Digital Ischemia

03/09/2017

Barcode Not Recognised

My wife disappeared in an art gallery. I’m not a connoisseur. The exhibition was modern – post-talent I would say. It appeared minimalist of effort and mercenary of presentation. The images were monochrome, straight lines.

I wandered among them in bewilderment, wondering how long it would take a troupe of monkeys to produce the same with a graphics app and random key strokes. After twenty minutes I abandoned my search for any shred of interest or intrigue. I approached my wife who was standing, mesmerised before a giant barcode: black vertical lines on a white background, but perfected – entirely uniform with equal width bars and spacing. It was a grill lit by one ice white spotlight. We stood, side by side, for several minutes. Eventually she murmured that it was true, pure brilliance. Tactfully, I muttered something about it standing out but I didn’t recognise any feature of value. I couldn’t sustain a focus on it and my mind and eyes soon wandered. Consequently, when the incident occurred, I glimpsed it only peripherally.

Apparently without cue, from about five metres away, she walked straight at it, slowly, steadily, right up to it. She closed in and vanished.

At first I thought she’d wandered between the exhibit panels, but couldn’t find her. I didn’t think she could’ve left as there was a perky ticket checker beside the doors, and I had the tickets. I swept the place, then, just for my own sanity. I went out to check our car, despite knowing I had the keys. Eventually in escalating concern I sought help. The ticket checker assured me that no-one had left before my foray to the car park. We scanned the CCTV footage of the entrance and car park and indeed no-one had. We examined the internal camera footage and there, in poor quality monochrome—ironically suited to the art—we watched her approach the massive barcode and disappear.

I was surprised all over again. I had thought I must’ve been mistaken. She didn’t disappear front to back, like passing behind the edge of an opaque object; she didn’t fall; she wasn’t grabbed. She faded away, like someone had switched off a projection.

That was what spurred my thinking, in the following hours and days. After several nights of insomnia, my mind opened up creatively to the most bizarre and unlikely possibilities. I wondered at what point beforehand a change could’ve been made. When was the switch?

I found it: she’d gone to the toilet when we arrived, and I hadn’t seen her come out. She had appeared beside a piece or art, so I had joined her. She hadn’t spoken. I had nothing to say, bewildered as I was. But why? I invested weeks and months of painstaking forensic analysis into all the life evidence she left. She had carefully, gradually and systematically removed anything she valued, including her own money, and left all the dross as an unchanged façade.

The rest is cliché. Infidelity, attraction to a man with more money than a small country, but also a staggering creative talent, which combined to manifest even his most elaborate whims. A hologram. A simple message relayed from a tiny black speaker stuck on… you guessed it: the barcode. The toilet had a cleaner’s cupboard, which had been unlocked, and which had a service hatch, which was shared with the neighbouring shop, which had any number of patrons departing in obfuscatory groups or hats. Gone.

I have no idea why she left, or why she chose such a dramatic exit. The banality of the barcode could suggest that she rejected our life because it was too insipid and predictable, or not dull enough. She had changed into someone I didn’t recognise, and had deliberately hidden that change. I stopped analysing my own thought-echoes and got some sleep. The stages of change played through my emotions. I hope they’re happy living a perfectly straight path.

Now, when I spend time with someone, I pay attention.

30/11/2016

Flickering Shades

The Ghost of Species Past

Dropwort (Filipendula vulgaris)

Dropwort (Filipendula vulgaris)

See this dropwort (Filipendula vulgaris), a perennial herb cousin of Meadowsweet in the family Rosaceae, on its favoured dry pasture. Taste its bitter sweet tuberous roots and young leaves, cooked or raw. Smell its crushed mature leaves, like oil of Wintergreen, as they release methyl salicylate. Infuse dropwort’s flowers for traditional medicine. Feel its therapeutic effects, as the methyl salicylate is metabolised to salicylic acid, a proven NSAID, like aspirin.

There was balance there.

The Ghost of Species Present

Ghost orchid (Epipogium aphyllum)

Ghost orchid (Epipogium aphyllum)

Perhaps you may see the ghost orchid (Epipogium aphyllum), or perhaps not: declared Extinct in Britain in 2005, a single ghost orchid was subsequently discovered. Now Critically Endangered – one ghost orchid does not make a viable long-term population of a species – it flickers on the edge of existence. When it does appear, it occurs in beech, oak, pine and spruce forests. Ghost orchids obtain nutrients from mycorrhizal fungi that are associated with coniferous tree roots, thus they have no chlorophyll and do not photosynthesise. Being mostly subterranean, this ghost is named for its creamy-white to pinkish-brown colour during its fleeting appearances to flower in dark, damp woods.

Patience. It awaits serendipity: a pollinator that has visited a fellow ghost orchid flower recently and nearby. Such visits have been fewer and fewer, and further and further between. We might never know the full extent of what we might lose by its passing.

The Ghost of Species Yet to Come

Scottish bog myrtle (Myrica gale)

Scottish bog myrtle (Myrica gale)

Scottish bog myrtle (Myrica gale) has been known for centuries – Highlanders and other north-western Europeans used it to flavour beer and discourage biting insects. Bog Myrtle oil has antibacterial properties which promote healthy skin, but it is also an abortifacient.

Clinging to life, finding survival just that little bit harder with each rapid generation. Sense the air and the water, the light and the warmth, the shadow and the push of neighbours. Each individual knows only its local conditions and its individual success or failure to thrive there. But the collective intelligence of the plant species is there for us to grasp.

Here the path bifurcates. Feel the slight indicative changes in climate pressures. Dread the heralding of another ‘miracle’ plant, of industrial harvesting scouring moorland to feed human hyperconsumerism until the fad passes.

We don’t have time enough to wait for natural evolution to refill these niches. Meanwhile, other connectees in the web adjust to their space change. So, we rush to isolate our chemical benefactors, to artificially evolve what we want from only a fragment of understanding. Evolution has a very long timescale for good reason. It is not finished, never finished. Can we listen? Can we wear much smaller shoes?

 

Today is Remembrance Day for Lost Species.

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