The school project rumbles on in the form of PowerPoint presentations on “Families at war” in WW2. Hard work, imaginative leaps back into a world they can’t quite believe and quirky family research for the kids. It all acts as a reminder of how removed they are from armed conflict both in time and distance and how disconnected they are from long dead grandparents.
In the future and in the grey: Warehouses full of unused, unclaimed avatars, all refugees from Second Life that never lived. Lists of made up names never spoken. Virtual land and unreal real estate bought out and up by the Chinese and revolutionary North Korean investors in a web based land rush. Real money is a thing of the past, the past is the memory of real money and real money has lost its voice. Big sheds racked out with registered blogsites and web names, unwanted and forgotten, graphics packages and a trillion MP3 files that nobody ever bothered listening to. You can’t buy a thrill or a moment’s peace and all everybody wants is a little space-sex tourism and a one way ticket.
A do it yourself (or let the worms and the action of vegetative decay do it) compost bin was left unannounced on the road by our house. The next door neighbor alerted me to this piece of green and pleasant flotsam. It turned out to be brand new and complete. Did it fall from the back of a lorry? From the cargo bay of a passing 737? From the trailer of the Lord of Linlithgow’s tractor? Who cares, now to read the instructions and start the long slow process – compost curry maybe. I’ve just found an instruction book to go with it.