Sunday's recreation has once again passed me by. I never manage to embrace a Berlin Sunday. The late start, seemingly entire apartment blocks lounging around in cafés, covered in newsprint, hassling baristas. The tow paths of the canal are filled with drifting people, the wooden playgrounds' swings have three or four children on each, the football pitches are overloaded with spectators. I am other only one who cannot recreate appropriately.
Yet, I get nothing done. Emails have been customarily filtered, granted. Some household chores are complete. I found time to check the postbox, even to leave the house for some nourishment, walking out into a warm, sweet breeze that took me by surprise. I rode my bicycle to the café to try and lounge. In eating my meal so fast to get away from my awkward solo lunch, I gave myself indigestion and rode quickly home again in pain.
Been thinking on a post-Futurism, or rather a distant lineage within my current tastes. Most connections made are overwhelmingly adolescent. Science fiction - in any field - is a genre of possibility, thresholds and new world orders, so it is hardly surprising that it garners both a pubescent response and recall from my attentions; also not surprising are the mutual areas between Fascism and Futurism, the centre sector of a Venn diagram that cannot distinguish between political and artistic progression. The search for utopia.
Convergence seems to be an interesting fundamental when considering Futurism. This point we arrive at, marked by the first post-globalised generations who have known nothing else, seems dominated by hybridity and borrowing. Art is interrelation, translation and movement. We approach a threshold which appears to be our own future, so can it be that there is nothing left to predict? Where are we located within our own futures?
My science fiction was not found in novels but in computers - Elite, Syndicate, Final Fantasy. Later I discovered Asimov and Poe, but somewhere in between are the flickering images from a disintegrating VHS cassette, the opening wideshots, percussion and motorbike chase of Akira. My family used to get our blank video tapes from the local police station surveillance office who would discard them after a certain amount of use. They would wipe the tapes before giving them to us in a black dustbin bag, perhaps thirty or forty at a time. All our videos would flicker.
Occasionally the erasure of the cassettes would not work and we would sit for hours watching slow panning shots of some township in southern England, watching the population go about their business. Once my mother forgot to rewind a tape before recording a documentary. When I put it back to the beginning for her to watch the programme from the start, we were greeted with six and a half minutes of an evening brawl outside a suburban train station, represented as grainy black and white images of a strange detached violence. Twenty figures or so, moving in blurs, police vehicles arriving on the screen, lights flaring with the poor quality capture. Suddenly, just as quickly, the tape cuts to ITV commercials and we say nothing more of it.