like naming a car brand – Droid, Hero, Pre etc.

It was through watching someone else deftly scroll through his iphone a while back and then to hear his other phone ring in his pocket, that the penny dropped that these things are not best used as telephony devices and in fact many people were engaging their iphones as 3g wireless computers of great portability. Makes me wonder why the iphone is still called an i-phone if people don’t make calls on them.

So, if brands and makers are adjusting their labels, what do we call a portable computing device that also can make calls and be used for mobile communication, and as an organiser and a games machine and a video player, and a music streamer and….

The word Mobile or Cell seems very closely linked to the word “phone” in my mind. Maybe I should watch more sci fi to find a name for these things. For the moment though, I am trying to sketch out a scenario with a multi use mobile object and you know, I’m still not sure what to call it. What would you call it? Hopefully something short and catchy…

JK

Now I haz an Audioboo too, Ho, Ho, Ho…

So I have never quite been able to throw down with the Apple crowd.  I love new toys and i’ll admit that The Church of Steve has design down and interface right, but no flash?

We all know the issues that divide, that’s ok. I’m not saying it’s bad, i’m saying i’m not sold …yet.

Sooooo, I nabbed myself an Android phone, an HTC Hero. I like it, a lot. It has a lot of the fun I might be jealous of when I see my friends stroking their iphones, but it also has a slightly freer apps market (for now at least) and *that* is something I really do appreciate.

So, I have things and you (iphone pipl) have things, and I want some of your things too…that’s ok. Great coders are making some really cool stuff that apes, changes or improves upon similar iphone apps.  One thing I really rather wanted to play with more was Audioboo.

From it’s first appearance, it has been something I rather liked. It’s plain and simple, it works and as an audiophile – Holy Cow! It sounds good!

I’ve played with a few phone in type audio apps and the sound quality was not enough for me to want to try again. (Thanks to those who got back to me on that issue and said something to the effect of – it’s your own crappy phone…my phone was not too bad thanks.)

So – Audioboo for Android – happy me!

Listen!

Just need to think of a few more things to say really and find a better way of pasting that on here…

JK

Strange places and unfamiliar faces

It seems that work and my own will take me to new places to meet people I don’t know. It’s a gamble sometimes as I am usually on a flight alone heading into the company of a new friend or an old acquaintance I have never met face to face. A life online can do that. I have also travelled with people I know well and have known over time to less appealing outcomes.

The connections around the world that I make on a daily basis bring me close to people. Late night conversations on IM clients have shown me the personal lives of people thousands of miles away, their hopes, fears, current hang ups, love lives, work issues and surroundings. It’s an odd vision where so much is complete and yet the whole image can be a bit like tunnel vision.  I love their company online, it’s like having visitors in for coffee, checking up, catching up.

On a recent work trip to a country I have only read about, I used social networks to get in touch with people on the ground. Usually there’s a work affiliated contact to put you in touch, but in writing about things online, it made sense to leave that method alone.

For work this was fine, but in fact the company I found was more valuable to me as these contacts became friends.  One of the bloggers I met on my journey took time out to have some lunch with me. He wrote a post (that I cannot find yet and will link to when I do) about knowing people. He mentioned that we chatted like friends even on the first meeting while he barely knows his own neighbours.

The societal split in this way has been covered, how our communities exist not necessarily in the physical and traditional sense, but who do you call out for now when you need help?  This used to be remarked upon as a sad disassociation, but I’m more inclined to think that it’s just different rather than wrong.

Support networks and friends online can provide a great deal when you need it most and of course when you don’t but you can maybe help someone else.  Only trouble is, if a disconnect comes, do you have their numbers? Can you find them without being online?

I hope to keep travelling this way, my network has spread, it grows and changes as my proximity to others online ebbs and flows.  I enjoy the company of those I cannot see and I miss those I met along the way and cannot share coffee with in person.  It also means that if I can spend even odd moments in digital company just to pass the time, I have a richer set of options and an amazing array of cultures to explore and crack bad jokes with.

Web wanderings…

A bit late to the party as ever, I read Martha Gellhorn’s ‘Travels with Myself and Another’ a while back. She was a woman with brass balls and apparently little in the way of fear. Another way of describing the former wife of Ernest Hemingway might be ‘mad as a box of angry snakes’.

She had one hell of a can-do attitude and could write in a way that few others could replicate for strength and clarity. She’s an icon in my portfolio of people i’d want to be like if I ever grow up.

So what of a modern Martha? I’m writing this on my jack-jones in a hotel room in Bangalore. I’d be an idiot to say it’s anything like her travels or that I can manage her style and nuance in reporting, but I can at least try to pick up a little of her spirit.

‘Travels with Myself and My laptop’ in a contrasted electronic city? I’m not going to brave mosquitoes and dengue fever of course (the bugs here are large, I’m certain had I been close enough to the cockroach I saw earlier, it might have asked me for a light).  But there’s something to be said for planning to meet new people and getting out to strange places armed with bottled water and a vague sense of direction for a tale or three.

My visions of Martha, drinking with locals and writing in a notebook are romantic past ideas of journalists in colonies or explorers taking notes. Calling in stories over a wire from hot countries in a fever best managed with a cold Gin and Tonic. It’s not like that now of course and certainly not where I am.

I met with two tech locals who were plugged into their Blackberries chatting with friends in New York. It can never be so adventurous, but it can be safer and everyone seems a lot closer. There are still issues to cover, but maybe faster and in colour.

I’d have been afraid to follow any of Martha’s adventures, her marriage included! But today using digital means I rarely alone, even when I am miles away surrounded by different sights, smells and sounds. I wonder if that would have been challenge enough for my heroine?

JK

Far away, so close

A couple of things happened on the road in America. I guess life has a way of showing you things through odd timing that way.

Throughout the trip, blogging and uploading, I was accessing my email where possible to keep tabs on things at home in the UK and home in Australia. My Aunt has been fighting cancer, my Mum went out to Oz to be there with her through the hard times and the better moments.

I had a birthday early in the trip and felt sort of old. It was a sort of “nothingy” birthday one you don’t mind being away for . I’ve never been particularly good at parties. A birthday like that makes you feel grown up. The pink parties and candles are long gone and you get on with things. Maybe you tick a different box on forms, that’s all.

Shortly afterward, I got an email about home. My Dad wrote to let me know that my aunt was heading into morphine territory. The end was getting close. I called my Mum.

I sat in a motel room and listened to her voice cry across miles. In all my travels I’ve never felt quite so far away and still really close to her. I cried too, about being that close, about loss on the horizon and knowing that my Mum would be doing he best possible job of loving and being there. I hoped that she was not feeling too alone. She told me she was glad to hear my voice and I felt as though a million tiny shards of sparkling glass were passing through me.

I wrote to my Dad. I told him about the call and wondered if he was doing ok. All three of us on separate continents sharing the same grief. It felt as though my sense of home was spread around the world. I guess it really is people and not places.

A day or so later, the email came. My Aunt was gone. No more hospital, no more morphine, no more cancer to fight with. It made me feel not old or experienced at all. I’m too young to know much about losing people that close to me. Grief arrived as a rush of love and the feeling that there was nowhere to send it anymore. Gone.

I walked out of another motel room into blazing heat to call my Dad. I couldn’t find the right things to say. I talked about practical stuff. Around me, unfamiliar people, a strange car park and a place I did not know. We got in the car and I couldn’t say it.

I can’t seem to believe when it comes to religion, but that day was somewhat glorious. We had seen empty blue skies, but for that morning, perfect white wisps of cloud appeared creating beautiful shapes. As a child I imagined other people thought that a heaven would be in the clouds and that day I had some to look at. From time to time I cried a little bit, hot winds in through the open car window pushed them away and dried them on my cheeks. Miles and miles passed by.

Over the following days until the end of the trip, small pockets of grief turned up. I didn’t see the end, so I remember her from late night phone calls, laughing so much on my night shifts at work, during her days on he other side of the world. My Aunt never married, travelled the world and looked after my grandmother. She always had the wickedest sense of humour in the family and meant so much that I have some trouble processing that she is not around anymore to call. Grief is a selfish thing sometimes.

