Sunday, March 25, 2007

Instructions Science Museum Atm

In the middle of science fiction ... and yet so commonplace

A clone Pentium 4. No really, it is in der Ceiling. And yet, the happy days when we pondions our fucking masters thesis by drawing pain and misery on a Smith Corona portable, if the Ghost of Christmas coming we had grabbed by Schnoll - in short, by the mane - for us to run a fast forward in the spacetime and we show a ... it would have fallen to his knees in tears, cursing the fate that compels us to wait another thirty years for disposal.

Like what the future is unimaginable and when it becomes the present moment, we dismiss out of hand the wonders which he fills us, infinitely beyond our dreams.

This machine combines word processing, data, images, databases. It fits the film editing, musical composition. On the Internet, it opens a window on the world. It is through her that I create and circulate this little blog. It allows me to restart my friends in Paris and Orleans on the videophone. Star Trek. We are living in science fiction. But the highlight is so unexpected, if not laughable, but to bring to bare on a reverential tone telephone networks via satellite. That is why science can not be the religion of the twenty-first century. The benefits of its achievements, unthinkable a decade ago, they are so transparent n'avivent not our love of mystery, do not raise the tension of desire or lack of, are commonplace and as they emerge. While they transfigure our lives.

There is almost a year now, in spring 2006, I flew to Paris to land after some six hours. At the time of Lafayette, the crossing of the Atlantic could last more than a month. A group of warm friends - known by nicknames Sarahh. Benevolent, Cheyenne, and Sabine Buttineur - with whom I made contact on MSN over the previous weeks, welcomed me to the terrace of a bistro offering me a bottle champagne as a welcome gift. I asked the boy, who has demonstrated a kind indulgence, if he could put that champagne on ice for us to offer all the dessert, which keeps me from falling into the throes of alcoholism alone . In the background we hear the echoes of a football game on TV between France and Spain, the cheers of supporters spanning the conversation by successive surges with accents of bullfighting.

Once the note is set, we drove along the boulevards of the City of Light where jubilant revelers celebrated the victory of France. Around us, the traffic flow was spinning merrily in a concert of horns. Some enthusiastic wheelies on the windowsill before, waving at arm's length the Habs to glory. The evening you rminée the foot of the Eiffel Tower which was camped above us his huge crotch. She stood in the shade of a warm June evening his haughty head, bristling with antennas and darting light beams its dual beacon. From a largely glowing tiara they swept the night sky. His monumental mass that curves gracefully converge to its pinnacle in our earnings perpetuated the memory of a Age of steel and steam where the technique affirmed his strong faith and naive once to mark the bicentenary of the Revolution. And just to say goodbye, I knew the French in Europe and America, son and daughters of a new century, we were citizens of the world, gathered at the foot of this colossal and fantastic centerpiece at this crossroads In this fleeting moment, the curtain fabric from the Age of Information at the same time focus and point of departure to the unknown.


Post a Comment