Scaling down, incredible beards and the increasingly likely end of humankind.

The Wide Boundary Impacts of AI with Daniel Schmachtenberger - podcast with Nate Hagens.

I've been steadily weaning myself off from the internet, bit by bit, not that I was ever utterly glued to my phone but I began to feel uneasy at that slight fear rising up when I didn't know where it was in the house. I'd got into a rut of listening to stuff at night in order to sleep but I've managed to stop that and have replaced it by breath-work - nothing complicated and needing an app, just slow deep intakes of breath and slower out breaths; after a while the thoughts and angst disappear replaced by a warm feeling of security and sleepiness - produced by chemicals in the brain that I forget the name of.

Social media . . . basically it makes me feel depressed, even though I am very grateful to be able to access it occasionally to post a piece of art or something, or to check how someone's doing. I was super relieved that our son has come to the same conclusion and got rid of it all. He's back on track with writing and illustrating, something that had got replaced temporarily by easier scrolling and checking.

As a writer of speculative novels I feel like future-proofing myself with regard to perhaps there not being a 'net' at all - see Londonia's main premise. Therefore relying rather on human face to face communication, reading and creating real hands-on stuff seems a better plan. In the meantime - before the collapse - I'm using the phone still for checking the weather, texting, photos and yes, Youtube. Dear old Youtube. Fond memories of the earlier stages, the fishcake video - sadly taken down, the Alsatian dog being told about treats being given to the cat, Ultimate Dog Tease - still makes me laugh, and it's fourteen years old! 

Fast forward to the massive over stuffed behemoth that it is now. And it certainly has given me an incredible amount of useful information, laughter and things to mull over: health, philosophy, history, geography, politics, permaculture, music, et al. But I'm still trying to narrow it down so that I can do the washing up with just looking out at the birds or without needing anything other than me in silence for a while.

So within the narrower spectrum I now watch or listen to are about five channels: The functional melancholic - posted about before, the Daily Beast/Rest is Politics for a catch up on the mad state of the political world, and quite a lot of science podcasts about AI, AGI and 'super intelligence' as I'm attempting to write a novel which encompasses some of this ever changing vast subject. Actually impossible to write really but fun and brain-stretching.

The above podcast was one of the incredibly interesting and frankly, utterly terrifying descriptions of what is actually going on, and probably will be going on which will change everything for humans, and everything else that shares this maligned and still utterly beautiful sphere we have the fortune to live on.

And . . . for admirers of beards, this has to be the most extraordinary one I've seen for a while. 

Great exchange, and I think I'll need to listen to several times to glean even a fraction of the information.

And then, to lift the gloom, I do allow myself a glimpse into the world of Glenn DeVar's 'Country Drag' - welcome back to country drag, y'all.'

Dog walk story

As mentioned in an earlier post - stories concocted on a dog walk then transferred to screen/paper when entering the house, as a stream of consciousness rather than something worked on at length. Flash fiction, but longer....

                                                                      G78.     

© Kate A Hardy 2024

 

I stretch my legs out under the desk, wincing slightly as the metal implants tug at my kneecaps. The pinstripe wool trousers are still rather too long but the medics assured me within a matter of sevdays my legs will attain their extra four cms. Of course, I should store the suit away - wait until the trousers fit correctly but I just need to adapt into my new persona completely.

 

"Trank!"

I wince again, not from the knee pain but from the fact that Benkins is calling me as he wheels himself in my direction. I fight the rising nausea that always threatens whenever I see his bizarre form. The product of an AWOL artificial creativity mishap some months back, Benkins is now half man-half grotesque vehicle, of sorts. He approaches, his fleshy wheel creating strange sticky noises as it passes over the shiny flooring. The other reason I keep away from him as far as is possible is his incessant use of the latest short-lang. Short-lang goes against everything I hold precious in this life where so little of any substance remains.

 

"Trank - sums done?"

I avert my eyes from the wheel and focus upon the compubanks stacked behind him.

"You mean, have I the figures for the number of new telephonic apparatus required for the lowest ranks, I assume?"

He sighs causing his robo-surgeon lifted cheeks to inflate as much as they can. "Talk norm, man."

"I am. This is normal - for what I have chosen."

He eyes me suspiciously with his pale irises. "Century?"

"Mid 20th. I like the clothing, the trappings, the words."

"Time-waste. Watch above . . ."

I know he refers to the occasional swooping on the higher ranks who might have assumed a bit too much freedom of choice. But my work is excellent; my control over what could be something explosive, well maintained. I turn and snatch up the figures as requested, handwritten on a sheet of luxurious paper. He takes the sheet and scowls at me.

"I sent mind question. Why not respond?"

I have had this procedure - it's very difficult to refuse it, but I hate the feeling of someone's questions snaking about in one's brain. Also, unless you develop the skill to its maximum you overhear and audibly digest all sorts of drivel that others are thinking or possibly trying not to think. I try an excuse that occurs.

