Plastic Moment # 5 July 29, 2009 05:55:55PM

Union Square Station, New York, NY
(40.7359796, -73.9893249)

My after work errands sorted with efficiency, I hit the stairs to the subway in the hope of getting home before the darkening sky opens. I've left home without my umbrella and now will need to to be quick and lucky to avoid getting soaked. On the last step I turn an ankle. Tripping awkwardly, I quickly find myself belly to pavement and my groceries and other items scattered across the grimy station floor. Shaking off the fall I begin to frantically scoop my belongings up off the pavement. As I do so I can't help but notice a peculiar foreign item among them. It is the size and shape of a standard promotional flyer, as would advertise a club, bar or website, but the paper and printing are of a distinctive quality.

One side of the card bears a peculiar geometric symbol consisting of a twisting unbroken line with many angles yielding six distinct points and having no discernible beginning or end. The symbol is etched deep into the paper and outlined with a metallic bronze ink. The other end of the card is filled with fine detailed calligraphy whose symbols are completely foreign to me. The item has a strange hypnotic pull to it and I find myself standing among the rush hour crowd idly pondering its origin and meaning. Then a huge crack of thunder echoes down the stairway from street level and the trance is broken. Remembering that I am in a hurry, I toss my found treasure in my front shirt pocket, gather up my bags and make for the turnstile.

At the turnstile my metro-card, the one I had used an hour earlier, does not work. No matter how frantically I swipe it through the reader the response it continually the same. "SEE AGENT". I spin around out of the turnstile area fighting my way through other impatient strap-hangers to the ticket booth. Sliding my busted card through the slot I state my case with as much urgency as I can muster. The clerk does not look up. He slides the card lazily through a reader of his own and taps a few keys on an ancient keyboard, mumbling incoherently as he does so. Not being able to construe whether the mumbling is directed at me I simply stand there tapping my fingers impatiently. When the ticket agent finally looks up from his keyboard however, his expression changes instantly. His eyes perk up and a polite smile forces its way across his tired jowls. "Well my apologies sir" he says crisply, his eyes not quite meeting mine through the thick glass. "We should be able to fix this up for you here and now but I'm afraid it will cost you six dollars" there is an odd nod and wink in his tone and I realize what he's staring at is the card peeking out of my front pocket, the peculiar geometric symbol on display like a badge. I consider protesting the fee, but my sense of urgency overcomes my thrift and I pull a twenty from my wallet and stuff it hastily into the slot.

The attendant then slides me a new card and my change. The card and bills feel oddly heavy and cool to the touch, as opposed to the usual wet heat of over-handled currency. In any event I jam the bills in my pocket and make for the turnstile which, with a reassuring thunk, finally allows me access. Once through I go to tuck the new metro-card into my wallet but end up examining it in detail. It looks like any other metro-card but it feels heavier and the logo across the front seems more detailed, the letters appear to be drawn at an odd perspective with hints of metallic fleck shimmering from the shading.

The rush hour crowd presses me forward and I shake off the odd feeling again and slide the card into my wallet. I take a right turn down a half flight of stairs onto the catwalk the runs above the 6 train platform, as per usual, but after a short time walking I realize something is odd. There is no second set of stairs down onto the platform. In fact as I look over I see another caged in catwalk running parallel to the one I'm on. This passageway is the one I should be on. I see the stairs descending to the platform and the train coming into the station but it is all on the other side of a wire mesh divider. I must have taken the wrong stairs. This hallway and catwalk must lead to another train, perhaps the uptown track. Not wanting to retrace my steps I keep walking forward. Its feels like quite a long way but I soon notice another platform and track to my right and eventually there are stairs leading to them.

As I reach the platform a sense of disorientation nearly overcomes me. Though I had been watching the platform to my right from the catwalk, here the platform ends just behind the stairwell and instead stretches out in front me far enough that I cannot make out the end. I take a few uneasy steps and then collapse onto an empty bench. The station seems deserted though I can here the distant sound of rhythmic drumming laced with the penitent cry of a subterranean saxophone. My head is beginning to swim with confusion. I pull the mystery card out of my front pocket and inspect it, making sure to turn it over gingerly and not focus on it for too long for fear of becoming entranced. There is still nothing I can decipher from the peculiar symbol and accompanying glyphs so I throw it back in my pocket for safe keeping.

