#Ilift reveal crowd groan series
I log this through Twitter, spread across hundreds of accounts, in a series of steganographically-encoded photographs I take with my camera-phone. Her early arrival forced a tall male of South-Asian genetics to move one meter to the left and scratch his nose, which he has never done in any Nows before. She took her place beside the bar, drinking her rum sours every nineteen minutes forty-one seconds, on average, as she always does. And because of our Correction, her recovery lasted two days, seven hours longer, and her interest in retro-punk-fuzz-fusion solidified, and in this Now she arrived to this concert six minutes and nine seconds earlier. Her hand fiddles with it in her pocket just now.Īnd it was We, The Hands of Brahma, who placed the pebble two millimeters to the left from where it was the last time. She’s kept the pebble with her all this time, a totem to the gods of fate. And because she couldn’t go outside, she hung around the house and listened to her brother’s music collection, which spawned an interest in the musical subgenre of alternative retro-punk-fuzz-fusion, which led her, eighteen years, five months and four days later to this Goo Globbers concert. When she was seven, a pebble got caught in her bicycle wheel, and she crashed and broke her leg. I scan her blackbody signature for aberrations. She has been in this Now before, my Archives tell me, in nine hundred and eighty one instances. Her lips part as my retinal shines a maser deep into her pupils at frequencies attuned to her neurons, hijacking her brain and dumping her memories into mine. Cat’s-eye glasses on the end of her nose twinkle with rhinestones. I scan a young, fire-haired woman with leafy green eyes. Their dilated eyes make my probes of their forebrains a cakewalk. Scott Mohl’s honied voice reverberates under my feet as I weave through dancing bodies, scanning, scanning. Someone’s using lustre-tech to coerce brain states, but this tech won’t exist for another fifty years. But the colored patterns flicker-flash too precisely to be Now-native. The singer Scott Mohl croons, “ The day ends with the setting sun, the flower wilts, its colors run,” and the crowd swoons in a haze of marijuana smoke and purple spotlights. Unlike me, they cannot know their future. The crowd applauds far too much at the end of the first song, which I gauge as a covert attempt to escape their unexpressed fears. They’re here for the Goo Globbers, the glammed-out rock quartet that howls like a synaptic re-write. I scan their bodies for changes since their last instance in this Now as they glimpse, then immediately forget me. I’m a mayfly, engineered to be forgotten.
#Ilift reveal crowd groan skin
My body is average, my skin tawny-light, my black hair medium-length, nose unremarkable. I wear tight black jeans and a persistent smirk as if I’m entitled to things I don’t deserve. My gold digital watch, also retro, holo-def hicodes what my eyes miss. It’s hard to see who’s just stoned and who’s got something to hide. I scan their eyes for tells, hunt their mind-detritus for fear.
My boxy eyeglasses, fashionably retro, hide a rainbow of sensors. In this Now, gender and dress make a difference.
But all this has been timelost, expunged from history. How can we count those who no longer exist? I once had a family, a husband, eight children. Five thousand young men and women crowd this music hall tonight, and one of them is the soul I must erase from existence.
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