Hours of travelling overnight and I made it back home. Tired and plane weary, I was unpacking, making tea, sorting out laundry and post.

An envelope had arrived from Australia. I knew what it would be before I opened it. Life has an odd sense of timing when you come home to a birthday card from a dead loved one. Finally I had a moment to pour it all out and write some of this down. I talked to my Dad and we remembered how brilliant she is and that at least there was no suffering for her at the end. I still can’t find religion, but on her travels, I think she would have appreciated that bright day with all those clouds.

JK – I hate mawkish advice. But if you get a moment to tell people you love them, it’s probably a good idea.

BORK!BORK!BORK! – A recipe for disaster…

INGREDIENTS
It’s two in the afternoon somewhere outside your stratosphere and LJ and Jemimah are hanging upside down in zero G laughing their asses off.
“Look! Look! Hair like a troll doll!” Jemimah buckles upward with tears of laughter. LJ’s eyes widen with recognition at the 90s dolls and she too soon keels over at the silliness.
“Where have the others gone again?” asks LJ once she has caught her breath.
“Off saving some place outta Betelgeuse…”
“Huh. How come they never take us with them?”
Jemimah smirks, trying to make her face even more like the tiny doll figures, “Dunno, Strider says we don’t take the job seriously enough and Laser boy says we’re unable to focus. Is there any food left?”

Abruptly the two girls fall on their heads on the deck, swearing sharply. A tone chimes as the ship’s screen changes to show a woman peering in at them curiously. It’s Anniemole, head of the Earth’s Underground Transport system and their friend.
LJ grumbles, “Why did we route the phone through the anti-grav? Owww!”
“After Captain Crack caught us messing about last time impersonating an air balloon fest, we thought it might be better to be on the deck when visitors drop by,” huffed Jemimah.
“I won’t bother trying to translate what you’re up to,” says Anniemole briskly. “Where are the Lycras?”
The Lycras are the interstellar team of superheroes who travel between galaxies saving things heroically and shouting positive maxims. LJ and Jemimah work on their ship, Angela, as the tech support.

“They’re out,” says LJ.
“Saving something,” adds Jemimah, brightly.

Anniemole looks concerned. “That’s bad news. We’ve a situation on Earth that could do with some help…” She tails off in thought.
“We can do it!” LJ exclaims, “Can’t be that hard, I think we have spare Lycra somewhere around here, too.” Jemimah nods enthusiastically.
“I don’t think so,” Anniemole smiles sympathetically. “The human race’s participation in culinary preparation is under threat from cookerybots again. We’re two down on a crack team of competitive chefs and they’ll need some expertise.”
“No trouble,” says LJ proudly. “We cook all the time…and we can read up on anything else we need. We’re still a part of the crew of ‘Angela the hero ship’ you know.”
Jemimah nods unconvincingly.
Anniemole does not look sure but her time is short and she needs two people to join the fight. With reservations she relents, “Okay then. You two need to be in London, UK on Sunday morning ready to cook. The human race may depend on you, you could be our only hope. Be there on time and may the fork be with you.”
The screen buzzes and she disappears. LJ and Jemimah look at each other and grin. Research time.

Twenty minutes later, the girls are chewing on pencils, doodling on paper and frowning at the wide screen. A wikipedia screen is showing them results for the word “Chef”.
“Hmnnn”, says LJ “- this online Earth index is strange. Is that really a chef?”
“Let’s try another one of their databases.”
An old YouTube icon appears on the monitor and various video choices cascade down the screen. Jemimah waves at one of the options and a video opens up to show them some colour digital material. They exchange glances and wide grins as a slightly fuzzy man with a moustache and three fingers on each hand sings in a small kitchen.
“Irshdy birshdy biiiirshhh, coookey the chicken.” The man swings a cleaver wildly at what looks like a soft bird. “Bork!” he shouts and brings down the enormous knife.
“I don’t understand what he’s saying,” comments LJ.
“The label says Swedish Chef Muppet,” Jemimah is reading from the screen and taking notes. “Maybe Angela cannot translate foreign languages that old.”
“Angela, can you replicate that Chef Uniform for us?” asks LJ.
A soft voice over the tannoy replies, “Of course LJ, in sizes to fit you and Jemimah?”
“Yes please”
With a soft whirring, the replicator starts up a weave before white buttoned shirts and tall hats start to appear.
“Looks good,” nods LJ. “Let’s look up a recipe and get a map to London sorted.”

METHOD
“It’s hard to believe all the people of Earth in kitchens had to wear these things,” LJ is fidgeting at a dark and curled false moustache that is tickling her nose.
“Maybe it’s a hygiene thing,” wonders Jemimah, wiggling her top lip around and trying not to inhale the stray fibers. LJ looks unsure.
Dressed like Muppets, the pair walk through the travel door and step from Angela into a grey London street behind the main shopping thoroughfare.
They’re at the Cookery School and today is the day where humanity gets to fight for its rights to the kitchen.

People are already gathering in the bright clean spaces. Curiously, none of them appear to be wearing tall hats or false moustaches. LJ and Jemimah look to each other and shrug, then grab hot caffienated
drinks and try their best to blend in as well as they can.

Over the next hour, teams are formed into pairs who will each cook a three course meal. They are competing against each other, but most of all, they are working to impress the Aitkin8000 – a machine so
well-programmed to cook that it is waging (and almost winning) a campaign for all cookery to be automated rather than a pleasurable skill for any fleshy earthling to indulge in. The earth people around
LJ and Jemimah look downcast at this, steeling their resolve to find a way to impress this robot fiend.

WEIGHING UP
It’s not long before the kitchen space smells glorious and food bloggers and online funsters are creating great food. For a little while as they enjoy the task in hand, the participants forget to worry about what is in the balance for this competition. LJ and Jemimah are trying their best to come up with a plan to overthrow the robot and liberate chefs for humankind. Surprisingly they don’t appear to be taking it too seriously….
“Omnomnomnomnom!” LJ is gleefully spooning melted chocolate into her mouth, Jemimah is trying to balance a teaspoon on the end of her nose.
Their food is chilling and mostly prepared – probably not winning dishes – and they are certainly enjoying their time joining in. That is, until the judges arrive.
Culinary experts file into the kitchen and the general chatter and giggling falls away. LJ and Jemimah are still shouting “Chef! Yes Chef” when a dour, mechanised clanking echoes in from the doorway. The Aitkin8000 has arrived to serve its judgement.
The girls look at each other. “Know your enemy,” mutters Jemimah and goes about turning toast into breadcrumbs, trying to act natural.

The culinary chef-o-tron wheels around the kitchen. He looks human but the weight of his mechanised steps gives away the hardware within. Clicks and whirrs can he heard as he scans the food being prepared and asks questions. LJ is fielding his enquiries with a smile while Jemimah under cover of the sound of a blender checks the back of the droid for any obvious datapoints. Squinting at the back of his shirt she can see something under the fabric that doesnt look too human. A brief flash of light points to something distinctly mechanised. Behind his ear she can see an audio sensor too.

Returning with the breadcrumbs as the Aitkin8000 is distracted by a raspberry meringue dessert, she shares her observation with LJ. The game is on.

Presently a competition organiser shouts out the time and the pressure is on the chefs to plate up and finish their presentation. Time also for LJ and Jemimah to make their move.

PRESENTATION TIME
The girls get their food plated up and make a fuss to cover their moves. LJ snatches up her phone and gets the bluetooth running – it’s a long shot that the Aitkin8000′s systems would be wide open, but stranger things have happened. She glances as the screen and reads that the winners have not only been chosen, but their fate will be sealed. As the top chefs for the day they will be sacrificed as an example. She gulps. Their next move looks to be more important with each passing second.

Jemimah has moved closer to the robochef, carefully dripping oil on the floor as she gets closer. She nods to LJ and steps behind the Aitkin8000, still nodding at her partner.
With panache and in a very convincing move, LJ manages to step and turn on the oil, crashing into the Aitkin8000 who recoils, not impressed by the flesh contact. As he steps backward into Jemimah, she
catches his shoulder, hitting the concealed button and holding her breath to see if her hunch was right.
The Aitkin8000 twitches and halts on the spot, by now the other cooks have stopped their work, waiting to see if the robot will produce his chop-o-matic limb fittings and reduce the hapless pair to slivers of
meat.

