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This website was archived on July 20, 2019. It is frozen in time on that date.
Exolymph creator Sonya Mann's active website is Sonya, Supposedly.

February 25, 2016

Technological Abundance: Interview With Multimedia Artist Torley

Image via ▓▒░ TORLEY ░▒▓.

I originally discovered Torley through Flickr, where he shares screenshots of ethereal and bizarre scenes from Second Life. He is also a musician and has released projects like Glitch Piano, an album described thus:

“Not long ago, in a parallel universe fairly, fairly close… humans imported a master race of sentient pianos through spacetime portals, using the instruments as labor-beasts and war-weapons. Predictably, these magnificent creatures rebelled and bass’ed civilization, enslaving the masses like the un-self-actualized lowminds they broadly are.

The contained aurelics (sonic artifacts) are historical evidence of such a traumatic time, and oddly, we detected halos of rich emotional spectrum — including loveliness and humorosity — amidst the runes.”

I emailed Torley to request an interview, and he answered my questions at great length. The full text, minus a couple of portions redacted for his privacy, is available as a PDF. The dispatch that you’re currently reading is a sort of “greatest hits” summary, like what I did with Andi McClure’s interview.

During a hard period in his life, Torley read some of the classic cyberpunk novels as balm. Consequently, he…

“wondered if there was a ‘real’ (as real as real can be) place where I could explore some of these ideas. I learned of the cyberpunk city ‘Nexus Prime’ in the Second Life virtual world — almost all content created by its users! — constructed on the aptly-named Gibson region […] As a metaphor that worked on such a practical level, my first avatar was an amplified version of my physical self, then I projected further into the future — and became an incarnation of my time-traveling daughter, who came back to tell me ‘THINGS ARE GOING TO BE OKAY’. […] Eventually, I was hired by Linden Lab (makers of Second Life), which I am immensely grateful for as it changed my first life even further. I continue to work here on all of their products, including Sansar — our next-generation virtual world.”

I asked about the appeal of this genre, and Torley told me:

“I’ve long romanticized big cities with towering skyscrapers, and couriers scurrying in the dark, running past neon signs with some data that was too precarious to simply upload… so it had to be done sneakernet-style. I definitely enjoy the whole audiovisual package, even if it’s the most superficial images of what comes to mind when a cyberpunk trope is mentioned… and as a strain of sci-fi, to quote Gibson, to realize we are living in an unevenly distributed future RIGHT NOW. It’s happening all around us.”

He continued:

“For me, cyberpunk has always meant giving unpopular (minority) ideas a fighting chance. […] it means a resistance to change the system, and augment one’s personal self. Which is what I chose with my life path. […] We each contain that power to alter the operation of the big machine, even if we may be ‘just’ a gear or cog in the works. Megacorps fascinate me, and all the fictional marketing that goes into the worldbuilding process.”

Torley on his own daily habits:

“I enjoy consuming Soylent 2.0 everyday. ‘Revolutionary’ is an adjective not to be applied lightly, but it’s saving me an accumulating amount of time. I always wake up and have a bottle or two to start my day. I’m drinking some as I communicate right now. A few bottles make up the majority of my meals. […] I suppose Soylent is a cyberpunk ethos foodstuff — the target demographics are both diverse and fascinating. Yet we are all human, and time is a teacher that kills all its students. That’s why I think their marketing is clever — they emphasize that Soylent does not outright replace conventional food, but FREES you to choose what meals you want to chew.”

Circling back to Second Life:

“Second Life has been a safe space for me and many others — whether that’s exploring identity, sexuality, racial-cultural constructs, etc. How you perceive SL depends on how you perceive yourself […] It’s very easy to experiment with identity here. You can change your whole look as easily as people can change clothes in ‘meatspace’. One’s avatar’s total appearance can be changed in mere seconds, yet may get a completely 180-degree response from those around you inworld. A hulking dragon brings out a totally different reaction than being an adorable pixie. I have been many forms, almost always revolving around my pink-and-green color scheme. I’ve called it ‘the Torley Council’, wherein I imagine a type of mini United Nations in my head, with each persona diverse yet unified — it’s all me, after all.”

In closing:

“We are blessed to live in such an age of technological abundance, as unstable as some systems may be. We owe it to ourselves to harness those tools to be healthier, happier, more creative human beings. When our own needs are met and our resources are replenished — and when we are genuinely comfortable in our own skin — we can more ably help each other.”

