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This is the piece I put in for Warren Ellis' Futurity Stunt, as details here. Enjoy...
In 1904 Aleister Crowley channelled arcane forces to ensure that The Age of Aquarius would begin on his word, recklessly oblivious to astronomy which schedules it for around 2060. His spells succeeded, but it wasn’t the future they ushered in. The Future, the true capitalised Shining Future, can only happen after our own deaths – whether it's glitter coated angel wings in heaven or chrome-plated jet packs in Las Vegas. What Aleister brought about in his clumsy way was futurism, the imperative that tomorrow happen today, and that every tomorrow bring a new perversion. And thus the whole premature blood and guts bukkake of the twentieth century is The Beast's fault, from every time you get stuck in a phone tree to the web cam in your fridge, from chatroom sex with girls with implausible vital statistics to the day you get dumped by text message. Uploaded lobsters send instructions to the nano GPRS transceivers in newly implanted vampire teeth with every spasm of their virtual feelers, and behind it all a chorus of celebrity bloggers document every twist on a tired theme, because it's not real if you didn't read it here.
And it's not tomorrow, because tomorrow never comes.
In 1904 Aleister Crowley channelled arcane forces to ensure that The Age of Aquarius would begin on his word, recklessly oblivious to astronomy which schedules it for around 2060. His spells succeeded, but it wasn’t the future they ushered in. The Future, the true capitalised Shining Future, can only happen after our own deaths – whether it's glitter coated angel wings in heaven or chrome-plated jet packs in Las Vegas. What Aleister brought about in his clumsy way was futurism, the imperative that tomorrow happen today, and that every tomorrow bring a new perversion. And thus the whole premature blood and guts bukkake of the twentieth century is The Beast's fault, from every time you get stuck in a phone tree to the web cam in your fridge, from chatroom sex with girls with implausible vital statistics to the day you get dumped by text message. Uploaded lobsters send instructions to the nano GPRS transceivers in newly implanted vampire teeth with every spasm of their virtual feelers, and behind it all a chorus of celebrity bloggers document every twist on a tired theme, because it's not real if you didn't read it here.
And it's not tomorrow, because tomorrow never comes.
accomplished
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