A long pause is followed by an electronic voice coming from the robot.
His lips are not moving and his head lols over to one side. “Reboot in process”. LJ grins at Jemimah as she leans in toward the robot and whispers behind his ear.
“Reboot aborted. System shut down,” the electronic voice is continuing as raspberry coulis drips from suspended cutlery and everyone freezes.
“Aitkin8000 system, abort!” shouts the electronic voice. “Command error, system error, erase data files, commands incomplete.”
The robot is no longer able to reboot and its own commands no longer make sense – the Aitkin8000 is wiping itself, permanently. The droid’s limbs start to tremble and shake, its head twitching more violently.
“This doesn’t look good,” mutters LJ and Jemimah moves to watch the results. The tremors increase as the autochef takes on a startling physical fit. People are backing away. With a pop and crackle, smoke
appears to be rising from the robot’s eyes and nose. He starts to utter random words, “Reduction, human reduction, slice, saut-…”

Finally with a cry of “Moderate Oven!” the Aitkin8000 shudders to a halt.
“Disappointing,” Jemimah shakes her head. “I thought there would be an…” The Aitkin8000′s meat covering explodes covering the pair in a greasy substance, much to their general disgust.

LJ delicately runs a finger down her face and licks it. “Olive oil,” she confirms. “He was running on olive oil.” They look at each other and the mess they are in and laugh.

FOR THE WIN
After a large clean-up effort, the remnants of the Aitkin8000 are finally cleared away and the chefs celebrate their victory with a meal. The winners of the competition are announced and it’s time for LJ and Jemimah to return to Angela.
They port back to the ship, still wearing their smeary oil-covered chef whites.
Back on Angela, the Lycras have returned and are not pleased to find their vessel has been left unattended.
“Where the hell have you two been?” demands the Cryptoid angrily, “We can’t leave you here to look after a domestic ship?”
The Binary chimes in, “What the hell have you been doing? You’re disgusting.”
“What are we supposed to do? We have to go out and save worlds that you two have never even heard of and we cannot trust you to look after yourselves?” The Shadow Lady is not impressed either.
LJ and Jemimah try their best to butt into the bitchkreig to explain but it’s no use. Lycra egos are not to be trucked with.
“At least go and clean up. And you need to fix the food replicant, it just keeps producing chocolate and coffee,” mutters Cryptoid.
LJ and Jemimah look at each other. “Bork?” mutters LJ, Jemimah smirks and they head off to change and think of something even more repulsive than last time to program into the replicator.

Hurrah! Thanks to the organisers and Qype for putting a fabulous day together. Thanks to everyone we met who made us feel comfortable in our facial hair. Thanks to all of the photographers whose photos feature in this story and for goodness sake – VOTE FOR TEAM BORK!BORK!BORK! – Isn’t saving the world enough for your vote?

Text Experiment

“…try to visualise all the streams of human interaction, of communication. All those linking streams flowing in and between people, through text, pictures, spoken words and TV commentaries, streams through shared memories, casual relations, witnessed events, touching pasts and futures, cause and effect. Try to see this immense latticework of lakes and flowing streams, see the size and awesome complexity of it. This huge rich enviornment. This waterway paradise of all information and identities and societies and selves.“

The Raw Shark Texts. Steven Hall .

I’m very fond of the Raw Shark Texts and generally fiction that makes me think about non-fiction ideas. The hyperlinked excerpt above contains links to get the book yourself if you like. It’s worth it. I’ll try to jot something more coherent here about what I was trying to achieve and why. It took a lot longer than I thought and some of the links could be chosen better or smarter or differently.

All together now

Sometimes it feels like wedding season for journalism and social media. I’ve been out with my dance card to a few unconference and large group meetings lately – it’s good to see people interested and interesting people. So what’s the point of getting out into the air and chatting? I’m sure there are many people who would see this as a jolly and for those who drink a nice piss up to boot.

Not quite. If media is social then sometimes getting physically social, putting faces to screen names and cross pollinating ideas is really important, even if we don’t answer the question du jour about the future/saving journalism. Anyone who has spent more than a few weeks online knows that it’s a place of avatars and written messages open to varied interpretation, boasting, jokes and chit chat, but all of these things can be held up to a certain extent online without really being challenged. If you have to look someone in the eye and repeat what you tweeted, that’s a different activity. A get together can spark new connections and longer conversations with less scope for misunderstanding – even if we often see the same faces in the crowd each time.

Three examples I’m bringing here from the odd tweetups and collectives are JEECamp09, Amplified and Media140. First and always, I thank the people who put these together, herding cats is a walk in the park in comparison with getting busy journos together and making them think. Kudos to you all.

So what was the end result here? For each of these I can only propose my personal reactions – each of us gets their own experience and I’m sure there will be opportunity to express otherwise. The three events had quite different flavours. Amplified I have written about before so though it’s valid I won’t repeat. It’s a great unconference for ideas and mixed disciplines. I ended up talking music and news and trust at one point and wondering at similar challenges. There’s a whole bunch of people working in so many different ways and taking very different steps that it’s hard not to come away with a new spin on your own ideas.

JEECamp09 seemed a more sombre affair to me. The opening talk drew a divide between mainstream media, those who have fallen in the cutbacks and changes for media and bloggers. It was not so nice to see a them and us proposition but it’s a matter of fact for many. The event was held in Birmingham, an old patch for my own work and I found it hard to see so many people struggling with an uncertain future. It’s good to get out of the capital though. JEECamp certainly shook me up for keeping an eye over regional mainstream media. I follow blogs from all over the world, but my MSM concerns had been London-centric and I now think that was a mistake.

The one thing missing from JEECamp09 was the mad forging ahead I had witnessed at Amped. People were certainly working hard and thinking through the bigger issues much more, but Amped seemed to celebrate running full steam into trying stuff rather than cursing the situation. I don’t think either are wrong by the way and of course it’s my perception which will be different to that of others.

Media140 I had some reservations about – it seemed a little woolly in being organised, but then it was put together with little time or personnel so now I see that it was indeed a class act to pull off in situation. Media140 was a journofest of familiar faces. I did wonder on arrival if it might be a bit like chatting to people at Tuttle about weekly updates ideas and projects. This did not turn out to be the case.

Apart from the middle aged white male fest panel – which was actually more entertaining than informative in the end, it brought about some consensus in what was happening. People on panels were asked (and frankly dealt brilliantly) with questions from the audience that would make a psychic quake. The fact that there was no answer to “Will this save news? What is the future of news?” does not mean that this gathering was not valuable. To the contrary, I came away with a broader sense of where we might be. It was never going to be a conclusion, but there is some comfort in discussing the triumphs and experiments of others. There was a surprising openness of thought for competing institutions that, although not always practical, did show a solidarity for trying to make things right. One point that stuck with me was being told that we are not taking large enough risks. It rattles about in my mind as something right, but identifying the big leap and acting on it is a tough one. What would the iPhone game changer be for journalism? It seems to be something that would really benefit from more positive gatherings within each media house, not complaining about the woes of the immediate past, but pushing doors and drawing up the more obvious problems in a clear light and using that base as a stepping stone to create something brilliant.

There – see? I’m all the inspiration when I have no idea what the answer is…ahem.

One great thing about these events is that in some way – even if the wifi is down or limited, you can attend remotely and participate from your desk, your home wherever if you have time, or read back on the highlights through blogs and online news outlets. It’s inclusive and with that many voices in the virtual room, surely we will find our way.

Bucky Rambles

Bucky Rambles is a space boy. Eleven years old, he floats around with an upturned goldfish bowl on his head to keep in the air. By swishing his arms a little and bending at the waist, Bucky can sort of move around a little and look over at Earth. It’s where he comes from.