I’ll crack open a neon watermelon and toast to that.

February 21, 2016

Like Slack But For VR

“The artists opt to break the artificial world apart instead, and they take their destruction seriously.” — Miles Klee on glitch art

Artwork by Antonio Roberts.

Julia pulled on her gloves carefully, making sure that the razor blades mounted on the palms were attached firmly. This was a simulation, naturally — what wasn’t a simulation? But it was a deeper sim than the ones you could buy per minute at shopping malls (next to the candy machines and phalanxes of massage chairs). This method wasn’t cutting edge, per se, because presumably all the best tech was sequestered in experimental military installs. However, it was better than the dreck on the enterprise market.

Harvey had done a year of painstaking work to build this tool for her, using open-source code to cobble together a neuro interpretation engine and the corresponding interface. Their collective’s main investor had gotten very impatient with Harvey’s pace of progress, and Julia still resented that the project lead hadn’t tried harder to shield them.

Back in October, after a tense meeting with the money men, Anthony had yelled at Harvey, “You’re the operations team! Your job is to make things go fast!”

“No,” Harvey had replied, calmly. “That’s what product does. We make things go smoothly.” Of course, the product engineers weren’t outputting as quickly as Anthony wanted either. They didn’t finish the enviro until a few weeks before Harvey sent his own code to QA. Julia had insisted on a QA phase.

During that October confrontation, Julia had screamed that Anthony didn’t care about quality or safety and the discussion devolved from there. Now she slightly regretted her own part in that conflict, but Julia was the one risking her life by using a tool that Anthony ultimately shipped because of deadline pressure. She trusted Harvey implicitly — they couldn’t collaborate if that weren’t the case — but Julia was still nervous.

She flexed her hands in the razor gloves. They were a bit ridiculous, but Harvey thought they’d suit her personality. The sim wasn’t complete, so Julia didn’t feel grey neoprene moving against her real skin, but her brain was convinced by the image. She took a couple of steps forward, waving her hands in front of her. The lines of light hooked on the palm blades and pulled away, revealing an under-layer of… more light. Hmm. At least the enviro had accepted her. Julia imagined seeing the data split to flow around her body, rippling digits, but it was actually more like navigating an REM dreamscape than that old movie, The Matrix. Moving didn’t feel normal, like physical life — maybe the gravity settings should be tweaked — but it didn’t feel totally faked either.

Julia was supposed to monitor her mental reactions, watching out for signs that her brain was reacting badly to immersion. She kept walking toward the bright tunnel. This is cool, she thought, but pretty fucking inefficient. The sim should drop me right in front of the intel station. It would get so annoying when you have to work but they send you through this pretty-for-nothing tunnel.

The posters on the walls of the tunnel all read “ONBOARDING TIPS HERE” but the product team was waiting to hear Julia’s evaluation before they decided what to write. She emerged from the tunnel’s mouth and looked at the intel station. It was obvious where she was supposed to stand because footprint shapes glowed on the ground. “I still think this looks like a dance arcade knockoff from the 2000s,” she said out loud, knowing that the eng team was watching her on 3D screens in the office. This is what happens when you let game designers make professional tools, Julia thought, exasperated again.

January 5, 2016

Don’t Get Busted

Photo by Rodrigo Paredes.

“That’s a cop, you moron,” she hissed in his ear, tugging him down the tight alleyway. Actually, it was too small to be an alley — more like an unfilled gap between buildings. The concrete bricks scraped against Jason’s back. He could feel the roughness through his jacket.

“I know. But my sister is still out there,” he protested, squinting through the narrow channel to the street. He could vaguely hear yelling but couldn’t see much.

Evvy yanked on his arm. “We can’t do shit for her right now. And if you don’t come with me, I can’t do shit for you either.”

He blew air out between his lips. Jason could feel the headache expanding in his brain. When they had dodged into this space, the cop was still fifty feet away. His sister Melissa was frantically packing up her mobile shop, where she sold game IP burned onto old spindisks. Evvy was holding, so she panicked and dragged Jason with her into this tightly squeezed escape route.

Pain spiked in his temples. Jason closed his eyes and shoved his way after her. Evvy muttered an expletive. “Do you know what’s on the other side?” he asked.

“Yup,” she said curtly. “We’ll be fine. I don’t think anyone saw us. But let’s move fast, okay?”

“Melissa saw us.”

“We have to hope she doesn’t squeal,” Evvy growled.

