This is what obsesses me, but very very quietly. I think I’m going to start talking about it.

I want an infusion of technology. I want my hair to have LEDs wired in. I want to snap my fingers and watch sparks fly free and blue. Tonight I’m going to go dancing. I’m going to twist and try not to break my ankle again. My shoes have snapped again, back to wandering barefoot with cardboard sandals in my pocket for that just in case and the bus-driver rules. I want a networked media pool, I want everyone in and swimming. Science fiction reaches into immortality in a way that I don’t think most other fiction does. The promise to invent the future, to weave articulation into the joints of your fingers, to preserve the other and outline the reactions required to outlive our own societal deadline. We need drama, we’re humans, we make stories out of everything. That’s what you do when you meet someone, it’s all teasing anecdotes. Reactions of instinct. Tell you what I’m like, explain my reactions through making you laugh. It’s striking. I want to dramatize the future, project a thought forward, try to give an idea to anybody who could make it real. I want my flying car and all the metaphor stands for. Could you imagine if we were the last generation to grow old? The conservative reaction wants to tie us more to the past than we need to be. The bit that’s certain isn’t that technology will progress to a point where we break that servile reaction, but that it will happen without us if we aren’t paying attention.

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