i love that everyone writes Bones as a very physical doctor. Even when his patient is on a biobed and he has all their readings written out for him on screens he still manually checks for pulse and touch checks for fever. Personally I always take that as a sign of him having really been a country doctor, starting outhis practice likely without all the bells and whistles starfleet has to offer, so he doesnt find as much assurance in the readout as he probly should, because how else is he supposed to be sure of his patient’s condition?
Yax tapped at the energy meter with one finger, brow furrowed. These readings couldn’t be right.
“What is it, Yax?” asked Pol from the front desk.
“These results,” said Yax. He peered at the dial from a different angle. “It’s the slow season and they’re off the charts.”
Pol glanced at the readout then consulted the guestbook. “No. Those are right.”
“But - but …” Yax snatched the book from her, flipping through it. Only two names are on it: The Doctor and Rose Tyler. “There’s only one couple in the whole hotel! No one could possibly generate that many– This is enough to power half the township!”
Looking pleased as punch, Pol composes an email to their supervisor. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
...program notes from the 88:88 screening organized in Atlanta by Sarika Joglekar and Benjamin Crais
Program Notes for 88:88 (Isiah Medina, 2015)
by Benjamin Crais
19 August 2016
88:88. These are the numbers that flash on electrical appliances once power’s been restored to a house. With 88:88, Isiah Medina gives a name to nothing. 88:88 signifies no money, no electricity, but also no time: a digital clock reads a time that does not exist, that has never and will never come. Yet, in giving it a name, Medina grants nothing a positive existence. It is not only a lack, but what the philosopher Alain Badiou calls a pure multiplicity or inconsistency: the “stuff” that is ordered and structured in the presentation of being. 88:88 or 88:88—an image that contains every possible readout a digital appliance can present (11:35, 02:50, 12:00, etc.). Nothing—88:88—thus becomes the ground from which all articulations can emerge, a pure potential from which individual existences are cut. After all, it is only a matter of orientation to conceive nothing (88:88) as infinity (∞ x 4).
“The one is not, the many are” recites Kieran Daly late in 88:88. Rigorously following this axiom, Medina’s film devotes itself to a restless multiplicity that refuses any synthesis into a One—a narrative, an argument, a format (88:88 is composed of iPhone screen captures, celluloid, digital, etc.). The film’s logic is one of subtraction and remix with audiovisual fragments sampled from numerous sources cut up and overlaid with each other. There is no temporal continuity (a One that could string together or unite all the disparate fragments of the movie); rather the prevailing tense is that of suspension: 88:88.
Can Medina’s film be considered a documentary then? For all its fragmentation and often hard-to-follow quoting of philosophy, its hard to think of a recent film more deeply rooted in experience. Conversations, often whispered, between lovers and friends make up much of the soundtrack—“We kiss only when the streets are empty” ; “My mom told me she wanted to jump off a bridge the other day”—while the camera records moments that only a friend could be privy to. Medina says in his director’s statement, “I love everyone in the movie, people love each other in the movie and that’s documentary.”
Much of what Medina captures of his community involves its struggle with poverty: evictions, jail time, struggling family members, etc. If Medina draws out a consonance between nothing and the beginning of creation and thought, never does he romanticize having nothing as a kind of ascetic ideal, nor does he separate philosophical reflection on suspension and nothing from the material reality of poverty (at one point, he samples Big L: “I wasn’t poor, I was po! I couldn’t afford the –or”). Late in the film, Medina equates 88:88 with imprisonment, with numerous 8s forming the material out of which a chain-link fence is constructed.
The philosopher Jacques Rancière, in his book Film Fables, writes that “documentary instead of treating the real as an effect to be produced [as in fiction filmmaking], treats it as a fact to be understood.” If 88:88 breaks with most of the conventions of documentary filmmaking practice, it does so to offer a re-visioning of the real. Its montage ignores the rules of spatiotemporal continuity that govern both our ordinary perception of the world and the rules of what constitutes an acceptable documentary to reveal the infinite. Or, as Medina quotes Badiou in the film, “to break with dogmatism is to remove the event from the ascendency of the One. It is to subtract it from Life in order to deliver it to the stars.”