First bathing in the glow reflected on the planet, he smiles vaguely. But although he turns regularly to contemplate the spectacle, drawn to it’s wonder, he cannot stand to look at it for too long. Staring at the blue grey planet he gets a choking feeling. It’s something like the time his little baby sister Alice was born and the time when his first dog Poppy died. A happy sadness. It’s hard to feel it for too long and he looks away again into the stars.

So Bucky Rambles is a space boy and he’s living up to his stupendous name. His parents actually called him that when he was born, on Earth. The neighbours said his parents were crazy to give a boy a name like that, but they looked at each other over his head and shared a knowing smile. When Bucky was bigger, but still smaller than he is now, his father told him that he had an extraordinary name to remind him to do extraordinary things, to fly higher. Bucky became an astronaut, built his own Buckymobile and blasted off into the wide beyond so he could look back and share the world with everyone.

Out here with Bucky it’s spectacularly quiet. He knows the cameras are still on in his goldfish bowl and that everyone can hear him breathing softly in the nothing. Sending messages home. But Bucky is alone up there, the transmissions only go one way. He thinks about what to do when he gets home again, it’s a long journey to come. The most extraordinary thing he can think to do is not be alone. He’ll grow up and get married and have children with extraordinary names. He’ll get to know people, some he might know for years.

Bucky Rambles the space boy turns back to the earth and wants to go home.

(This story came about in a rush of images after Susanna misheard and created the most extraordinary name. Thanks Susanna!)

Beautiful soup

So journalism as we know it is breaking and online is a hotbed of contradiction, experiments and half thought out games. But what if there were no existing rules?

The panic from big media houses and existing publishers is addictive. They’re closing down in small pockets of despair. People are losing their livelihoods – writers, cartoonists, columnists and printers. It’s a bit like the closing of a global mine. People are coping though – you are, I can see you are otherwise there would be carnage. It’s difficult and threatening and depressing, but there’s retraining and a whole truckload of new ideas to be tried. Though none of us look as though we’re going to get rich from it just now.

Those who have a little to spare are setting up their new ideas online. They are the middlemen and technologists providing fresh attempts to crack the nut. They mediate between big publishing houses that often eat up ideas or buy out successful applications – what’s a girl to do when she feels as though she’s wearing water wings in this tide?

Citizen reporters, big leviathan publishers, people who write blogs and take video or audio online, pod casters are still in the room and twitter dances about us in wisps and strings of short form update. Sometimes it’s a little like swimming (yeah, still with water wings – I’m not much of a swimmer) in primordial soup. It’s a bit yuk, slightly worrying at times and nutritious at others. No one knows which way to bet as to what animal will emerge to breathe on land, or if it will have the right number of legs. A leap should be made a risk taken, an unholy alliance and an experiment gone right, but I don’t know that combination, so never ask me. I can’t even swim.

Through this inspiring ebb and tide of mild data online, there was a question that reached out at the Media140 gathering recently. “What about the people who need news who are not online?” It was like a clear bell in a room full of people who had lost their memory. We’re failing those people as we mill about in online data. Someone must be dealing with the mess we turn our backs on and there’s still a lot of people who read carbon copy. They deserve a bit of quality for their loyalty don’t they? After all, it’s their coins that fill the coffers poured into online development.

I’m failing those people right now. Not that I expect they would be remotely bothered to read this, but they cannot. They cannot add their voice or opinion here, they cannot hear me scream or if magically I came up with a thought that was brilliant, that would not be available to them either. But would they want to? Can you imagine a paper subscription edition of blogs delivered to your door every morning? You could read it in the bath.

The arguments for and against a papery news are already known and have been hashed around endlessly, so I’ll not go into that here. But if the papers die and people are not online, where’s the news going to come from? TV? Radio? Should these areas be refined if the papers are disappearing?

Rather than shaping a comprehensive news outlet online with multi platform tricks, whiz-bang graphics and flashy-ass adverts, what if some of the principles we learned online were fed right back into paper – radically, with confidence. Paper reorganised with a column down the side telling you what other papers the writer reads? Lots of nice pictures printed beautifully with a way to find where all of those pictures came from?

OK – so that’s probably not really going to work, unless I can have 4D goggles now…can I? Now? No? OK. I wonder though, without the shackles of old media how different would our ideas be for presenting news media? Would they be different at all? Imagine a newspaper if you had never seen one but existed in a web only society and wanted to share the news with an offline audience? How would you try it?

Maybe contrail headlines one day…but I’d imagine that’s about as environmentally friendly as cutting down trees and … oh.

Bloggers, journalists (and not versus)

This is not and will never be the complete picture but it is a round up of thoughts at the moment on bloggers and journalists.

I like working with bloggers. I do so daily in many ways. I am a journalist, I work in mainstream media for a living. One of my concerns is about the relationship between the two sets. (I know that this is a simplistic divide but appreciate those who can bear with me for a moment on these broad strokes.)

I’ve watched and participated in the development of blogging and journalism over the last few years. There seems there may always be a few in each group who will divide the two in negative proportions. The “them and us” argument annoys me though. I am not an excellent blogger – but I could name twenty without really thinking and about the same when it comes to journalists. No, we are not the same. Even those who straddle the to positions have a strength in one over the other usually.

So, journalists are not bloggers are not journalists. In many ways I envy the freedom a blogger has, it’s something that I do not get to indulge in too often or fully. But there are bloggers who really deserve a profile as high as any popular newspaper columnist but they do not see the sort of syndication that brings this recognition. There are positive and negative points to both roles and reams of talent and unwarranted glory in both areas.

However, the segregation of “them and us” seems like a pretty negative divide. I’ve heard it used one way to describe mainstream media as predatory and aloof and flipped over to condemn bloggers as ill-informed and badly written. Throwing insult doesn’t really get us anywhere. All too often, the web being a place where people can let you know very directly whether or not you are hitting the mark, the cream can rise to the top – or is that just notoriety?

I guess I am somewhat optimistic when I look at the way that bloggers and journalists could work together. I’m not saying they have to – but there’s some great work that can be done when we do. Journalists speaking the language of web-natives works for a start. There are many who could benefit from the odd hyperlink and track back. The transparency of links in writing online shows your working out (to use a math exam term) and that you have some respect for the source you are working with. It also provides a way for readers to decide for themselves the areas of your writing they want to pursue further – in other words – added value.

Another area that makes me foam with rage is not asking permission for material. I cannot remember the amount of times that I have been appalled to see pictures, quotes, tracts of writing taken from blogs. This comment might seem a little late in the day, but it does happen and I cannot see why any writer worth their salt would approve of plagiarism over original work. The lines between creative commons and copyright for online material seem somewhat confusing to some and the fluctuations around sharing and pilfering are going to be with us for time to come. On the other side of that picture, making your blog out of the writing of published journalists without context or even a reason for using it other than boosting your site – isn’t that a bit lame? Syndication without permission, payment or reason? The bloggers I know who constantly amaze me are worth a lot more than cut and paste press clippings and their writing more valuable and thoughtful.

I think linking and respect when writing any piece of journalism or blogging is paramount. Otherwise how can you really obtain trust and a fair reputation for your output?

The idea that bloggers are just waiting to be journalists and journos think they are better than bloggers should really become something of the past. I know that the people I am referencing online in this piece might be reading it and thinking “Well duh!” But I guess I’ve popped it up here for the one or two who might cruise past and think again about the value of what they create online.

Or tear me to shreds because I have skipped over finer points to the discussion with my big fat house painting brush. Tell me why I am wrong…

What all girls want.

Ask without influence

People who know me (and those who don’t may get the gist), realise quickly that I ask a lot of questions. I guess I fall into interview mode quite often. Wise old owl and all that. The more I listen, the more I can learn.

I’ve noticed in a couple of incidents online that asking questions can also influence others in ways that are not always positive. The two that come to mind are associated with events and happenings that could affect a great many people.

Briefly:
I had a call about something happening around Oxford Circus in London – some police around and a siren heard, the person on the phone wondered if I was nearby and did I know what was happening?
- Nope. But of course I was curious – like any person living in the Capital, you know this will affect the Tube and probably your journeys that day. So I put a call out on Twitter…”Anyone at Oxford Circus?”
The first messages I got back were from people sounding somewhere between curious and mildly unnerved. More came in from people a little closer, there had been a fire engine and some cops – but essentially nothing to get fussed about.
I was unsure though. As I have been trained – if I cannot see it, I need a trusted source, otherwise I’d just be passing on irrelevant or worse information. Basically, adding to a panic.

