Precursors

Some Facebook posts in the months before the start of the Andromeda mission which may hint as to its nature and destination:

“One puts up with so much that is unideal in terms of political, economic and social climate. Certainly one should fight to bring about the change one desires to see in the world, but what if too few people seek the sort of world one would prefer to live in? Perhaps the search for one’s personal utopia could be achieved through suspended animation. One need merely dial in one’s personal preferences¬†for the sort of society one might like to live in, put on one’s pyjamas and accept the cold sleep of a few hundred or thousand years until the time is right to be reborn. Why accept the lottery of one’s own era to waste away a single life when one could happily become a pig in shit a few aeons further down the line?” 14/05/13

“Viewed from a light year away an observer might see the race maneuvering around a grand primitive insecurity like iron filings revealing the occult symbol of magnetism. The observer might be baffled about this sort of flocking pattern in creatures that have at other times displayed such a promising degree of self-awareness.” 09/05/13

“One has to see that there are no characters, merely vessels that move around the spurious interior of the narrative to accept or reject preoccupations of the narrative. The last thing that they are is people, and to feel that they undergo development, elation or tragedy is to be hypnotised by the moonlight flickering on the author’s blade the moment before he slashes some vital artery.” 05/05/13

“All autobiography is a species of provincial realism. The past that it claims to represent recedes from our grasp with a red shift that turns lived experience deepest sepia. The rose garden of memory is a wet Sunday in a cathedral town where we couldn’t wait for the rail replacement service to bring us back to our workaday world fast enough, but we would give away all of our tomorrows to be back there again. We might imagine that we live in the cosmopolitan metropolis that is the present moment but we can barely recall its phone number, much less the metaphor that it was intended to describe.” 23/04/13

“Given the option I would hibernate with the Roland JV-1080 in some derelict botanical garden with a supply of Shin Ramyun Black noodles and Whittard’s Russian caravan tea until the country shakes off the Stockholm syndrome that seems to afflict it, takes to political violence and blossoms into the William Morris utopia that would better suit my disposition, but I fear that my health would be affected by this isolation, diet and technology, and I would come out of the womb looking like some cross between Michael Moorcock & Vangelis. Such is vanity.” 18/04/13

“Do the streets of our great cities fizzle & glow ‘neath our slumbering eyelids like ghostly sprites in the coin-op arcade hits of yesteryear? Yes or no? Find out from our panel of experts after the ad break.” 19/03/13

“Since you ask it feels like a massively distributed nostalgia. I would like to be in 2005, 1998, 1983, 1977, August last year, yesterday, &c. It is almost like a temporal pantheism expanding from a vacuum at the heart of the ever-moving target that is the present. And that vacuum is a howling negation where one cannot bear to live. That vacuum is the working day.” 21/02/13

“Memory is the ballet interpretation of a war poem that was inspired by an advertising campaign, or rather the jingle from the production version thereof, the composer of which would rather have thought of himself as an actor but his only character role ran for a single night. At the dismal evening at the pub after the show, he met an interesting man who had planned a triptych of paintings based upon the rites of an apostolic church whose twelve bishops, each of whom was named after a month of the Roman calendar, had since passed on. They slept together only the once in the painter’s draughty apartment which was bathed in the neon glow of the sign from the piano bar downstairs, which mostly hosted young skiffle acts these days. The landlady had been a childhood sweetheart. In her old age she had become estranged from her son who had become an successful accountant. He never really wanted to be an long distance runner. He needed people around him and a sense of belonging, a distraction from the dreams of flight that had been dashed to fragments by the invasion of the Archipelago by things from outside of time.” 10/02/13

“That district or borough obscured by dazzling sun, over the bridge, on the other side of the river. You spent a lot of time there, its streets full of fullness, in days gone by, before things became as they have become. Once you considered living there. What happened to that? Why did you choose this instead of that? And now that you see its spires, caught in the morning light, out there in walking distance, you sit on a bench for a moment to catch your breath. Maybe later or maybe tomorrow. You’ll go back there and things will be as things were, but not now. Now there is paperwork and the laundry basket and a hundred other voices. Later.” 05/02/13

“The past is of course not another country. All sentient life cohabits the same particle of consciousness which we mistake for a sinewave bridge arcing across this limitless ocean of emptiness. No, past, present and future are all the self-same nation, but since the days of yore border tribes have smashed the public transport infrastructure and court intrigue has corroded the lifeblood of that dense singularity that is the Axis Mundi.” 16/01/13

“Strange dream featuring the hippest record shop/vegan cafe in the universe. The experience involved balancing a hollowed out cauliflower full of seaweed soup and being jostled by cool people in vintage sunglasses while browsing an aisle of Vangelis bootlegs. Location? Shoreditch? Brighton? Brooklyn? Shibuya? Or perhaps some mysterious wormhole where they all meet.” 05/01/13

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