We are, it seems, concerned with the future. Somewhere in the background of all this noise, there is the lingering sense that something about our time is special. Not unique, per se; all times are unique. Rather, it seems that we are in the midst of something big and, as the world around us collapses noiselessly, we slip, silently, from one moment in human history to the next.
This is a transitionary era that one day will fade into the gaps between the pages of a history text. As the age of the book gives way to the age of the screen, the early twenty-first century may simply be a blip, a time when the future was born and the past was forgotten, and no-one will remember us and the work we’ve done to build it, to coax it from its tremulous, hidden beginnings into the light. And when we’ve succeeded, when we’ve painfully laid our past to rest – when we’ve written our names on manuscripts no one will remember how to read – metaphors about pages in books… well, they will cease to mean anything at all.
It’s three in the morning, so you’ll have to forgive terribly flowery, diffuse prose (and no, I wasn’t serious about that last line. It was just a gesture to… something). Still – this thought occurred to me yesterday: my favourite bloggers and blogs are those who write about the present from the perspective of the future. Naturally, there’s a bit of metaphor at work there. But you get what I mean, right? A certain sort of resistance to old certainties. A free-wheeling, fearless abandonment of the things we hold dear. My new definition of courage: the self-effacing Twitter-stream that, like the text of identity it produces, evaporates and re-forms, evaporates and re-forms.
Want examples? Well, look at:
- The way Robin, Matt and Tim write about the fringes and edges of a world about to move into the centre.
- The way Rex has created a post-everything world in which so much has collapsed into a Bakhtinian, carnivalesque rewriting of the things we knew.
- The way Matthew writes about game design as if it already had a hundred-year history – and he were merely adding the finishing touches.
- The way Diana, often beautifully, thinks about what it means to “to live in a liminal state between the screen and the sensory world”.
- Or the manner in which, I imagine, Kevin Kelly sits in a cool glass fortress, occasionally slipping into his time machine, returning, and then throwing out snippets and crumbs so that, for a moment, we catch a glimpse of what is just ’round the corner.
It’s late and I’m tired and I still have to rewrite an intro to a column. But this seemed like an idea worth putting down. Anyone want to add anything?