I pull out the bills received as change from the attendant. Much like the peculiar metro-card, they looked nearly normal but yet a strange suspicion rise in me that they are not as they appear. There are Messieurs Hamilton and Washington certainly but the images seem to move into my view as if in 3-D and the finely detailed borders twinkle and glisten with light even though the station is dimly lit and the air thick with dust. In a moment of bizarre compulsion I lift the folded bills to my nose and sniff them as if they were fresh cut flowers. My nostrils fill with the heavy scent of incense. The smell of a downtown head shop and uptown's open market makes my head swim. My eye lids grow heavy and I nearly drift away until I'm suddenly stirred from my reverie by the rumble and rush of an incoming train.

My commuter's instinct takes over and I stumble to my feet leaning in against the torrent of air as the train enters the station. The train design is old, like the redbirds of my youth, but without the inches thick build of horrid crimson enamel. Instead the cars have a cool luminous metallic finish. the station is silent save the rhythmic slowing of the wheels. The brakes do not squeak or squeal as the train gently comes to a stop. A man pulls open the car doors by hand and emerges onto the platform. He is tall and sleek with dark skin and blue tinted glasses that seem to glow in the dim station light. He is dressed in a black high collared jacket, smartly buttoned and descending nearly to the floor. He has the peculiar appearance of both a priest and a body guard so it is not strange that when , with a silent open handed gesture, he bids me enter the train I follow his instructions.

Inside it is empty. The lighting is soft and the temperature is cool. I fall into an immaculately upholstered seat and try to acclimate to the strange yet familiar surroundings. The train effortlessly glides back up to speed leaving the station behind. As we depart the distant percussion fades but I can still hear the far away sound of the saxophone. I look around for a sign or direction and find the route marker above the window filled with obscure glyphs that I cannot decipher. I pull the mystery card from my front pocket and hold it up in comparison. The writing both on the train signage and the card appear to be of a similar type. Put the observation yields me little information. I put the card away and try to relax. The air is full of incense, the same fragrance as the bills in my pocket. I breath it in deep and let my eye lids again grow heavy. I give over to the knowledge that wherever the train is taking me there is little I can do to change it's course.

Pixu: The Mark of Evil

From the team that brought us the Eisner winning "5" (sans Rafael Grampá, whose Mesmo Delivery for Adhouse is an absolute must read) comes the captivating horror comic Pixu: The Mark of Evil. I fell in love with this book in its original two volume, self published format but I have to say the people at Dark Horse have done a wonderful job with the new hardcover collected edition. As an art object it is a thing to behold.

Pixu is set in an ageing apartment building that is infested/inhabited/possessed by a mysterious demonic force. Each of the four creators takes tells the tale of one set of tenants whose lives begin to weave together as the action progresses. As a work of horror Pixu is more in line with an atmospheric Asian horror film than a classic all American slasher. There are gore and guts here but they are abstracted and not the primary source of terror. Instead Pixu revels in the unseen. The "mark of evil" from the title is just that, a spreading amorphous void, an erasure, that creeps across walls and seeps through floors, an unintelligible abstraction that appears to both nurture and be nurtured by the dark secrets held by the buildings inhabitants.

The real strength here is a delightful lack of explanation. Pixu has no mad doctor to soliloquise about the specific details or archaic history of whatever demonic force is at large. There is no Rupert Giles, no recordings from Prof. Knowby. In the end it is only the confused and convincingly imperfect characters who drive the story. It is their downward spiral of frantic irrational behavior and horrific violent actions that gives the story its bite.

