These are some thoughts I've been gestating for a bit. First of all, as an introduction to this thread, here are some writings Kanata Ten wrote a while back.
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Cluttered and disarrayed, the apartment of the average male specimen (for this is what we are to the advertiser) has a distinct odor. We might pretend the smell originates from some bit of food, rotting in either the cooler or behind some stack of clothes. Or maybe the smell arises from the clothes themselves, unwashed and mildew stained. Yet, it matters little if we empty the cooler, clean the clothes, and activate the air fresheners. And even with the pleasing sent of lemon antiseptic pervading, a hint of rotten fruit is never far behind. I would propose the sent is the occupant, alive but rotting. Watch as he walks through the door and glances to the sensor placed upon the ceiling, the sensor that turns the lights on and off in ultimate conservation of energy. The single pulse of the red LED is comforting to the occupant, as if it signifies he is still alive. Would it comfort still to know that each blink is a measurement of death's nearness? ...And what conclusion can we draw from the increased sale of these so-called "Death Sensors" to apartment landlords and arcology managers? Have we depleted community so much that only machines note our passing, just another name added to another list? Of course we have our virtual communities, complete with friends, enemies, and awkward sexual moments. A place where people congregate to converse and relieve the sense of loneliness. But when a member no longer arrives, how is their passing noted? The virtual community is a constant flux, the new and the old blend in the creative escape of ideas. Communities here are founded on ideas rather than reason, they grow and implode similar to their ancestors in the physical world, but perhaps quicker. One less, one more, hardly more than a "where are they now"... But our occupant claws through his tube, over the pile of clothes, shedding another sweat stained shirt; he makes a mental note to wash clothes this weekend but forgets it instantly. Pulling a cup from the machine and filling it with recycled water, he dives deeper in to the ten-foot sanctuary towards the bed and the plug waiting there. He has to clear a spot for the cup, moving and stacking the empty cups, cans and miscellaneous plastic garbage crowded around the end table. A heavy sigh and he sinks into the messy sheets, careful to avoid hitting the shelf stacked with his chips from erotic to domestic - job training to one degree or another according to his tax statements. One last look at his hole in the ground, and then the male lies back, caressing the familiar shape of the plug, a sudden smile on his lips. The world is new; reality fades into existence. His home page is a simple sphere: adorned with wallpapers of rock bands and sex icons purchased for nominal fees (though his wastebasket is filled with the favorites of last month). He has music piped in from a punk site, and he listens momentarily enjoying the newest envirosense option he bought. He'll stop at Sustanence.Com and buy some contentment before hitting the chat rooms looking for some cyber. |
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She's depressed again, coming home to a tidy mess and sinking into the comfy couch. The trid snaps on, it knows her mood. The vacuum bot becomes silent though two rooms away; it knows her mood as well. A flashing light on the telecom is ignored, for now. Her daughter is still at school, she thinks, but the trid is distracting and a meal arrives soon enough. The food is gone quickly, filling her with a sullen form of contentment. Diet Delight might be the name, and despite recent and persistent warnings of cancer, she eats it everyday. She hates being fat more than cancer, or so she believes in the thoughtless way one believes such things. Nervousness sets in from some part of her. The comfy couch is itchy or stiff; she leaves it for the kitchen. No, not water nor soda, but yes to the herbal tea. It will not calm her filled as it is with Ginseng and many derivatives or hybrids of caffeine, but it gives her courage. Rather focus, the two are often confused. She paces to the telecom, tracing the well-worn carpet. Her mind tries to distract her: is it time to call Empire? Have the carpet replaced by simwood? She notices her fear, and steels against it with a sip of the tea. Does the tea smell of Jasmine today? Her daughter's work no doubt. The messages are from bill collectors and loan managers; she sighs in relief (but also resignation). Depression is common in her social status, so the polls say. She'll use the tea to wash down a NERP. All better, now. The daughter is happy, high on youth and boys. The girl bounces into rooms, dropping her computer on the comfy couch, her purse on the kitchen table, and her many rings along dimple of the sink. She babbles at her mother as she moves about the house, leaving the trappings of the day behind her. Yes, all children are tornados, thinks the mother. Sitting in the kitchen, she has waited for the daughter. Her blithering more soothing than trid, more filling than anything, soon dissipates into fighting - always about something, but usually boys. The mother wants to scream, "Oh please daughter, don't fall in love!" But no one could take such advice, and the girl is too young, too pretty to be in love. She leaves boys or they leave her, no more sorrow than seeing a tridshow go (besides, she can always have reruns - she is pretty). Today the fight starts: "Didn't you bring your respirator?" "They mess up my hair" "Hair is fixable" "So are lungs" "Hair is at least reasonable" "I don't care" Her daughter would rather be pretty than have cancer. Both are tanned from the coffin in the living room, but perspective is a strange thing. The girl will recede to her room, and the woman will wonder back to her youth, back to the birth, and pick fond memories until the nervousness returns. The mother remembers complaining to Create-A Child about the stubbornness. She had paid them well for a beautiful girl, but docile was among the options chosen. The soft-spoken icon that responded - obviously not alive with such calm and ease of manner - had implied that genes only account for so much. The mother had carried the child to term and delivered her, she smiles in memory. When the chair becomes hard, she rises, chooses dinner and the machines begin whirling. Chopping, smashing, pouring out the next Diet Delight. The daughter returns for dinner, and talks again, clearly forgiving her mother - if she stays silent about the subject of lungs. She does, dinner is peaceful - as it is for most nights. They both retire to opposite rooms, after daily hygiene is complete, and they have kissed goodnight. The mother swallows her NERPS Sweet Dream, and drifts into nervous sleep. The daughter plugs into her simsense and stares into the dreams of others until her body falls limp from exhaustion. Tomorrow is the same. |
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I like that. IMO, everyone in SR is addicted. It is not in the soft drink's company interest to make a soda that quenches thirst. Every year the container will get larger until they invent ultra power soda. Oh wait, they did. Notice how Red Bull comes in cans half the size of regular soda and costs twice as much? Tastes like crap to slow the drinking process so at least you feel you've had something. Consumerism is the opiate of the masses. Spoon feed and plastic bed, trideo screen and favorite sex scene, anti-depressant and alcohol. Shedim watch out, we don't need the competition to inhabit our dead bodies. |