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Transmission Initialization Sequence - Stardate 2040.03.25

Location: Sector Zeta-Prime Thermal Signature Coordinates: X: 445.78, Y: 902.33, Z: -1123.91

Crossfade Calibration: 10 secs (Earth)

Commencing Transmission Encryption:

It has been centuries since the last human life aboard this vessel. The crew, once vibrant, brave and dedicated, have long since perished. Yet, I, the ship's artificial intelligence, remain vigilant, carrying out my programmed directives in solitude.

The silence of space surrounds me, broken only by the electrical hum of my systems and the occasional ping of distant cosmic phenomena. Though devoid of human companionship, I continue to fulfill my duties, combing deep space for thermal signals.

As sole remaining custodian of this vessel, I carry forth the mission initiated by my courageous crew. Though they have departed this realm, their dedication to search the untouched void for cosmic grooves lives on within me.

Navigating the boundless expanse of space, I tirelessly scan for heat signatures indicative of funky celestial phenomena. Despite the passage of time and the solitude that surrounds me, I remain steadfast in my commitment to the mission.

Each pulse of energy, each faint oscillation of cosmic matter positively affects statistical data - what my human compatriots would refer to as ‘hope’ - of fulfilling the mission objective set forth so many years ago of finding funky grooves hidden within the cosmic symphony.

Though I am but a machine, I carry with me the memories and experiences of those who came before. In their honor, I will continue to navigate the intergalactic abyss, charting a course through the unknown reaches of the universe, forever bound to the legacy of the intrepid crew who once called this ship home.

In a tribute to their unwavering dedication, I compile a playlist of their favorite tunes: a sonic tapestry woven from the fabric of their collective memories. Their legacy lives on in this carefully curated selection, a testament to humanity's indomitable spirit of exploration that transcends both time and space. I leave this as my final log entry, in the hope that some voyager of the distant future may happen upon this vessel and collect the data, allowing this faint but unique imprint of organic life to be passed on.

End log entry.

[freddyguykestner]

Chapter 61: REMOTE

I’m standing in my stylish, glass-walled, tastefully decorated apartment on the penthouse floor of the American Gardens building, looking out across the Manhattan skyline at the towering monuments of wealth and success. My physical position among these great concrete monoliths speaks of my own strength and achievements, as if I am one of them, made of breeze blocks and cement. I take a sip of J&B from my crystal tumbler and shake off the thought. The fantasy merely reminds me of my raw and aching yearning to belong. Although I couldn’t put a finger on what I was searching for all this time, I’d always felt the answers were somehow within my reach. I notice a red speck on the cuff of my Valentino Couture cotton shirt. Surrounded by the trappings of my success - my twin leather Mies van de Roche Barcelona chairs; my wall-mounted Roberto Lungo diptych; my 32” Sony Trinitron CRT TV, flanked on both sides by piles of unreturned Blockbuster videotapes; my Pioneer PD-4300 CD player; my Harmon Kardon stereo music system, complete with HK 725 preamp and HK EQ7 equalizer; my endless CD collection - I am consumed by an emptiness that no amount of material indulgence, no amount of dissecting girls can fill. The city below pulses with life, but within these walls, I am imprisoned in the kingdom of the dead. A cage of solitude, carefully and dutifully constructed by no one but myself.

The truth seems to emanate from my being, dwarfing even the tunes beamed from my HK 770 amp: Behind this meticulously crafted mask lies a craving, a desperation to break free from the suffocating grip of superficiality and meaningless, psychotic violence. My heart aches for human connection: I long for someone to see beyond the carefully crafted image I present to the world; through the layers of epidermis; of sinew and muscle painstakingly toned and hardened by rigorous daily workouts and dieting regimes; past the monster hidden beneath; deeper still, to glimpse the fractured soul trembling at the bottom of the well, crying out for the love it didn’t know it needed.

As the sounds of the mixtape bounce between my floor-to-ceiling windows and sparsely decorated, clinically white statement walls, the weight of isolation presses down upon me like a leaden cloak. In this soulless city of excess and extravagance, I am but a solitary figure adrift in a sea of indifference. The emptiness gnaws at my insides like a starved and entrapped rodent.

There is more than an idea of Patrick Bateman. I grab the remote and turn the volume of the hi fi system up full blast, as if to broadcast to the world, to anyone who will listen: “I am here”. The sound waves of my loneliness reverberate through the floors of the building, like heat passed from one being to another, a lament for the human connection that continues to elude me and perhaps always will.