Second case:
Much broader – swine flu. I know, were all bombarded with information so I’ll keep it short. There are cases cropping up, closer to home for me and others and there is also plenty of data online to help people learn the facts. But this doesn’t stop people having a panic or creating noise that is not so helpful. It’s been trending on twitter for days, so I guess we are all at it. So it’s giving me pause for thought when I ask questions of people online. I’d want to be sure that I am not adding to the brouhaha.

I had the privilege of talking to Marcel Salathe recently. He studies epidemics at Stanford. He also has a neat area of study ongoing asking people what they know and how they feel about swine flu. Then he can see if this feeling online can influence what is happening on the ground, in real life. If traditional meeting places are not great as a virus could be passed on, people communicate online about what is happening, swap links and pass on news. But they will also pass on things that are not news. It bears considering.

Thinking further, I wondered about what happens around various conflicts or even smaller cases of civil unrest. So many of us are wired, it’s so simple to send something and have that repeated or even corrupted and repeated.

I see a lot of propaganda emails, some with the sort of imagery no one should see from places of war and violence. Of course there must be a source and yes, these messages have origins that are terrible, but also they are cut and pasted into new scenarios, painting current events with a grim hue, falsely.

Marcel pointed out to me that calming misinformation is hard, but that people will also listen to some extent to the truth if it is put out there too. I wonder if human nature likes hyperbole though and that messages in the ether can be more damaging than the things we have to face in our real and fleshy lives.

What sort of data do you pass on?

If you want to take the Stanford survey, it’s here.

A newspaper heart and an online mind

I have chosen heroes through my life, some unconsciously, some for particular reasons, but there is a certain group of characters that I’ve looked up to, felt kin with, appreciated and loved to know about. Here’s a starter – Hunter Thompson, Peter Parker, Alan Johnston, Lois Lane, Studs Terkel, Anna Politkovskaya, Clark Kent, stop me when you see a theme here.

I’ve been a journalist for almost more than half my life now. It’s the best job in the world. For me anyway.

Reading around the web where a lot of outstanding journalism exists today, there’s a certain conversation that’s coming to the top. Find these people – Bill Thompson, Clay Shirky, Phil Bronstein, Alfred Hermida Read what they are saying about newspapers.

I’m none of those people in either of those lists, I only have my own experience rather than an authority really, but I wanted to clear my mind about what I’ve been reading, I came from newspapers and my history is unravelling behind me. Not just me of course.

I was fifteen when I started out as a nervous cub photographer, carrying a kit that weighed about as much as I did. Every evening before deadline I would submit hand printed images from the dark room to the formidable smoke filled news-floor where the editors and subs sat. It was one of the biggest rooms I ever entered around that time and full of knowledgeable, opinionated and formidable people. I loved it, I love it now.

I love newspapers, but I see that they should go. If you have read the newspaper commentaries about the future of these printed sheets that I listed above, then you won’t mind if I don’t go into the argument about what might happen or be surprised that I don’t know either. Though there’s a hell of a lot at stake when it comes to things like fact checking, quality and style and democracy in news making. It’s not the point I feel like making today.

My memory of newspapers is in opposition to my rational thinking about shutting down the presses and moving onto digital realms. Thinking that those memories are heading toward history wrenches my heart so I’ll share some.

Thinking about reading a newspaper. A real honest to goodness paper document, the one you need to concertina on the train. I love the smell of a fresh paper, the ink and that thin paper that almost dissolves in water. The mix of pages, some with colour and others with black and white images. The choice of a headline, the proof of editorial decisions, the splash photographs that take your breath away.

I remember knowing someone who never read newspapers, he said it was depressing. To me, the newspaper was something adults read when I was a kid and they found out about almost everything. I know that this is a fond nostalgic moment so don’t bother with the political angles and the choices that are made and yes, I know you cannot learn everything from a paper, lets move on.

We delivered the papers when I was at school. For some child slavery wage we lugged enormously heavy satchels of paper and dropped them through letterboxes. Rain or shine, dogs at the gate and nice old ladies with Kit-Kats if you were lucky. We’d return the neon bags to the newsagent with ink on our hands, earning a living felt really grown up.

By the side of our newsagents there was a stack of old papers that were not sold. They sat outside, mouldering in the rain, rotting in the sun. If you have smelled the aroma of rotting newspapers, you’ll know what I mean. It stinks but it was an old familiarity.

I left the paper for a bit to go to University. Every holiday though, I came back to it. It paid well and the work came naturally. So many people to meet, so many stories to find out about, so many photos of so many things. There’s no room in my head to try and remember half of the images published, all without a by-line. They didn’t seem to give them out to young photographers and well, I was mostly happy to see the morning papers illustrated with some of my work.

As as student, at the weekends I would go out on a Saturday and buy the Guardian or the Times, sometimes both if I had nothing to do. I’d make coffee and toast and go straight back to bed. The supplements would fall on the floor, the sports section discarded, the world news in my hand, toast hand frozen on the way to my mouth, pictures in my mind of different worlds, trying to imagine what it was like to be other people, trying to understand what was going on.

I associate the weekend papers with leisure, having time to read them properly, sharing them with boyfriends, reading out sections of this and that, talking about what was happening, speculating on why. I used to rip out the more spectacular photos from the magazines and pin them to the wall, not as some valiant effort to inspire me as a photographer but because they moved me, because I simply loved looking at them.

Eventually at the paper I was writing as well as taking photographs. A pale blue screen and some terrible ASCII character layout. I used to panic and take calls before deadline, wondering how the hell I was going to squeeze the words out so that they made sense. I take pride in what I write for work and have probably naïve and strong beliefs about truth and taking the time to create something interesting for an audience.
Eventually, before midnight I would have sent the words down a wire, the modem squealing away, then a call to the subs to make sure they had the words. No wonder I’ve never been a happy early riser.

I love that a Newspaper is “put to bed”. The eds and subs working late to create something that will be wiped clean and started again the next day. At night time the newspaper was born. If you’ve been in a newspaper building with presses, you’ll know the sound. It’s soft but audible and it shakes the building, it used to reassure me.

In the dark room with the photographers I learned from some people who will stay in my memory forever. Formidable and gruff sports photographers with their super-zoom lenses. Locals like me in and out on the beat to snatch an image here and there. We developed the pictures in a dark room which where then scanned by a picture desk. Hand printing is brilliant, creating something out of light – artistic, technical and before long, natural.

The chemicals smell yuk and the prints come out wet, you emerge blinking into the daylight of the office and double check what you think you can see in the orangey light of the darkroom. They smoked at the paper then too, pipes and cigarettes, right there near the chemicals, a bloody minded ability to ignore the no-smoking signs. Some of the people I learned from there made beautiful images, for small distribution local rags, but still put every effort into making it right. They taught me, some of them frightened the crap out of me with their foul language and rough attitude, but they worked so hard and took time to help me out. Many of them are dead now. Already.

So from photography, through news writing and subbing, onto radio and now on-line news. I have moved and changed and read and learned all along the way. I have to. The ideas of the newspapers dying destroys parts of me, makes me want to cry, I want them to still be there in their smoky rooms, swearing and creating great journalism. There are of course still so many excellent journalists that I look up to. I get lost in their writing just as much as I did on paper.

Someone I know said that the death of the newspaper is “never gonna happen”. I think that’s a predictable view. She was told this at college some years ago. Someone much smarter than me pointed out that our short term expectations are too high and the long term ones too low. No, the papers are not dead today, but they are heading into that familiar curve of change that starts slow and stealthy but soon speeds up and before you realise, something totally different has arrived and you’re already accustomed to it.

Shutting the presses seems necessary but my visceral nostalgia fights me on every level. Heart and mind.

