I’m so high I’m shivering.
A plot that’s been wrong for so long I can’t remember, anymore, what’s most wrong with it. The blue natives are the noble savages who must be saved by the enlightened invader himself. But Cameron’s a subtle genius: Terminator, Aliens. The plot is just a screen, the world of the blue people is really where you go when you go online, your crippled body left behind in your too-cheap ergonomic chair, and the familiar figure of the native is but a device to remind us that in this new world we are all of us pioneers. And what luck, to have another shot at discovery, along with hotter bods. And are we again going to fuck it up? On the precipice, thinks the man, we should be physically daring, even if we are no longer sure where the physical resides. And contemplate for the utmost time the forms of seeing and choosing.
“You should see your faces” says the helicopter pilot to her amazed passengers. But it’s us she means, rapt in the theater, already virtual, already there. The jack in the back of the head, an image with the most sinister implications in The Matrix, is here imagined as the holy ethernet cable through which the long-lamented dead will reach us. Necromancy, in this new dimension, beckons close.
From the special glasses, the restroom mirror notices, two little divots on my nose.
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