A former analyst with the US Department of Defence is on the trail of an astronomical ‘cold case’ – an unexplained signal that some believe could have come from extraterrestrials
Way back in 1977 something amazing happened (apart from the release of Star Wars obviously). Astronomer Jerry Ehman was using the Ohio State University’s Big Ear radio telescope to sweep the sky for possible signals from extraterrestrial civilisations. He found something.
While pointing towards a grouping of stars called Chi Sagittarii on 15 August, he received a powerful blast of radio waves that lasted for 72 seconds. He circled it on the readout and wrote: “Wow!”
Analysis of the signal showed that it displayed all the hallmarks of coming from interstellar space, and it became something of a cause célèbre for those involved in SETI, the search for extraterrestrial intelligence.
The trouble is that despite numerous attempts, the signal has never been observed again and so remains unexplained. Until now perhaps, thanks to the work of Professor Antonio Paris of St Petersburg College, Florida.
Luthor looked at the readout Lois shoved under his and froze. “Call for Superman,” he told her urgently, grabbing her arm. “Now.”
He might be a snake, but if Lois didn’t know better, she’d call him genuinely afraid. She yelled for Clark as loudly as she could, trusting that he would pick out her voice from the millions of voices sounding all over the city.
Clark got there thirty seconds after the quarantine doors sealed shut, and the red gas started leaking out of the reactor. He stood just outside the reinforced glass window, panic on his face. Lois gave him a shaky smile, even as her limbs started feeling strange, heated and shivery.
”You can’t break down the door,” Luthor snapped at the window. “Or the whole city will be infected.”
Send an “Ѡ” for my muse’s reaction to being sent accidental nudes.
“Serenno? You’re sure, Artoo?”
Anakin didn’t need to consult the readout on his starfighter’s HUD to know the answering series of beeps was a cheerful affirmative.
“Well, let’s see it,” he said, and diverted his attention from the viewport to glance down at the wavering blue figure that had just crackled into life.
A wavering, blue, very nude woman.
Anakin stared at her for a moment, completely at a loss. Some cultures wore less clothing than others, and many species never went clothed at all. Surely she didn’t mean for her nudity and far-from-professional pose to come across the way it did.
But he recognised her: a human diplomat of some kind he’d glimpsed at a meeting a few weeks ago, a shy thing who had flustered Obi-Wan.
And, awkward as she looked, it was all too obvious that she was naked to seduce.
Squawking protestations of innocence ensued, amidst little mechanical gurgles that Anakin knew signified laughter. Anakin was laughing, too, even as his face burned and he slammed his hand on the projector to get that lithe form out of his sight before he began to feel unfaithful.
“Everything all right, Anakin? You’ve dropped behind,” came Obi-Wan’s concerned voice through his comm.
“Fine, Master.” Anakin swallowed his laughter and added in an undertone, “What do you think, Artoo?”
The droid whistled.
“Me, too.” Smirking, Anakin flipped a switch. “We picked up a transmission we think was meant for you, Master. Patching it through now.”
Light that is not of this world, fleeting and brilliantly white, the jet of a pulsar creating jagged lines on the readout. A trinity of colors, olive-green and sand raked by the wind and quiet black. The sound of summer rain on a tin roof. Wind chimes made of sea-glass, soft and bottle-green, and the ground underneath them dances with the bright green stars of the sun passing through. A sense of distance, the type you only encounter far from civilization.
Eventually I reached the transition into a boreal climate. The first signs of this were the very striking blue trees, much stockier than the ones in the forests I passed previously.
“Temperate” and “boreal” are very relative descriptors here, as the temperature readout in these two were between +10
and -110 °C respectively. I have no idea how life seems to thrive in such cold temperatures, but I’m imagining the trees must have very long roots to access deep groundwater.