I hope that the great writers and photographers of the old school that we are still lucky enough to have around us are either able to write on-line or willing to learn, their knowledge and experience is far too valuable to be lost in this revolution. I still want to be taken away by their stories and pictures. The young writers now and in the future have different arenas to play in, they’ll miss out on some of the camaraderie that I feel very lucky to have seen. Maybe it’s a good job that my other heroes include Bruce Sterling, Spider Jerusalem, William Gibson and more. At least whilst mourning the past a little, I can still be inspired by possible futures.

“I’ll never fall in love again”

My wife Kay and I are scientists working in areas of psychology and neurosurgery. Mostly we look at aspects of memory and helping people who have experienced terrible things try to forget so that they can get on with their lives.
Over the years there has been a lot of debate about the ethics of what we do and the guidelines changed a lot. But now working for the Knight corporation, we see so many people. I guess it’s like plastic surgery for the mind. People changed their bodies and got used to that sort of thing, we did the same when it came to mental adjustment.
When I started working in this field, it was a phenomenal time of change for everyone. Human adaptation was centred around the singularity, machines were taking over our minds and so we were hoping to use our minds for different things.
When I met Kay she was at the forefront of these changes. A brilliant psychologist, pharmacologist and neurological theorist. Brave and understanding and still able to talk to people, put them at ease. So natural. I fell in love with her so fast that my feet didn’t hit the ground until years after we were married. I was in awe of her and she needed me. There’s very little so beguiling as that equation between people.
Naturally things changed over the years. We work hard, between the physical and mental adaptation of our patients. I guess I should have seen it coming that one of us would want to try our revolutionary processes for ourselves, I would never have wanted to choose the reason though.
With our working hours running us like automata, bad food, too much coffee and the odd fractious moment spelled out our days and shortened our nights. We were never home and when we were, we started to fight.
As a result of all this, I lost my hair – and had it replanted which might seem extreme but humans are vain and its so acceptable now, no one would care. But the hard working hours and never seeing daylight also lead to the more recognisable 21st century human traits, obesity, bad skin and daily drinking habits. Meanwhile, Kay became colder toward me – she had adapted differently, I guess women still do. She looked almost exactly the same way as when I met her. But maybe even better. Breast augmentation to a natural extent, skin grafts, nips and tucks, hair modification. She had the wrinkles of a good life and the body of a twenty year old. I still loved her and it hurt so much to fight, to know that she would not touch me. Wasn’t attracted any more.
One thing I will always credit her for – is that she never strayed. I think I would have ended myself at that sort of rejection. But she thought upon our problems and paid attention, she stayed and fleetingly, not very often, I would see the old love in her eyes.
One morning after another night where we shouted each other down to exhaustion and slept far apart in the same bed. She turned to me with an idea that I had hoped she would never come to. I knew her well enough too, to realise that she had resolved to go ahead – even before we even talked about it. She was going to redesign her own mind. To change. She didn’t love me any more and rather than move on, she wanted to return to our days of ultimate happiness and union.
She told me she had made her mind up and either I could work with her on it or she would get someone else at the lab to do it. She knew I could not pass it up, we shared the memories she talked about. She grabbed her purse, heading out to a meeting. it felt like the last thing she really said to me as the Kay that I knew. “After all we can edit the bad out, why shouldn’t we edit the good back in? I still want to love you, I just can’t, not at the moment.” She smiled as she turned.
I heard her picking up her keys, putting on her coat in the hall, seeing it without needing to look, every gesture. As the door slammed, I took off my glasses to cry, real tears, from a real person, but the emotion so complex of hope and fear of exactly the same point.

.

My name is Kay and I love my husband very much. From our surgical and therapy notes, that’s something that could never be denied.
It broke my heart that I could no longer love John. He’s the only man I had ever been in love with and when that gets ground down, it’s so hard to make it good again. Thing is – we knew how to resurrect it. But it seemed that the suppression of bad memories was much easier than the resurrection of good ones. We were wrong to think that this would be OK. John did try to talk me out of it, but being pig headed was and is one of my main identifiable traits and I had convinced myself we would be doing good. Besides – maybe we could provide hope for so many marriages that were breaking down – nobody seems to stay together any more. Not even John and I.

When I returned from the operation and worked with some of my colleagues the change was not particularly something I was aware of in the first person. More John’s reactions to me were making the transition strange. When I look at him, all of the things I ever adored are apparent, there’s so much to be proud of, fond of, to need and to love.
Our physical relationship was kick started all over again – mostly by me. Our passions of yesteryear were with me each time, but John seemed sad and slightly defeated, more-so over weeks. Soon, it was not something we could do, there was always work and that was the perfect way to avoid it all.

At least we were close for a while. Reading notes in bed, spending more time together than before. I had thought we might rebuild.

But John’s not a stupid man of course. Human recognition of the tiniest things are what makes this sort of transition impossible. Soon, he would not hold my gaze, would retreat from my touch. He retreated and I could not pursue him for fear of making things worse.

I had hoped that with time he would come around to the idea, it’s still me, just slightly different or the me from our past maybe.

In the end he left. There was research to be done on the opposite coast and he started with the odd trip, that became longer until he started to rent an apartment near the other research facilities. Eventually he never came home. We’d talk over video on-line, though eventually he shut down the images and then the calls altogether.

We spoke over instant message until he told me that he had to leave. The me that was and the person I am rejoined was not the woman he loved. Though we were fighting as though to tear each other apart, it was because we cared, not because I was made to care.

I understand that a year or more later, John found another companion. Someone who loves him now, the way he is and never knew him as I did. Of course I think I do too – but our notes on my case say otherwise.

I’m glad that he is falling in love, but the sharp end of our operation is that it cannot be undone. The human mind will only take so much modification. I have my work and my friends who are not affected. But, with any other person, I’ll never fall in love again.

Stickers and Harpies

I make a lot of typing errors when blogging and some just general brain fails too. People help me out a lot with this and I am grateful. Especially as I more accustomed to flying with a sub’ ‘ed on board armed with a red pen.

Anyhoo. Sometimes the mistakes are more fun than the original – when your on-line help is amusing it helps. So, from the Amplified mistakes where I not only got a screen name wrong (sorry!) but also missed a letter out – changing the meaning entirely. Here’s a story along the mistaken lines. The original was meant to be about name tag stickers and Sharpie pens. This has nothing to do with stickers but it does draw to our attention a few problems with Harpies.

With thanks to Ben @Ihatemornings definitley not @Ihatemondays – which is probably Garfield.

When I got home from work, my flatmates Caroline and Andrew were creating the sort of atmosphere I would expect to find in a morgue. I drop my bag on the floor and flop down next to Caroline on the couch. “What’s up homies?” I ask jovially, trying to kill the awkwardness.

“Caroline has decided to throw a party.” Andrew is pulling the sort of face that says, ‘and I hate her’.

I’m hoping not to get involved in their scrapping and aim for chipper enquiry, “Cool, when? What’s the occasion?”

Caroline brightens a little, “No occasion really, just people I have not seen for a while y’know? Well, we have all these friends online and we never see them, so I thought I’d invite them around at the weekend.” She grins awfully and looks over my shoulder at Andrew with a smirk.

There’s a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. We all have friends that our flatmates are not keen on, I know geeks that make normal people want to rip their own ears off, Andrew’s clique of gay pride friends are usually fine until they are hammered and then apparently I’m fair game for an utter character and wardrobe assassination and well, Caroline, she has friends that well, most people don’t believe in. Until they turn up.

Caroline works for some undercover British league of something or other. I can never remember what it’s really called. I get the feeling she does something so that I cannot ever remember it on purpose. Anyways, it means she works with Britain’s finest oddities and myths. Ghosts, vampires, invisible men, human weapons, owl men, the beast of Bodmin, the green man but sadly her department is mostly made up of Harpies. Dangerous, scary, part naked hard drinking women with wings. This does not bode well for our home. Though I’m not sure how to put it to Caroline.

Andrew does it for me, “There’s no way you can have those things over here again. Out of the question.” He’s getting a bit pink in the face and has fair reason really.

“You hate my friends,” interjects Caroline. “Just because one of them ate your last boyfriend, doesn’t mean they’re all like that. Besides, she was hungry and he was winding her up.”

