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Tuesday, February 14, 2006
11:57 AM
Phil droid goes dingo.

Can't. Make. It. Up.

[Thanx to the peripatetic Bruce Sterling, as ever.]

Monday, February 13, 2006
10:40 AM
Okay, he's no longer nicknamed "Bunny". Thanks to the people who posted to point out that I've already named two characters "Bunny" in previous books. *Weird*.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006
8:38 PM
She stood beneath the squid’s tail, enjoying the flood of images rushing from the arrowhead fluke toward the tips of the two long hunting-tentacles. Something about Victorian girls in their underwear had just passed, and she wondered if that was part of Picnic At Hanging Rock, a film which Inchmale had been fond of sampling on DVD for pre-show inspiration. Someone had blended a beautifully lumpy porridge of imagery for Bunny, and she hadn’t noticed it loop yet. It just kept coming.

And standing under it, conveniently engrossed, head stuck in the wireless helmet, let her pretend she wasn’t hearing Bunny hissing irritably at Alberto for having brought her here.

It seemed almost to jump, now, with a flowering rush of silent explosions, bombs blasting against black night. She reached up to steady the helmet, tipping her head back at a particularly bright burst of flame, and accidentally encountered a control-surface mounted to the left of the visor, over her cheekbone. The Shinjuku squid and its swarming skin vanished.

Beyond where it had been, as if its tail had been a directional arrow, hung a translucent rectangular solid of silvery wireframe, crisp yet insubstantial. It was large, long enough to park a car in and easily tall enough to walk into, and something about these dimensions seemed at once familiar and banal. Within it, there seemed to be another form, or forms, but because everything was wireframed it all ran together visually, and was difficult to read.

She was turning, to ask Bunny what this work in progress might become, when he tore the helmet from her head so roughly that she nearly fell over.

This left them frozen there, the helmet between them. Bunny’s blue eyes loomed owl-wide behind diagonal blondness, reminding her powerfully of one particular photograph of Kurt Cobain. Then Alberto took the helmet from them both. “Bunny,” he said, “you’ve really got to calm down. This is important. K.T. is writing an article about locative art. For Node.”



“The fuck is Node?”

“Magazine. Like Wired. Except it’s English.”

“Or Belgian,” K.T. offered. “Or something.”