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The Fiasco

20 November 2018 12:00AM sg-2018travel

The fiasco began on a Tuesday afternoon, just before five, as I told an enquiring co-worker that I had, in fact, already packed, and that I was headed not for home but straight for the airport instead.

She raised an eyebrow.

"You're only taking one pair of shoes?"

I nodded.

"I hope you're okay with them getting wet."

I laughed, and the conversation turned to whether or not taking the bus to the airport was a bad idea - something I'd never tried before, but which turned out to be absolutely the least of our problems.

After a pit-stop at Woolies to grab a 65-pack of plastic sandwich bags - 64 of which were unceremoniously and unintentionally left at the bus stop - and a brief exchange with my dad, who having only just arrived home from the airport himself wanted to know where his garage door opener was, we stepped on to the tarmac at terminal one.

We laughed and high-fived, thinking we'd made it through the most unreliable leg of our trip, and stepped promptly into a queue. A queue, thirty minutes long, for a flight which (as it turns out) was delayed by about two hours. A nominal nine slipped slowly out to twenty past eleven - boring, for sure, but definitely preferable to the alternative - and rolled our eyes as we strapped ourselves in for the night.

Singapore, surely, would be smooth sailing after such a to-do. Right?

We sauntered through security, certain that our delayed plane would make us late enough to take the train, rather than trusting a taxi to take us to our hotel - but that would be too easy, wouldn't it? No, as we descended it became increasingly clear that we were a few hours early for even the earliest train, and after the queues and delays and the several hours trapped inside a metal tube with very insistent salespeople masquerading as stewardesses we didn't exactly fancy another wait.

Besides, the taxis in Singapore were supposed to be fine, right?

We gave our address and the name of the hotel. The driver nodded enthusiastically and pulled out into the night, taking great pains to point out the casino as we passed. We slid into the hotel with minimal incident. Except, of course, for the part where we tried to check in and were apologetically informed we were at the wrong hotel.

Back at the taxi rank, we were told in no uncertain terms that the trip was "too short" to turn a profit - a stunt that even we in our naivety could see was an attempt to solicit a little extra on the side. That was from the driver that stayed, having been thrown under the metaphorical bus by his mate as he squealed out to do a lap around the block at the mere prospect of driving a measly 2k.

By then we were tired enough that everything about this cascading comedy of errors was actually pretty funny in the moment, rather than just afterwards. And since we didn't have any cash anyway, we took a walk, trundling my one bag and her one case across the misty streets of Singapore at four in the morning, just as the call to prayer began to echo out across the city.

At one point she turned to me with a grin in her eyes, and said, "It's beautiful really, in a surreal sort of way."

And then the rain came.

Softly at first, but steadily more torrential, until we found ourselves trapped under a bus stop between one hotel and the next. After a useless wait for a break in the rain we swapped glances and then grins and decided, in her words, to "go for it".

It was the wettest kilometre of my life. And, as it turned out, of the entire trip.

We squelched into the hotel - the right one this time - to looks of bemused concern from the staff behind the desk, who at least had the decency to wait until we were mostly out of earshot before calling someone to mop behind us.

And we slumped onto the bed, peeling off wet layers and replacing them with new ones that were merely damp, and we watched the grey lightning-shot sunrise over the Singapore skyline. We dozed the surreal sleep of those who have just stepped off a red-eye into a monsoon, and who had decided, even as day broke around them, that their solitary set of soaking sneakers were definitely a problem for tomorrow.

standing in the rain

 listen to this post

A twisted braid of dread and hope

23 October 2018 12:00AM rantslife

So I have some things on my mind.

strand one

The first is that we as a species seem to be dead set on trashing our planet.

I know that's nothing new, but a couple of things really drive it home for me lately. Most recently, that the system is telling me that I need a new phone, that I need to replace these gadgets even though there are tons and tons of e-waste leaching toxic heavy who knows what into who knows where. There's no way for me to opt out of that system.

Even if ethical technology were possible, I don't have the time or the energy to stop my life and put everything on hold and figure out how to not participate in something that I think future generations will look back on and see as thoughtless and perhaps inherently evil because I'm caught up in the same treadmill as everybody else.

strand two

So we're trashing our planet. But somehow we're also managing to trash our society.

Social media has become the way we structure information in our society, and it has completely devalued truth in pursuit of advertising revenue - trying to sell us stuff. And traditional media has increasingly jumped in on that, and realised that the the way to get ad views is driving ever bigger wedges between people and manufacturing conflict instead of unity - because that's what gets clicks.