I try to make some peace, “I think we had all had a lot to drink by that stage…” “Oh, and murder and digestion is OK under those circumstances?” Andrew is not going to let this go quietly. I guess he has a point. I have no way out of the row now though, so maybe some solution suggestions.

“What about we go elsewhere then?”

Andrew barks a laugh, “Oh where? The Lion? How about a nice bistro? Ohno! That’s right, Caroline’s friends are oddly noticeable and uncomfortable in public being undead mythical creatures and all.” He folds his arms dramatically.

I sigh and look at Caroline. “Is there anywhere else we can go?”

She doesn’t happy. “Well, we could gather at the usual place, but its usually so packed with them all. I don’t see why you guys can have your friends over all the time and not me.”

I try for humour, “That’s not true, I thought your fire nymph guy was a laugh”. He also nearly burned my bed to a cinder.

She’s starting to soften. I guess that would be OK, I think it might be better as Hamish the invisible guy? Yeah, he’s been a bit tricky when drunk lately.”

I’ll, bet…

Caroline starts to think and picks up her mobile to call in a few changes of venue. I look at Andrew who appears to be about to start up again. I pull silent “no” faces at him and he sits back.

“Well I suppose I’m not invited then,” he grumps at us.

I’m not so surprised as he is an attention seeking drama queen who loves a party. Caroline puts a hand over the mouth piece of her mobile. “Sure, you can come if you want, just make sure your date is tasty.”

Trying not to laugh at Andrew’s outraged face, I haul my ass from the couch and head off to put the kettle on. Mixed living is always interesting and I know for all the differences, I wouldn’t change mine for all the tea in China.

What!!?

Ok. So this section of um, here – will be about my generally autistic view on relationships and people. It’s not a place to out folk or embarrass anyone other than myself really. But there’s always a ton I don’t get about people sometimes and usually it is in the nuances of conversation that are connected with close relations.

Try this for size. I asked a few ladies I know about this one and there was a varied response. This sometimes happens to me and sometimes it’s funny – other times it just makes me want to say something rude and stalk off. I have generally had and I am proud of what some people call AC/DC appeal. I’ve been approached by both men and women before and well – when you can’t even be bothered getting into the game, it’s pretty flattering and should be handled in a polite and civilised manner. It’s no biggie. But when both male and female start this sort of conversational direction, you kinda have to wonder what you are doing. Mostly this time around – male culprits but that’s also to do with the field I work in, there’s a lotta guys.

So. You talk work, blah networking, blah blah, media etc. You’re focused on the topic, I don’t drink either so it’s not like I’m prone to leering. It’s all good, there’s agreement or debate – wonderful. Then they drop lightly and clumsily into the chat – “..and my girlfriend..” Add whatever topic floats your boat, civil engineering, firewire, toasters, linguistics, speculative math…and the ref comes up. From my comfy seat there seems to be a small pressure not to react. In the slightest. No flicker, no blink, no nodding. Nothing. Just listening. Inside my head…. “Oh sweet Christ, you think because we’re not talking about bunnies that I’m hitting on you?” Many times I have considered wearing clothing that is embroidered with the phrase “Just because I am talking to you, does not mean I am at all tempted to try and sleep with you”, or, “If I look that hungry – it is because I have forgotten to eat.” Seriously though. It just seems to be rather jarring sometimes…though I fully understand it can be a natural affectation, those who are a little more secure talk about their other half by name, not by status and well – it’s just sorta clunky. Or is it me?

I return to the ladies I asked on this. Varied views. They’ve definitely had this happen before. It makes them wonder if they look desperate. This did not particularly help my disposition. Another pointed out that it could be alpha-dog talk. “Not only am I able to have an enlightened conversation, I am also attractive to women to the point where I indeed do, most definitely have a girlfriend. Consider it part of my success…” I’m not so sure about that one.

I’m sure in the past I mentioned boyfriends in conversation, but usually if there was something related to them in that context. Otherwise, my chats are my own. I’m guessing that it’s a clear indicator to avoid trickier possibilities in future conversations. In that case it makes sense, I guess. But it does sound odd for sure and well, I guess fellers are stuck, they just can’t do right by doin’ right.

In case you wondered – I’m married to my job. It’s complicated.

Amped09 – Impressionism

Ok.I’ve sorted my socks, cleaned the flat, put more laundry on and phoned my Mum. I don’t have many other excuses so it must be time to get this down on screen.

Amplified 09 – February – Some notes.

I got to Tiger Tiger near Piccadilly early. I’m not particularly sure why – must be the urge to recce places. Nick (@loudmouthman) is headed our way – bringing wifi. Toby (@sleepydog) is sorting out people and white boards – he has the air of someone wringing their hands but he’s not actually doing so. Mike (@sizemore) has set up equipment and as usual seems calm. Jo Jacobs is her usual power house of control and a good person to look too – especially as I am at a spare end.

I sit for a moment and take stock. Soon, the mezzanine of this bar will be filled with people, some want to listen, some want to talk and most of us will make new connections that will either help us professionally, cement friendships or change the way we think about our lives on-line.

The theme of Amped is to further conversations, identify ideas and see where we can take them. Of course new people come to each event and some were at the last one, so it’ll be a combination of getting into the flow, catching up and pushing forward.

Around me the bar staff are doing their day work, burly barmen in black carry boxes of beer up and down stairs. Nearby I hear the tinkle of Windows followed by the shoop of Skype starting up. We’re hoping to be wired to the web and streaming conversations for people who cannot be here. But with so many bloggers in the room, I suspect it’s not an issue if we end up talking and writing later.

Nick arrives and immediately starts tunnelling around the the place armed with cables and boxes to bring us on-line. It doesn’t seem easy and there are some jarring moments between him and the staff. It’s time for some lunch before kick off – naturally my tuna melt arrives at about the same time as forty people and I’m sitting near the door armed with name stickers and Sharpies and a list. That makes me door-bitch for a while, but that’s OK. I get to see how many and who and I’m nosey like that.

Lots of people file in, looking about for those they know or asking where things happen. An unconference can be pretty confusing it seems. Many people want to be told where and how to do things others are content in milling about. “Unstructured structure” can be tricky but it makes a really good way for people to relax and talk.

I’m still at the door as Toby leads the crowd together for some ground rules. People are still trickling in. I skip the first round of conversations to eat my lunch and make more notes. Given I can barely read my handwriting at the best of times, I wonder what they will be worth when it comes to write up, but, y’know….

There are many topics on the agenda and a lot of people. Various factions split up into larger and smaller groups. So I take my camera for a walk around and an earwig. The future appears broadly though government, books, music, wimax, churches, networking and identity. It’s fascinating and I see people smile and nod, gesture, listen and participate.

We get a break and people file to the bar, making introductions, finishing conversations and starting new ones. I bump into Steve (@Solobasssteve) and Lo (@lobelia) and we start to chat and catchup. We’re dicing around the ideas of news and music – our separate fields. It’s time for a new session and we start our own.

There’s something nice about a big open conversation. We sit at a booth and Ben (@Ihatemornings) and Xander (@quitexander) join us. There are others and I’m crap with names – but safe to say it was a varied mix of creative, corporate, musical, media and tech. One of my favourite flavours.

It’s sort of predictable and surprising that all of these people come together with different disciplines and stumble over the same problems. We hash over issues of trust – Do you trust mainstream media and corporate brands on-line? Do you trust bloggers if you want to upload something from them? Do you trust things that are free? Will you take them if they are not so simple to acquire as that that is paid for? Are you confident using your mobile phone as a multi skilling tool?

There’s a lot of trust on the table – or not depending on which area we are mashing up.

Eventually the conversation comes to a natural stall. I’ve heard a lot of points of view – and due to my appalling habit of long hand note taking, I almost missed making one or two of my own…But it’s nice to have adults around the table and listen to others – otherwise, how the hell would I learn anything?

The afternoon spreads out a little, there are odd short sessions and I catch up with more people I know. Then I crash a chat to meet someone else who works not a million miles away from my desk, he has interesting views on open source data and we talk over work and new issues for presentation and collection for documentaries and news. I hope to hassle him more and certainly look forward to seeing the shape his work will take.