With all four creators primarily known as illustrators the visual storytelling on display is a cut above. Though each artist has their own distinctive style there is a very cohesive aesthetic sto the book as whole. A serious emphasis is placed on mystery and atmosphere in the the heavily shadowed and textured panels. This is heightened further by a very deliberate pacing that subtly builds suspense toward a nearly over the top climax. One of the best parts about Pixu is that though it is akin to some of the great Asian suspense and horror films one could not imagine it in any other form than comics. In that these young artists have done something a bit special in a time of comics for the sake of hollywood hysteria.

Plastic Moments #4: July 4, 2009 09:53:17PM

Asbury Park Boardwalk, Ocean Avenue, Asbury Park, NJ
(40.2191623, -74.0007582)

Gloriously blinding light, vibrant swathes of color layered over the black horizon, the ground quakes with the report of gunpowder, July the 4th and the pyrotechnic spectacle that is its ritual are spiraling upward toward a grand climax. From the outdoor lounge above the boardwalk the scene is laid out in dynamic tableau. The mass of spectators are silhouetted by the slashes of light and color that slice through the liquid black horizon above the sea. The gasp, awe and spontaneous applause of the crowd punctuates the performance with touches of reverence and nostalgia laced with the primal glee of destruction.

The Grand moment reaches its zenith as eyes shudder from frantically flickering light, ears ring with the cacophony of dozens of chaotic explosions and nasal passages fill with the thick aroma of black powder. The senses, pushed beyond their limits, begin to bleed the confusion taxes the mind of rationality and sends vibrant tremors of excitement through the body. The sensory overload reaches a pitch that is nearly unbearable.

And then it all abruptly ends. There is a moment of overwhelmed silence as thick smoke drifts back from the water's edge over the appreciative spectators standing along the boardwalk, eyes fixed up at the sky. A few small fires are seen burning themselves out along the beach. Applause erupts from the beach, the boardwalk and surrounding area. Somewhere beyond the smoke the unseen pyrotechnicians must be proud.

The applause and smoke dissipate as awe struck silence gives way to conversational chatter and the crowd begins to disperse. But peculiar outbursts begin to rise from those onlookers who have been caught staring listlessly out to sea. The orderly exit is cut short as individuals stop in their places and look about in confusion. The half dispersed crowd begins to ripple with a flurry of shouting, pointing and frantic gestures toward the sky.

Following outstretched fingers one finds an otherworldly sight emerging from the smoke. A massive vertical swathe of black sky has seemingly been torn away and in its place daylight shows through. While the rest of the heavens remain impenetrably black, between the uneven edges of this striking tear a sky of peculiar pink glows with the light of a violet sun and waters of luminous turquoise mingle with the ebony ocean. A flock of iridescent birds, feathers brushed with hues of crimson, bronze and violet, fly across the threshold of the bizarre day-lit dimension and into our night shrouded reality leaving trails of startling color across the horizon as they glide.

The initial panic of the crowd dies down quickly, settling into a peculiar peace that can o found only beyond shock and fear. Every single onlooker is still, neck craning, eyes straining, transfixed. Not knowing what else to do I go back to the bar for another round of drinks.

Cory Doctorow's Makers to be serialized on tor.com

"We’re not the only ones. Technology has challenged and killed businesses from every sector. Hell, IBM doesn’t make computers anymore! The very idea of a travel agent is inconceivably weird today! And the record labels, oy, the poor, crazy, suicidal, stupid record labels. Don’t get me started. "

“Capitalism is eating itself. The market works, and when it works, it commodities or obsoletes everything. That’s not to say that there’s no money out there to be had, but the money won’t come from a single, monolithic product line. The days of companies with names like ‘General Electric’ and ‘General Mills’ and ‘General Motors’ are over. The money on the table is like krill: a billion little entrepreneurial opportunities that can be discovered and exploited by smart, creative people.

from chapter one of Makers by Cory Doctorow



Cory Doctorow's next novel, Makers, is being serialized on Tor.com ahead of it's publication in October. The first of the novel's three originally appeared in serialized form on Salon in 2005 under the title Themepunks . Tor plans to re-post those chapters followed by the rest of the novel three days a week starting yesterday and continuing in to the fall. They have also added very cool illustrations to each chapter from the folks at Idiot Books that will combine in the end to form a giant mosaic.