We buy all this stuff we don't need at enormous cost and it doesn't even make us happy.

strand three

And I could ignore all of this if it weren't for the third thread in my glorious tapestry of dread. I could deal with all of this while I was doing something that I cared about. While I was spending my time on things that got me fired up. Things that maybe weren't making a much of difference in the global scheme of things, but that were at least making a difference to me and the people I interacted with.

But it's harder to see how that all fits together now. I'm pulled in lots of directions instead of just one.

Despite all the critical thinking in the world I am still falling into the same well-worn path of least resistance as every single other human in rich western society where I'm chasing a destructive, conventional life and I didn't even notice it happening.

I didn't even notice it happening.

We didn't even notice it happening.

But for some reason we chose now to wake up to this, only now that it's too late, and I don't know if any of us have the commitment to claw it back.

So where's the titular hope?

Weirdly, I think the answer might be... politics?

strand four

I don't think I'm alone in this feeling, and I don't think that this is necessarily the solution for everyone, but I have been finding it really theraputic to get involved with a political campaign. Specifically, the Greens campaign for Swan.

I helped run a doorknock last weekend, and it was amazing.

It feels good to be doing something, to chip away at changing minds. It feels good to be doing something i'm good at; talking to people and thinking about audiences and messages and how we line those two up as efficiently as we can. It feels good to be doing satisfying busywork; planning events and doing briefings and evaluating data.

And it is nowhere near as much of a commitment as I thought.

Part of this is proximity: it helps that the candidate sits at the desk across from mine. But the other part of it is literally that all they need from you is to be yourself. Not a representative, not a policy nerd - just a person with opinions, to go out and have a conversation.

Because at the end of the day, that's how we change things.

And maybe that's not for everyone - not everyone is good at or enjoys those things, and not everyone aligns neatly, or at all, with a political party. I get that.

But everyone has something that's close to them - maybe you could do that instead.

It's empowering to have a channel through which you can act in a way you feel is making a difference and that is something I think a lot of us sorely need right now.

Go find something. Find something close. Something you can do. Something you can ease into.

It doesn't have to be this - but I'd love to see you there if it is.

greens

Space Fighter: Why we cared about Cassini.

15 September 2018 12:00AM scicomm

On this day, one year ago, the Cassini spacecraft plunged into Saturn's atmosphere. This was widely regarded as a good move, but made a lot of people very sad.

But why? It performed its function to specification, and once its operational lifetime was over, it was decommisioned. It's no different, really, from any other piece of scientific equipment. There's no logical reason for us to empathise with a spacecraft. And yet, from mission control to Youtube comments sections, that's exactly what we did.

This phenomenon is called anthropomorphism, and it's part of being human. As social animals, it's incredibly useful for us to be able to figure out what other humans are thinking. Our brains, over hundreds of thousands of years, have adapted to be really good at just that. Sometimes, they're a little too good. If something looks even a little bit human, it causes that ancient instinct to fire, even if it's not supposed to.

Curiosity takes a selfie

But Cassini was no Curiosity. It didn't have a stereo cameras that looked like eyes, or soil samplers that looked like hands. It was a car-sized oblong bristling with instruments and antennae. There was nothing recognisably human about it - except for the way it behaves.

When it comes to anthropomorphism, actions can be just as powerful as appearances. If something looks like it's behaving with purpose, we try to understand what that purpose might be. In a context that's not familiar, like, say, orbiting around a gas giant, the urge to fall back on that ancient, primitive part of our mind to help us understand is even stronger.

In short? We empathised with Cassini so much because above all else, it looked like it was trying.

Cassini fights to keep its antenna pointed

This moment, from NASA's Grand Finale announcement video, is the perfect example. Cassini has a goal, something that it wants to do, and it's struggling to keep doing it. Everything it's doing happens for a good scientific or engineering reason, but in this moment it's the human explanation that stands out to us.

Opinions are mixed on whether anthropomorphising science like this is a good idea. On one hand, many researchers consider it unscientific. It pushes us to rely on untestable gut instincts, rather than evidence or cause and effect. Perhaps rightly, they're concerned that treating things as human when they aren't is a bit of a misconception.

On the other hand, we have Cassini, where everyone from mission controllers to Youtube commenters got excited and connected on a very human level with something happening a billion kilometres away.

Nobody really believes Cassini is alive, but we act like it is, because it makes a better story. Everyone, not just NASA engineers, had a link with that little probe. And while we lost one connection that day, we gained one as well - with science, and perhaps with each other too.

Creative Commons License
Space Fighter by Rockwell McGellin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
Based on a work at https://rockym93.net/blog/2018/09/space-fighter.html.