By the evening people are a bit fried. There are so many ideas and so many angles to think about. We are gathered to applaud those who put it all together and there’s a lot of grinning and tweeting going on. There’s also some food to be had locally and more silly banter that is way off agenda.

That’s a sweeping observation for you at least. Most people seemed to be pleased or inspired, some were still shaking their heads in disagreement, I only saw one person leave because, “Y’know, there’s no wifi…” I am guessing that one is not familiar with how talking face to face can really be useful. I enjoyed it – though this time I was dipping in for flavour rather than calling a straw poll or discussing my work. Which certainly made things more relaxed.

There’s more to add – but this is just one document. I also have a few things to bring up in bullet points, sharper areas for discussion or reminders for me to think about. But if you’re not bored now, you will be if I don’t stop. Another Amped chapter – soon.

Chancery Lane Chapter 2

The following afternoon I’m rolling out of bed. I was awake to see Helen off to work – all smiles and cups of tea – exhausted at 8am. Then I went straight back to bed. Now I am showered and propped back up in the living room with the laptop open infront of me.

There’s a security and virus checker working in the background – the odd adventures of last night stayed with me and I want to make sure that there are no holes in my system. It’s not as though I have much to give away, but I’d rather not be a bot centre. Sadly my little machine is not powerful enough to do much when the security system is running, so I’m waiting and watching a little daytime crappy TV.

The phone rings and it’s Neil. “Chance!”

“Hi Neil”

“Why the long face gamer? Where are you anyway? I thought we had some fun planned in the game?”

“I’m scanning the computer for…”

“You have a virus or something?”

“I don’t think so – something odd popped up last night but nothing really important I don’t think.”

“Ok, well when you are willing, we’ll go for some onscreen killing!” He’s giggling on the line. Most of the time I like the fact that the person who finds Neil’s jokes the funniest – is Neil. He calms down. “By the way Chance, what’s your new profile all about? I can’t say I don’t like it, but I can’t say I really understand it either. You found something new and interesting to play with? Something you want to share?”

“What new profile?”

“Very funny. I’ll catch you later anyways. The same place and the same time for me, you should come to the bar, bring the Missus.”

“What new profile?” Now I know I must have been phished or something. I sigh, Neil disconnects the phone and I look at the laptop. I don’t really want to start opening the pages that will show me the problem. I hate this sort of thing. I wonder what will be waiting for me there. I distract myself by wondering if Helen will consider coming out for a beer with Neil again. She never seemed to like him much. Sometimes, I can understand it.

Chancery Lane – Chapter One

At about 2.30am I wake from a dream about my enemies. Nothing too bad, just the normal anxiety of an on-line gamer. My exploits on-line in MMOG worlds have not been so great, mostly because I’ve been trying to cut back.

I remain still and listen to Helen breathing beside me. She’s spark out so I ease myself upright and look at her.  Though she is dreaming, unconcerned, tired out from work, I always think I can see disapproval there. Is there a crease between her eyebrows? Is she frowning at me?

It was at her word that I tried to cut back on my time on-line, I was getting to bed five hours after she turned in, waking her up or just never in sync. I guess she’s right about that, we’re on a road to a sad end if I kept it up. Her unemployed internet gaming loser boyfriend.

In the next room I can feel my laptop calling to me. I’ve been taking these early cat-naps. Heading to bed at the same time as Helen, she seems really pleased about this and I like that. But I sleep during the day while she is at work too – she thinks I get up early to search for work on-line and I do help maintain her site sometimes. It’s only simple stuff that doesn’t take long.

I slowly slip out of bed, trying not to disturb the covers or make anything creak to wake her. Ten minutes later I’m on the couch with the news on silent and browsing the web following tid-bits from my feed. I tend to pick up interesting new tech and fun stuff. It’s important to at least keep abreast of what’s coming up, so when that job interview does happen, I’ll know what to talk about.

Looks like my feed is broken through. Running down the screen is a series of apparently broken links and non titles. I click on one to see what’s happening. <gamer 45> ??. 19.11

Turns out the link is not broken after all, but the page that comes up is not familiar to me. I can’t even work out what sort of wrong it might be.

I’m not a coder, I’m not even sure if this is code. It reminds me of a directory page, sort of. But I don’t know enough about it to really be interested for more than the average 5 seconds. I’m about to shut the page and find out what’s happening in the game when I notice there is a cursor on the page and it’s blinking. A bit like writing a document or waiting for me to write.

I mouse over to the cursor and hover. I wouldn’t know what to write. But then who would care if I changed something anyway? It’s not as though I can break anything there.I’m about the click in and maybe write another 23 when the line begins to write itself.

<gamer 45> What do you think?

I wait, wondering if maybe this is a sort of chat room I’ve opened and just not recognised the page. The cursor blinks on and I wait for the answer. I wonder who they are talking to. Nothing happens for a while and I rest my hands on the edge of the keyboard thinking of making some smart ass reply.

The cursor returns to the next line and writes something I didn’t expect.

<Chancery Lane> Is it all guesswork?

That’s my screen name, Chancery Lane. I use it everywhere, my gravitar, my network icon and screen names. Is someone impersonating me? I don’t know this network and I don’t know “gamer 45”. I’m a bit rattled and annoyed that someone might be using my name. I take a breath, about to mutter to myself when my Gtalk pings into life. It’s Neil – screen name Masterass, something he still clings to from older web chat room days.

Masterass: Bender! What are you doing? Your missus know you’re up?

Chancery Lane: Nope, she’s asleep.

Masterass: She’s going to peg you mate, she’s a smart cookie…

Chancery Lane: I know.

Masterass: ..and then I shall move in and show her real lovinnnn!!

Chancery Lane: Right. If she gets pissed at a dullard like me, she’s not going for care in the community like you mate.

I look at the web page I had open earlier and click into it. Having Neil on-line with me has lent me courage.

The second I click in and <Chancery Lane> pops up. The cursor waits for me to type.

Wait, so that’s me there now? I’m more than a little confused. I hit the space bar, thinking. Then the cursor returns to the next line.

<Alexandria> Welcome. Are you going to join in this game?

The cursor returns and winks at me expectantly. A game? Now that I can understand a little better. I’m about to ask how and get as far as my screen name when the screen changes again and an audio file starts to auto play. It’s the sound of a woman laughing. Giggling, playful but a bit mean. I feel tricked and not sure what to do next. I turn the speaker down and watch the file play out, repeating. When it’s ended it returns to the start and plays again. It’s annoying.

I open the window where I was chatting with Neil but his green dot is grey, he’s logged out. I stop the audio player and frown at the window. What game?

Concerned about the security of my feed, I feel weary. I’ll look at my firewall tomorrow maybe. I need to go back to bed so I can “wake up” with Helen. As with most late night activity on-line, this will all seem a bit silly in the morning.

Silly paranoid moments, aren’t they? Are they?

I have a confession.

Actually I probably have more than many, but not for today. My current confession is….

“I often log in online in the morning as I am getting ready for work. I turn my laptop around to face the wall when I dress.”

Yep. That’s true. I have a little tech paranoia. Don’t you?

There are probably more things that I do out of odd paranoia but they’re not to the front of my mind at the moment. I’m trained to curb my language in front of a microphone – even when it’s not turned on. I’m not too bad with running a spell checker and when writing for work I print and re-read documents – just in case.

Domestically, I laugh at myself for turning my laptop away. Mostly it’s because there is a little web cam embedded in the top of the screen frame. I rarely switch it on, but, hmnn. It’s not really cued up to stream anywhere, but, y’know. In fact the place I go to that take video content, always ask to connect to my camera too. But, y’know, it’s just sorta…It’s a bit silly isn’t it?

I guess it’s amusing as a habit until I forget someday and some freak accident occurs and the web has to deal with the horrors of my morning habits clothed or otherwise. Fingers crossed for my sanity and those that might one day be blinded by that awful image.

Are you oddly paranoid about your tech? Do you have rituals for your netbook or strange habits for your ‘phone? Add your weirdness here if you like. I’m fairly sure we’re not alone on this one.