“I went in yesterday and there was a television screen, and I said, ‘This is genius.’ Putin declares a big portion of the Ukraine, of Ukraine, Putin declares it as independent. Oh, that’s wonderful...”
“Social media posts claim Canada’s governor general said she would remove Prime Minister Justin Trudeau if she received 958,000 emails calling for his departure. ”
“Russian forces have launched a major military assault on Ukraine, with reports of missile strikes and explosions near major cities.”
By Patrick La Roque
I picture a teenage boy. He’s in his room, staring at the space in front of him. He doesn’t see what’s actually there—no walls, no dirty carpet covered in yesterday’s clothes. He sees control panels floating at arm's length, lines and geometric shapes in a constant state of mutation, their oscillations so fast it blurs their outlines.
Below these a terminal window, complete with an old-school prompt. It’s a nod to Gibson and Stephenson, his favourite authors in The Simulation™.
>_
Do we cry, scream, or shrug at this point? I never expected I’d be writing this project’s last entry on a day that might now live in infamy—the largest attack on European soil since WWII. What? Oh! My apologies: on the day “Russia Began Its Peacekeeping Operations In Ukraine”.
War is peace, as we all know. Silly me.
I once believed humanity had turned a corner. We’d flirted with nuclear annihilation, realized our foolishness, and decided to leave savagery behind. The Berlin Wall came down, the Cold War thawed—we would slowly enter an age of reason, fuelled by technology and a renewed sense of collective purpose.
The Oracle of Delphi I am not.
I spent the last few days finalizing details for two projects—a commercial shoot next week, and a rather surprising commission that I never saw coming. This, along with the usual writing sessions, work on an upcoming book, research, trying to stay in shape and mentally fit, driving the kids around…it adds up. It mutes the outside world somewhat.
But those drums are so bloody loud. Downbeats to blow-up every subwoofer from here to fucking eternity. Trucks smashing at the gates, the livid and clueless playing out Hollywood hero fantasies, with mouths foaming. The Patriot Sons and Daughters of Meta, dancing to The Feed. What an uncannily appropriate name that is, too. So obvious it’s almost daring.
And now, this unlawful attack.
Heartbreaking. Cruel. Unhinged.
I haven’t recorded today’s accompanying soundscape yet. But I hear notes already. Clusters. A low, dark resonance.
It’s coming…
Hey kid? Flip a switch, won’t you? Get some homework done, clean your room… You’ve had your fun.
The game’s just about played out for us.