Jason didn’t answer. He felt guilt spreading through his head along with the throbbing soreness.

If the cops caught you with amphetamines and neuro hookups, they’d arrest you. So of course Evvy was afraid. After you were rounded up, there was a slim probability that you’d disappear. Rumored locations ranged from North Korea to Tennessee to an ignominious hole in some police chief’s backyard. The rumors were probably exaggerated — people got picked up and released all the time. But Evvy was paranoid. She had resistance friends. Like him.

Contraband game IP wasn’t such a big deal, Jason told himself. Besides, Melissa was quick. She might have dodged into another unseen escape avenue. Or sweet-talked her way out of a full search.

Evvy gripped Jason’s elbow and pulled him back into the light on an open street. He stumbled slightly as he followed her. “Keep it together,” she said in a strained voice.

“I’m cool,” he said. “Just getting a headache.”

“Stop worrying about Melissa. And don’t freak out on me. I’ll plug you in. Just give me a minute to get us —” Evvy stopped mid-sentence. There was another cop in front of them.

“Hey,” the officer said. He had his fists on his hips, and his sleeves were rolled up so that Jason could see the chrome forearm reinforcements. They weren’t powered on, but the threat was implicit. Metal banded the cop’s wrists, and it shifted when he did.

Evvy was half-crouching, but she straightened when the officer spoke. “Can I help you, sir?” It’s better to stay alive than make a point, Evvy told herself. It’s better to stay free and kicking. She tried to beam this thought to Jason even though 1) she didn’t have neuro ports and 2) he wasn’t aggressive enough confront this guy anyway. Jason seemed frozen like an old OS.

The policeman said, “Why are you in such a hurry, folks?”

“We’ve got an appointment,” Evvy answered.

“Sure,” the cop snorted. “You’re late for a very important date. Okay, you know the drill. Face the wall and get your hands on the brick.”

Evvy turned. Adrenaline buzzed through her brain. The stash wasn’t directly in her pockets, but it wasn’t hidden very many layers deep. She cursed herself for choosing convenience over security. Sloppy. Of course you get caught.

Jason put his hands on the wall and felt his weight pulling on his shoulders. The pain in his head was intensifying. It felt worse than a regular headache. He could hear the officer talking — recognized the noise as a voice — but units of sound weren’t converting to understandable words.

The cop started patting down Evvy. “When I see scrapers like you two running, I know something’s wrong.” He ran his hands up and down her legs, then reached into her pockets to turn them inside out. He grabbed her four-inch wafer and looked it over briefly. “Old school.” The screen awoke when he tapped it. “Unlock this,” he ordered, prodding Evvy to turn around.

Before she could do it, Jason collapsed, jerking against the wall and falling heavily to his knees. He toppled further toward his right side and landed half-twisted, mouth lolling open. Evvy stared at the red wet opening. She noticed that Jason’s teeth were still wired together in the back, from getting fixed up after that fight.

“What’s he on?” the policeman demanded.

“Nothing,” Evvy said. “He’s clean.”

“Yeah, yeah. You kids always lie to me. Just turn over whatever you’ve got and we’ll call this even. I don’t want to deal with your boyfriend.” He nudged Jason with the metal toe of his boot. Jason made a grunting noise.

Evvy bit her lip, trying to decide quickly. Was this some kind of ploy to catch her? But he could haul them both back to the precinct if he wanted, or simply pull out his scanner. Then again, this cop could be a sociopath who got off on manipulating his perps. They certainly existed.

Evvy looked at Jason again. He didn’t seem okay. She knew he kept playing those shoddy games that Melissa ripped — maybe this was a bug. She had friends who tweaked their firmware on purpose, so surely it could happen by accident.

“Make up your mind before he pukes and chokes on it,” the officer advised.

Instinctively turning to face the wall, Evvy lifted the hem of her shirt and pushed down her waistband, then felt for the latch on her hip compartment. The patch of silicon skin popped open, and she pulled her stash out. “Here you go.”

The policeman took her plastic bag of amphetamines and the small tangle of neuro hookups. He stuffed them in his pocket, nodded to Evvy, and started strolling away. She tried not to think about the money.

Passersby were skirting the scene and walking on. Evvy knelt by Jason’s head and jostled him a little. He groaned. “Wake up, Jason,” Evvy said. She slapped his cheek softly. “Now would be a really fucking good time for you to wake up. I want to get out of here.”

He opened his eyes but didn’t say anything.