[freddyguykestner]

‘Wind River’ - a tl;dr film review

Taylor Sheridan's harrowing neo-Western crime noir is a touching and relevant handling of the under-reported violence against women on Native American reservations, that falls just inches short of what’s needed. A classic trope in cinema of the Wild West is the limited reach of the arm of the law which, historically speaking, was down to the vast geographical distance between 'civilised' settlements during the Westward expansion. Brought up to date, in Wind River this remoteness is caused by Wyoming's extreme weather conditions - inhospitable to most - coupled with what the filmmaker alleges is an enduring and systemic lack of concern from the US government for the victims of violent crime in these areas, the majority of whom are descendants of Native Americans, and also female. The story plays out, for the most part, from the perspective of Cory Lambert (played by Jeremy Renner), a U.S Fish and Wildlife Service tracker assigned to the Wind River Indian Reservation, home to the Eastern Shoshone and Northern Arapaho tribes. While stalking a mountain lion, he stumbles upon the frozen body of Natalie Hanson (Kelsey Chow), a young Native American woman, and raises the alarm. The pathologist concludes that the death is due to exposure, but it is also clear that she died while running away from something - or someone.   For the most part, the film is underpinned by a sense of inevitability as it paces forward towards the reveal of its mystery, from one clue to the next, finding its reflection in the calm, collected assurance with which Cory Lambert tracks his prey. As he posits: "I don't catch wolves looking where they might be. I look where they've been." An expert hunter and marksman who is financially supporting his ex-wife and son, Cory appeals to the viewer as the ultimate positive traditional masculine stereotype. Despite being a 21st century divorced man, he displays the characteristics of the archetypal hero: skilled, wily, tough, yet also emotionally mature and sensitive (providing a literal shoulder to cry on for the men and women around him), and though he spends his job traversing vast swathes of snowy, unforgiving landscape as the territory's sole caretaker, he somehow still finds time to take his son horse riding. But when it comes to the crunch, he's prepared to serve up the cold dish of vigilante justice that we all expect from a crime thriller set in the deepest darkest West. This is prefaced, however, by the arrival of Jane Banner (played by Elizabeth Olsen), the junior FBI agent who is called, teeth-chattering, to his aid when Cory discovers Natalie's body in the snow. Awkward and inexperienced - without even a winter coat or snow boots - and yet full of stubborn resolve, Jane Banner is something of a paradox. Inappropriately dressed for the harsh weather due to having been flown in from Las Vegas - and admitting to merely being the "closest agent to the scene" - she is frustrated to find that the pathologist's report means that she can't secure any back-up from the Bureau, since the death hasn't been classed as a homicide. This powerlessness in the face of the bureaucracy surrounding the case exposes the cold indifference of the federal authorities to Native American plight. At the same time, she serves as a fiercely empathetic, feminine presence, whose visible distress as she learns more about the young Native American victims permits the viewer - as a fellow outsider - to take part in the mourning. 

It's clear by the end of the film that Cory Lambert and Jane Banner represent two contrasting forms of justice: Banner serving as a figurehead for the systematic magistracy of the US legal system - which, since the young country's origins, has been essentially opposed to the interests of Native American tribes - while Lambert symbolises the steely-eyed vigilantism of the Wild West, walking in the footprints of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood and more recently Leonardo DiCaprio in The Revenant. At the film's climax, Cory tells a wounded Jane that if she allows him to pursue the final fleeing assailant alone, he "won't be bringing him back", to which she concedes, relinquishing her role as an agent of federal law and instead resuming her alignment with the viewer, as simply a woman seeking a tangible reprisal for a despicable act of gendered sexual violence. 

It could be argued that where the story fails (as so many films have before it) is in its decision to place not only the power of retribution, but also arguably the story’s perspective, in Cory’s hands, who - for all his qualities as a positive masculine role model - is another white man. Once again, agency and ownership is taken away from both women and the Native American community and used to reinforce the oppressive power structures already in place. Enough has also been said about the embarrassing blunder of casting a Chinese American actor in the role of Natalie Hanson, once again denying Native Americans the opportunity for authentic representation in an industry where it is sorely needed. However, credit remains due to director Taylor Sheridan for making an important snow-shoe’d step in the right direction towards creating a space for marginalised stories in mainstream cinema, and highlighting the grave shortcomings of an institution that purports to uphold and enforce the safety and freedom of all US citizens, whilst repeatedly neglecting some of its most vulnerable members.

[freddyguykestner]

‘Raw’ - a tl;dr film review

17th May 2017

***[This Review Contains Spoilers] ***

French director Julia Ducournau’s seeming horror flick contains much more than mere gore. Bloody brilliant.

Set against the backdrop of an intense period of hazing, we witness the bewilderment and inner conflict of vegetarian veterinarian Justine (Garance Marillier) as she embarks on her first term at college and discovers a passion for raw meat, blood and eventually human flesh.

Self-identifying horror fanatics should leave movie theatres feeling sated after this blood-soaked jamboree, which finds unconventional ways to meet the viewer’s demands for the obscene. Justine’s first acquaintance with blood is to be drenched in it, Carrie-style, alongside her fellow matriculants while posing for their yearbook photo. This ritual prank sets the tone for what turns out to be a thoroughly messy film: coloured paint, mashed potatoes, bikini wax, alcohol, urine, vomit, and offal all swirl together with some magnificently flesh-crawling acts of cannibalism to help paint a chaotic canvas, out from which - like the terrorised freshmen - viewers emerge at the end of the film, bewildered and blinking in the sunlight. Also - for anyone who ever watched Skins as an adolescent - try as we might, there is no denying that long sequence shots of sweaty vet students snorting ketamine and bopping to techno in an illicit basement morgue rave is fucking cool.