Patchwork Punch-clock

16 August 2018 10:02PM life

So I got another job.

The reasons for that are, as always, complex and multifaceted. At least part of it was a sense that I'd outgrown the job I was in, and I was looking for something a bit different, and a bit more challenging, and a bit new.

But I also thought it would bring me stability. The last few months had been a little bit... haphazard. I had my regular presenting shifts. I had my prac to finish. I had a research project into VR for my final bit of course credit. I was tutoring, and marking, two classes of first years, and giving a couple of guest lectures and tutes on top of that. I was freelancing. And I was - in theory, if not in practice - editing my thesis for publication as well.

patchwork

Because of many of these things, and despite some of the others, I managed to graduate only one semester late.

Amongst all that stuff, it was nice to take a moment to appreciate the fact that hey - we made it.

This was a graduation for me, not for my parents. I got a nice haircut, so I wouldn't have hat hair like last time, and booked a photographer I actually knew. Because with all the blurred lines, a defined endpoint is nice. Doing one last thing together as a proper little cohort was nice too.

And afterwards, my mum told me to go and do something fun.

I went and found my supervisor.

And we dropped our robes in the same old office and went down to the pub. Not as a student and a supervisor, but as colleagues. And that was really nice.

patchwork

I thought things might let up a bit after that. I was mistaken.

I was presenting most days again. I was freelancing again too. I was doing content management for a website redevelopment. I was still working on that same research project, and probably half a dozen more side projects as well.

It was quite the roller-coaster. I learned all kinds of new skills.

And despite many of these things - perhaps because of some of the others - I somehow found time to apply for that elusive, seductive, full time job.

I'm not going to lie, I struggled with that a bit. When I got the offer, I spent an anguished afternoon sitting at a park bench journalling it out. Was I making a mistake, leaving the cobbled-together casual-freelance life for "stability" and "job security"? Did I owe it to myself to try and make this thing I had work? Was I selling out my freedom to choose how I spend my time?

Did I really want to stick to one full-time job, just so I'd be too busy to worry about anything else?

In the end, of course, none of it mattered. The Norns in Human Resources stared at the threads of my life and cast their omens, and offered me two part-time jobs instead.

(Now I feel like now I can legitimately say hey - I didn't choose the gig life. The gig life chose me.)

patchwork

So I'm still two days a week here, and one day a week there, and spend Tuesday afternoons somewhere else a-tutoring.

And I'm still not sure what comes next.

But that's okay.

I will keep piecing things together, because in the end that's all anyone's life is anyway. The sooner you own that the sooner you'll be able to take a little bit more of an active hand in guiding your fate.

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

And when life pulls you in many directions, you make a patchwork.

patchwork

 sliding down

The Planetarian's Tale

13 August 2018 02:36PM fictionscicomm

"Have you ever seen a star, kid?"

The kid nods. Who hasn't?

"No, a real one. Outside."

Confused, the kid shakes their head. Stars live inside, everyone knows that.

"When I was a lad," the traveller begins, "you used to be able to see the stars at night."

The kid's eyes roll. They'd asked for a proper story. This was a fairy tale.

"Before the City crept its way out here, before the smoke and light came, you could see entire galaxies stretching out over our heads."

"But they built, and they built, and they built. Blocks became houses, which became offices, which became skyscrapers. And eventually, they scraped the stars right off the roof of the world."

"People complained, of course. We knew what we were losing, even then. 'The Dark Sky movement', they called themselves, and they told us we were losing the dark. But progress is progress, and progress marches forwards. People cared. Just not enough."

"Instead, we built a fake sky to sate them. We sold them tickets and told them stories of what used to be theirs by birthright. The sky became a luxury, a novelty, and we convinced them it was the same thing."

"It's not the same. Not even close."

"Stars aren't fuzzy blobs you can reach out and touch, that you can catch and hold in your hand. They're cold and bright, and sharp - so sharp it hurts.

"They do their best with software and lenses and xenon, but all they'll ever have is fuzzy wishy-washy things stuck inside a basement.

"A real star is a true point source. It's a pinprick tickling your retina, an impossibly razor-thin edge honed by billions of kilometres of dispersal and backed by the energy of an entire sun. The starlight that hits your eye is a single, uninterrupted beam that stretches from you out into the universe, splayed out thread by thread to the very limit of human perception."

"The night sky is the crispest, highest definition thing in the universe.

The traveller falls silent and stares into the distance. The kid lingers, awkwardly, realising they're intruding on what's fast becoming a private moment.

"At night, we used to see stars."

"And they say, kid," he says as he picks up his pack, "That if you get far enough away, you still can."

< Life is a subway