writers where countries in conflict simply duke it out in cyberspace
to see who would win, based on mathematical models, and then the
proper number of citizens on each side are executed in the settling
up. It would be an efficient if chilling way to handle disputes with our
neighbours.
Again, it should be worrisome that the first thought out of the box is how these things can be used to kill more efficiently, but, again, that is the naivety of a humanist on display.
However, it doesn't end there. Keenan goes on to describe future bordellos filled with picture-perfect robo-prozzies with the clear advantage of being indefatigable (and so, more cost effective nymphos, as WD-40 stretches farther than Vaseline) and having lovely disposable orifices (imagine ordering a mouth with a Hitler moustache for some kinky sado fun!). Keenan doesn't mention what the deal might be with male prostitutes. Perhaps they just recycle, like responsible Buddhist geeks.
In a chilling empowerment of kids with magnifying glasses out looking for creatures to fry, Keenan describes new kits that have come to market that allow kids to hack the nervous system of insects with their smartphones. Maybe it won't seem so unnatural to them when the technique eventually transfers over to hacking 'terrorists,' the definition a moveable feast of lingo. (I vote: people who insincerely employ the word 'empathy' too much. They must learn to suffer with quiet desperation like the rest of us.).
Most people probably know by now that the planet's honeybee colonies are collapsing, an event with profound consequences not only for humans but other life forms on the planet as well, and although no one has been able to absolutely pin the blame on GMO giant Monsanto, they are certainly implicated. But never fear, say techno-cats, no problem, because robo-bees are on the way and they will take over for their live falling comrades. For a price, of course. And lots of contractors want mileage included, so we may need to hire some lay-about bees to keep the costs down.
We are, indeed, the dystopia we've been waiting for. So, why write dystopias when we live in one?
Well, actually, that's easy. Let's start with myself, because like the passenger on a decompressing plane going down, who needs to take care of himself first in the emergency, if he wants to save others, I sometimes have buoyant, upbeat thoughts, and when I think them they are beautiful as picture cards from Paradise or like those deep space views of the Christmas tree ornament cosmos. (Blow it up and see!) They make me want to live some more.
Second, my family, who take me out of myself, not only with their own needs and requirements, but with their genuine smiles and the connective tissues of their love that bind our ultimately separate destinies.
Third, it's still green out there, life still surges in its lyrical impetuosity through the countless roots and veins and branchings of Being, Earth abides, and the sun also rises.
Fourth, we are one benign global catastrophe away from a possible reprieve, a solar flare, say, that wipes out world electricity and gets us off the internet arses altogether, and knocks down the surveillance state in one fell swoop. Forcing us to gather again in human commons and listen to each other face-to-face, and negotiate as sisters and brothers in need of wisdom. It's called hope, and its's the only real Utopia we've ever had or will ever need.
Indeed, I have enough to close by saying I am right now working on a dystopic novel that has the one saving grace of assuming that we will get past our current troubles. I'm just anticipating the next disastrous confrontation. That, too, is a product of hope.
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