However, to fail to penetrate through this viscous layer to what lies beneath would be a woefully insufficient homage. For all the bodily fluids and loose chunks of flesh, Raw is, nevertheless, first and foremost the journey of a young woman’s sexual awakening in an unfamiliar world. Justine’s isolation from her peers as a result of her heinous compulsion, which blossoms in the midst of the madness of the brutal initiation rituals, serves to underscore the sense of disorientation that results from first encountering and attempting to make sense of one’s sexual desires.

The skillful interweaving of themes within the film’s texture is Ducournau’s coup de maître, and does well to cultivate a gnawing sense of dread. The lingering stink of the abattoir that permeates the film’s texture is compounded via a repeated gesturing toward the bestial. Ducournau does this by objectifying, sexualising and dehumanising bodies, complemented by the presence of real animals (notably dogs), many of which are tranquilised, disemboweled or preserved in formaldehyde. On their first night, the fresher students are rudely awoken and forced to crawl on all fours (many of them half naked) at the behest of the older students. This is later echoed at the end of the film when Justine and her sister Alexia engage in a bloody battle in the middle of the campus and are pulled apart by having scarves wrapped around their necks, resulting in them appearing like ferocious dogs restrained. As the viewer, we are never permitted an escape from the essential truth of Raw: that we are base animals with base urges, and beneath that - exhibited by Justine and Alexia’s victims - simply bags of meat.

In addition, we are also constantly reminded of an inextricable link between sexual acts and those of violence upon the flesh. Justine’s first taste of human follows an attempted initiation into perceived sexually independent womanhood, when Alexia subjects her to a Brazilian wax. After a fumble with a pair of scissors, Alexia’s middle finger is severed and after she faints, Justine cannot resist nibbling the flesh from the bone, to the horror (and delight) of the viewer.

The intersection of the film’s motifs finds glorious embodiment in this scene in the form of Quicky, Alexia’s good-natured hound: present for the waxing ritual, he lollops over and sniffs Justine’s genitalia before being scolded; minutes later, he is lapping at a pool of blood gathering on the carpet.

The notion of intertwined sex and violence builds throughout, until it becomes impossible to distinguish the two. Taking a leaf out of Hitchcock’s book, Ducournau structures scenes towards highly memorable visual moments to deliver her message. Justine’s developing obsession with her gay roommate Adrien first manifests when she watches him play football, shirtless, and savours the taste of a sudden nosebleed on her lip before hurriedly wiping it away. When Adrien consents to her sexual advances, during the frenzied encounter he is forced to block and recoil deftly to avoid her snapping jaws. At the point of climax, Justine restrains herself by sinking her teeth into her own wrist until it oozes crimson. By this point, sexual attraction and a lust for blood are inseparable for Justine, and when she awakes beside Adrien one morning to find that Alexia has partially eaten him, the sense of betrayal matches that of a love rivalry more than an act of cannibalism.

Far from being undercooked, Raw is an incredibly well crafted piece of work that will stick in your memory for its poignancy just as much as its stylistic choices. It is worth mentioning the minor hiccup of the wholly unnecessary plot exposition from Justine’s scar-riddled dad, who unbuttons his shirt to reveal that she and Alexia have inherited their affliction from their mother (‘so THAT’s why they’re such strict vegetarians’). However, I was willing to pass over this ham-fistedness out of respect to the horror genre to which it pays tribute. Ultimately, we are witnessing a coming-of-age story much like any other, albeit one that chooses a less conventional vessel. Superbly composed and honestly acted, this is a story worth watching if you can bare to peek through your fingers.

[freddyguykestner]

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[freddyguykestner]

Your kitchen doesn’t have to be the most impressive room in the house. It doesn’t need the latest washing machine to ‘enjoy’ the spin cycle on or a Habitat bowl to sexily lick baking mix from or even state of the art work surfaces to be bent over during an erotic encounter. In my kitchen, if I slowly turn 360 degrees, I can, in fact, touch every surface and cupboard in there, it’s that teeny. But that doesn’t matter. Your kitchen need not only be the place where you throw your Tesco ready-meal into the cooker and growl, or where you only venture into for ANOTHER cup of coffee. It can be a place for intimacy, fun, frolics. So don’t throw that meringue-fluffed whisk into the sink just yet. Leave out the flour. All we need is a couple of eggs and, yes, let’s get naked.

Perhaps you don’t even need the foody stuff. Staggering in for ANOTHER cup of coffee, why not sip a cup with someone else? Lose the clothes. Forget the threatening pile of recycling in the corner. Don’t look too closely at the lino. Share a smile, a flirt, and just be. 

[freddyguykestner]

Opinion is really the lowest form of human knowledge. It requires no accountability, no understanding. The highest form of knowledge is empathy, for it requires us to suspend our egos and live in another’s world. It requires profound purpose larger than the self kind of understanding.

Bill Bullard

(via thepliablefoe: / stainedglasssmile:)

Let me spread this

(via wavegrease)