"It gives me plurial headmals - and, recently I started receiving ancient televisual divertissements from the early twenty-first century. The worst being an example named 'who wants to be a millionaire'. The associated music made me want to kill someone."

The second part of the excuse is true and made me feel totally unnerved - enough that I've had the implant disactivated - something not strictly illegal but considered as very odd, veering on untrustworthy.

He grunts a reply and steers back to his work area, glancing back at me with incredulity. He's still peering at me when he's installed himself back in his work bay, those curious opal eyes darting about behind the replicate Ficas Benjamina plant. It wouldn't take much for him to whisper a few suggestions about me into certain ears or minds. I decide it might be a good time to double check those figures as when I had done it previously it had been following a rowdy night involving too many hooch sticks which tend to fog the mind, to say the least. 

Sighing, I stand up and take the currently functioning lift to the cleansing area. While the metal box descends, I wonder what Benkins does when encountering a broken lift; stairs and wheel not being a good combination... Maybe he lives in the office - has a suite somewhere in this enormous sterile place. I only ever enter the main door, show my palm to the digistar register and proceed to my desk; anything else is strongly discouraged, apart from a visit to the servo machines at mealtimes.

The lift jolts as it stops at the basement. I cease thinking about Benkins and pass through the security door into the steel corridors of the formicages. Why this name has been employed I don't know - from the French, meaning ants. Maybe antcages doesn’t have such an easy ring to it. 

A base worker waves me over.

"Cleanse room free, if you are going in."

I wish I could just say, thanks, but I'm just having a quiet stroll down here to think a few things over, but I'm here to count heads, and check thumbs. He opens the grating door, rusted at the bottom from countless showers. I pass through and go through the routine of undressing, carefully hanging my precious wool suit in the closet and pulling on the grey overall waiting on a hanger. Goloshes added, mask snapped on and rubber bonnet in place I open the door and nod to the worker. 

The lecopad and pen are ready in the zipped pocket. My stomach clenches slightly as I anticipate the noise that will ensue as the studded metal door gradually opens. I could just stop, collapse, feign death . .. but then that would be viewed as deeply suspicious, lacking in motivation, ignoring the common good, and possibly be found out to be a lie - if tests were deemed necessary. I sigh as loudly as the northerly gusts that will later flay my darkened apartment building, and nod to the door operator. 

They don't notice me for a few moments, even though the sliding door had pierced the air with its screech. I take in the perspective lines of the room; the ugly, green-tinged lighting that highlights the shining baldness of many heads, heads bowed in silent all-absorbing concentration - if it is concentration. I imagine more a sort of flickering visual captivity, eyes seeking every movement of the screens before them.

Then the gathered realisation of the door noise enters their collective minds. Some attempt to stand up on long-forgotten legs. They fall back to the benches, mutter, eyes pulling their attention back to the scrolling images. Others shout, waving their fones, demanding the feverishly anticipated upgrades that are promised every sevdays but rarely arrive within the promised time. 

The door-guard fulfills her second job of pressing the sustenance release button, and the troughs begin to fill with the usual beige sludge. A few minions look without interest at the steaming gunge; others, taking one last glance at their fones, place them territorially close to themselves before taking up the alu-spoons. This is the best moment to take the measurements. I pass silently behind each grey-encased back and watch fingers juggling clumsily with spoons. The increasingly large thumbs are causing problems with cutlery, and there is talk of tubes instead - the minions to be fed like baby birds. I pass the lazer counter over each thumb, requesting briefly that they be stretched out if they are still curled around the fone's black casing. 

No one has escaped; I doubt if they would have the brain capacity to even imagine such a thing. The thumb lengths are as I had previously logged. I glance once more over the long thin room, press the door release, and go back through the clothing routine, my appetite for a servo machine protein burger even more diminished after viewing the sludge.

The lift is broken. I take the stairs slowly, each metal pin under my kneecaps making its presence known. A distant, bright voice chirps from the area I have just left.

"Great news, partners. The awaited upgrade has been superseded! G78 will now be channeling all your feeds. Praise the Custodian!"

A muffled cheer leaks from the room beyond the showers. 

Londonia characters

It was suggested by Steven - the narrator I am working with on the Londonia audiobook - that it might be interesting to use a drawing/painting for each chapter. I'd already started a few pen and ink Londonia sketches - see some posts back - but it was an interesting challenge how the characters in my head would translate to drawing.

A few examples:

Jarvis - Hoxton's sidekick Finder and genial gangster.

Bert the Swagger - a dubious, crafty and porn-obsessed personage who lives in a stilt house at the edge of Lady Thames unearthing her treasures of the past at low tide. Pictured here suggesting a trade to Hoxton of a 2025 phone for something rather undesirable...