January 3, 2016

The Container of My Person

“There were times, I told him, at the age of five, six, seven, when it was a shock to me that I was trapped in my own body. Suddenly I would feel locked into an identity, trapped inside myself, as if the container of my person were some kind of terrible mistake. My own voice and arms, my name, seemed wrong. As if I were a dispersed set of nodes that has been falsely organized into a form, and I was living in a nightmare, forced to see from out of this limited and unreal ‘me.’” — The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner

I wonder if you’ve ever felt trapped in this way. I have, of course, and I suspect that you have too. Carrie Fisher said on Twitter (captioning a photo of her dog): “My body is my brain bag, it hauls me around to those places & in front of faces where theres something to say or see” [sic]. It’s unclear whether Carrie meant to apply this sentiment to herself or the dog, but it certainly applies to me. Her comment is a poem about how it feels to be an awful meat-sack — it feels, predictably, awful. Piloting this body is a slog.

Second Life screenshot by ▓▒░ TORLEY ░▒▓.

The promise of virtual reality is to free us from such “real”-world restraints. What will our avatars look like in a hundred years? Post-gender and post-form, or exactly like the musclebound hunks and bit-titted blondes that titillate today’s Second Life denizens? We mustn’t forget the furries and weaboos, already a significant contingent of any visually oriented social network (which is all of them) (especially 4chan) (maybe they don’t haunt Instagram? idk).

Part of what draws me to cyberpunk, as an aesthetic / lifestyle / political ideal, is that I hate the tyranny of my physical form. I’m restricted to this flesh, to this brain full of misfiring synapses, and here’s the worst part: every experience that makes up who I am is filtered through faulty nerves. Wouldn’t my identity be completely different in a body with unfamiliar memories? Imagination says that I would be myself but better — yet I’m imposing my illusion of control on a hypothetical future. I’m not in charge of developing these simulation products. I don’t know what options and settings will be available.

Neither do you — don’t forget. Keep hacking, because the rest of us haven’t learned how.

December 23, 2015

Neon Century Redux

Below is a short story by @pythagorx, lightly edited for this venue.

Photo by Elentir.

The system beeped that it was ready. Thousands of employee hours, including considerable user testing, had gone into creating that solitary six-second alert. Initial tests showed the sound reminded consumers of the familiar tone of a microwave oven — not the most comforting comparison for a machine with a direct neural interface.

Of course there had been issues in product development: sensory feedback loops, input misconfigurations, noise bleed from one input to the other, and so forth. There had been no deaths during the customer beta; the lawyers had wisely used a specific definition for medical death in the contracts. Grieving parents whose children were kept physically alive by machines, although nothing was going on upstairs, had signed non-disclosures and hefty payouts were made to them by the consortium of media and network companies backing the new technology.

Since information about the earliest prototypes, and a few missteps, had leaked, those who decried the technology were using phrases like “Why cook when you can look?!” or “Screen versus scream.” Both slogans offered a weak argument, contrasting ocular and haptic technology with the emerging technology that provided full environmental simulation offered in neural-linked virtual reality.

Consumer surveys showed the protests were actually garnering positive publicity for the new technology. Market segments from teen to forty found it a new medium, not in competition with the screen experience, although 72% indicated they felt it would replace the use of old technology. The protesters might as well have been arguing against using paper because stone tablets were so much harder to burn.

Edits of a practically ancient anti-drug video spread virally. “This is your brain,” a young woman says, displaying an egg in her grasp. “And this is your brain on Neon,’’ she states, with a convincing audio overdub, as she proceeds to destroy a kitchen. The advert was created by the agency promoting the use of the tech. Had they distributed the piece commercially, the law would have required a “Paid for by the Neon Coalition” tag at the end. Instead the untagged file found its way via a series of untraceable proxy connections to a repository known to be used by the Luddite protesters. Someone discovered it there, assumed one of their own had made it, and spread it through their video distribution vehicles.

The hotly contested marketing name for the network itself, Neon, was a derivative of “neural online interface”. Many would have preferred a simpler concept to promote the technology, but Neon captured the essence of the senior management’s exposure to 1980s cyberpunk literature and movies. The files and video had been long ago transferred to digital format, but it had been long enough that those files had to be converted for modern use. The name was esoteric, vague, and seemed to fit perfectly with the sense of style and design from that bygone era.

Neon, lighting the way into the future — again — for the first time.

If you enjoyed this story, go follow @pythagorx.

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