I absolutely loved the novels first section when it was up at Salon and am looking forward to reading the rest of the book in this serialized format (and than most likely re-reading it as a novel). The novel, or at least the first section, follows a team of hardware hackers immersed in a sort of makers' revolution along with the journalist who finds herself caught up in the events. This post-industrial revolution is comprised of lone cells of entrepreneurs re-purposing the cast off remains of a waste heavy consumer society into new, wonderful and obscure inventions and possibly reigniting the innovation and manufacturing spirit of American society in the process. The driving engine for this change is a rogue CEO, Kettlewell, who delivers the quote above and is determined to retool global industry by micro-funding thousands of individual teams of inventors across the country.

In 2005 the themes and setting of the book were the product of squinting in to a desperate near future. In the current cultural and financial climate however, the story should read as reports from an optimistic version of the present. As always Doctorow shines in making tech/geek gibberish enjoyable to those less fluent in its vernacular. Here he manges again to create a fiction based on complex and serious serious ideas that has at its heart wonderful characters and their very real struggles and triumphs in an age where technology and its effects on daily life are in a maddening state of flux.

It will be interesting to see how the serialization of the book will go over. There have been a few flavors of this return to the dickensesque serial and to my knowledge none have met with massive success. However, the synergy between the themes in the work and the innovative way its being promoted and published make this a perfect candidate for this new twist on a very old format. It certainly doesn't hurt that its written by one of the pillars of the commons and the internet.

Stray Thoughts: Dad Sold Crack Here

The standard image of New York City is of a buzzing hive filled to bursting, sidewalks full of bustling humans and streets clogged to capacity with honking stop/start automobiles. These are, to honest, very genuine urban experiences but there are many others. There is a very special flavor of meditative solitude that comes from discovering a place or a moment that the city dwellers have abandoned or discarded even if momentarily. Walking an empty Brooklyn street alone near dawn can be a singular experience. A moment shared with the sleeping masses tucked away in the surrounding buildings but simultaneously yours alone. In these moments a trick of the light, an odd angle or viewpoint, an introspective state of mind, can unearth peculiar details and hidden treasures from the detritus of a landscape you may travel through every day. To me Rachael Noel Fox's photo book, Dad Sold Crack Here, captures these moments with a revelatory eye for their bittersweet beauty.

There are very few people in the photos Rachael's collected here and they are rarely the focus of the image. The people that do appear are often distracted, asleep while endlessly waiting or walking speedily out of the frame. Instead what is on display are the remains and resonance the city's inhabitants leave in their wake. Skillfully captured here they are perhaps more revealing than portraits could ever be. Here imperfect patterns rise from the faces of apartment buildings and strike out against the starkness of the sky. Worn brickwork, asphalt and concrete all track the movements of their inhabitants and the passage of time in delicately etched abstractions. Entrance ways for churches, hospitals and nightclubs stand un-entered, there haunting memories and kinetic potentials left intact. Common sights of industrial warnings, forgotten advertisements for phantom products, graffiti both intimate and magnificent all co-mingle across the landscape. Each is reshaped in equal measures by the ware and grind urban progress and reborn in equal glory by the gentle touch of the camera lens.

Some of my favorite images in the book are of alleyways, narrow crevices, forgotten corners and other abandoned spaces that have been reclaimed by a resilient natural element whether it be water, plants, flowers or of course cats. The various cats, along with one rather brazen pigeon, are the primary visible animal presence in this collection. This seems rather fitting to me, as I have always felt that city cats, particularly bodega cats and strays, are really the keepers of the forget places. They know of secret spaces and hidden treasures that, lost in the steam and noise of progress, may have gone untouched by humans for generations, at least until someone with an inquisitive eye and camera at the ready follows one down an alley and into the cities neglected heart bring them back for us all to see.

Buy Dad Sold Crack Here.

Also check out the Rae Fox tumblog for a daily fix.