                      

The bread-mec - The local bread maker, pictured here soaking his aching back in a copper bath after a hard days bread-graft.

In contrast to the shadowy colours of Londonia, three of Mrs Caruso's pampered Cincture friends arriving in a well-preserved 1960s jaguar.

Dyst-hopeia

My genre of writing: dystopian but with hope and humour. 

Highly visual portrayals of imagined futures, often set in London, towards the end of this century.

Elements of Atwood, Dickens, Kim Stanley Robinson, Douglas Adams, Emily St. John Mandel. 

Londonia the first book in the Londonia series was published by Tartarus Press in 2020 just before lockdown - timely for its genre . . .

Smithi, the follow up novel is completed, other companion works finished to good edit standard.

“British author Hardy debuts with a dystopian yet enchanting novel set in the early 2070s…Hardy’s almost hopeful view of the world’s inevitably chaotic future lifts this entertaining and well-told tale.” Publishers Weekly

Londonia's book jacket intro:

Londonia, that’s where we are. A sprawl of a place surrounding The Cincture - all of it once London town. 

Some persons say we’re in the year 2073, others cycle 60 . . . who gives a creepin’ beetle where we are in the history of man. Fukked it up good and proper didn’t we – they, humankind generally. 

All I know is I got my shed, my friends and a little bit of an angle on stuff – visions, see inside persons, y’know. 

Anyway, ain’t about me so much this book, more about Hoxton and her life. 

Within half a clockface I knew she was different . . . not so many damefolk would take over a church after waking on a bench with not so much as a gnat’s knowledge of what happened in their life before that moment. Got it sorted she has: a finder’s life for her – whatever you want: coffee, a shootstick, fresh meat, Zeitporn, snash, gnole . . . her ‘an Jarvis, they’ll find it – for a goodly trade, of course.

All sorted until a jaunt into The Cincture caused her to learn something that opened up a chink into the past; something that started the ultimate finding mission. 

Anylane, I’m getting ahead of meself here. Pull up that armchair to the fire, turn this over and start reading. I’ll put the kettle on if the watermec’s been. Jake’s the name – Jake the prophet.

 

 

                                                                                     

 

Defining oneself

Sometime I envy folk who always knew what they wanted to do . . . a doctor, a lawyer, a wedding cake maker, something more tangible than being a writer.

For about twelve years now I've been writing for on average an hour first thing in the morning - first thing being around 6:00 am - and when things have been chugging along nicely, coming back to the work of the moment several times a day, other jobs permitting. With this routine I've written nine novels, a volume of short stories, penned many illustrations, and have felt this all to be vital for who I am. I can say I am a writer, thankfully given affirmation from both marvellous and supportive friends and family, and, more importantly if one is counting success as a published book, from agent and publisher.

However . . . to keep kicking away at the publishing door for the next published tome is hard and demoralising work. My agent and I parted ways amicably after Londonia didn't become a Netflix series, and I've been going through the dreary process of hunting down another for a few months now for several months without success. Perhaps there is a message here, myself has been saying to myself. These summer months have been the most full on I can ever remember apart from my London styling days. Writing has been pushed back to a few blog posts and tentative starts at other books, as keeping our surrounding vegetation alive and completing our building project has taken over.

But it's ok. As the summer has dragged on in its fierceness - I can now see why Vivaldi hated the heat and accordingly stuffed the hot part of the Four Seasons with angry violins - helping the garden become a serious life support system for all the birds, butterflies and weeds of the area was at first tedious, then challenging and now a meaningful routine. 

As for the agent hunting. Is it worth it? when they all seem to be hunting the latest money spinning police series or escapist something. Maybe I'll just wait, put out the odd tentative feeler when climate reality smacks a bit harder. Hopeful dystopia must surely have a place on high street bookshelves . . .  or not. Time will tell.

When the garden, hopefully, comes off its us-life-support-system in the autumn, and the building work is rounded up into a fully functioning guest space maybe I'll properly start up the writing again. However, as I feel increasingly that things generally are not heading in a super direction, perhaps I'll go for a more artisan approach: handmade ink drawings, pen to hand-fabricated paper - not fingers on keyboard. Practice what you preach? Twelve years or so going on about speculative and mostly dystopian futures . . . maybe it's time to write in a way that my characters might, small scale, human-made materials; a quieter and satirical peer into the world turmoil.

Live reading from my novel, Londonia.

An extract in which our heroine, Hoxton, visits a 'shouting house' (auction rooms circa 2072) to seek a requested Ikea cabinet.

Suddenly a brighter day

Following on from last post . . . brighter for me anyway.
Interesting that a most magnificent rainbow had arched over our house just before the postman turned up and delivered a large blue sack containing a box within which were four copies of my novel, Londonia.

Thanks Tartarus Press. They look awesome, in the real sense of the word.







To pre-order:http://www.tartaruspress.com/hardy%2c-kate-a-londonia.html