I expected my interests in science fiction to lead my semester long webtracking journey to the realms of philosophy, anthropology, and theology. I made it there in some ways, but as I look back on my record of the semester I see that I took deep dives into somewhat random topics. These included Alternate Reality Games, sf music (in particular the BBC Radiophonic Workshop), the Canadian artist Grimes, the sub-genres of Punk Punk, the coexistence and blurred distinction between science fiction and fantasy, and finally the current state of robots in religion.  Some of these deep dives can be seen in my word cloud. There were very few unexpected words that showed up in a large representative of sources.

In this post, I will discuss terms that don’t necessarily make a big appearance in my word cloud but which, I believe, capture the way that I have wanted to think about science fiction.

The first is personification. I believe this term comes up in my word cloud because, as I was searching about Grimes, I really wanted to find examples of the concepts so often dealt with in science fiction being personified or anthropomorphized. The reason that Grimes’ album Miss Anthropocene  captured my attention was because it claimed to anthropomorphize Climate Change its self. I really appreciate the artistry and imagery in that  and I wish I had been able to find more examples of it.

I spent some time this semester thinking about how math can play a role in science fiction. As I learned again about the Infinite Monkey Theorem in my class on measure theory, I search for it’s use as science fiction element. Though I didn’t find exactly what I was looking for, I still have plans to read “The Library of Babel” by Jorge Luis Borges. It may not be sf, but it is a creative imagining of mathematics and philosophy.

Finally, I had plans all semester to dive into the intersection between sf and Christianity. In particular, I am very curious about how sf concepts may show up in Christian theology and vice versa. Upon reading “Readymade Bodhisattva” and “Act of Faith” I started reading about various Christian theologians who are already thinking about the theological question of how advanced AI in the narrative of God’s creation. It is possible that the words religion, human, God, and death in my word cloud all represent this interest.

I finally went back and read the New York Times “Op-Ed from the Future” that Prof. Saiber has mentioned in class a few times (“Artificials Should Be Allowed to Worship”). What an interesting and creative piece!

It led me to conversations that are currently taking place surrounding AI and religion. I found some really interesting things (Robot Priests, Vox; How AI is shaping religion, CNBC). Robots and AI are already finding themselves in religious spaces.  There are chatbox robots that Catholics can confess to. There is a German Protestant robot called BlessU-2 that gives blessings out to people. There is a Robot called Mindar that serves as a Buddhist priest in Japan (see the linked video). And already a number Christian theologians are starting to grapple with how to consider the eventuality of AI in the arching Biblical narrative of the relationship between God and God’s creation (Ilia Delio, James McGrath).

As a Christian I am very interested in how the future of AI might shape our theology. We have to ask questions about the soul and consciousness, whether being made in God’s image is something that would pass to a free-willed being of our own creation, whether the idea of sin can or should transfer to the lives of non-biological beings, and whether robots can, like humans, have a personal relationship with God. It’s all very interesting! But I am glad that, at this point, it’s all speculative.

Miss Anthropecene is the latest album by Canadian singer/song-writer Grimes. It is very much not my genre but when I heard about it on NPR the concept peaked my interest.

The name combines “misanthrope” (someone who hates humankind) with “anthropecene”  (the current geological age of the Earth in which climate change is dominant). Miss Anthropecene uses the anthropomorphic personification common in ancient mythology to capture the “person” of climate change. (See both the NPR and Gaytimes articles linked in this post).

This idea really struck me. Though I wasn’t able to find any more examples of the personification of climate change, the idea led me to think about how we can depict and explain climate change in various ways. I think one common vehicle is the illness of a personified earth or nature. But I also found a very cool thread about useful climate change metaphors.

As for Grime’s album, there are both sf and mythology fantasy tie ins and though the art style in her music videos capture both, I’ve had a hard time seeing a unified theme of climate change in the songs. One song (“We Appreciate Power”) actually takes the tone of fake pro-AI propaganda to describe an AI take over. (You can learn more about that in this Gaytimes article).

      Pablo Capanna’s short story “Acronia” describes a society called Acronia in which humans have every moment of the day scheduled by the Planner. From the outset, “Acronia” seems to mean a world without (‘a-’) time (‘cronos’). Humans have created a society that teaches “only man can do executive-level jobs… and only man needs to occupy his time by working” (Capanna, p. 93). The protagonist, P., has his doubts and through his perspective the reader learns about the unsettling world of Acronia. Through P.’s character, Capanna creates an interactive story in which the reader’s fascination with dystopia and desire to observe revolution leads them to become an active participant in Acronia’s problem: an obsession with time. Only at the end of the story does the reader realize it is a fixation on time, not just the treatment of it, which has caused irrevocable damage to the Acronia’s sense of humanity.  

      In just the first sentence — “He thought he could trace the first symptom back to the break…” (Capanna, p. 93) — Capanna captures the reader’s attention by implying that there is something wrong with P. The first moment when the reader gets a sense of the nature of this ‘illness’ is the same time that Capanna first implies the illness of Acronia. In the close third person voice of P., Capanna describes the societal notion of “a tedium that only intensive work could dispel” (Capanna, p. 93) as well as the idea, subtly doubted by our protagonist, that there are jobs robots can’t do which humans must occupy their time with. It is this doubt that the SF reader latches onto. Suddenly not only are we seeking an explanation for a world ‘without time,’ we are seeking a revolutionary protagonist who will unveil and disrupt the evils of Acronia.   

      Capanna satisfies the reader’s expectations for P. primarily through three moments of “greater awareness.” In each of these, time plays a central role. The first occurs when P. asks a question: “Why don’t clocks in Acronia have hands?” (Capanna, p. 94) The reader discovers that the humans of Acronia do not have a need to measure time. Instead they use the robots to signal changes in activities. The reader is left to wonder: to what extent does measuring time give it meaning and place? Could this lack of attention to time be what is meant by Acronia? A few moments later, P. himself expresses his realization that he has spent his life hiding from time, leading the reader to their own realization that, at least by perception, the object of time is neglected by Acronia.  

     P.’s second moment of revelation follows a long description of the orbits of the lighted platforms. P. observes how they move in coordination like clockwork and wonders how a society run with such precise timing cannot “feel the passage of time” (Capanna, p. 96). According to P., time been abolished by the homogenization of their activities. Not only that, time is actively killed by each member “in generalize universal cowardice” (Capanna, p. 96). This adds to the reader’s hypothesis that whatever is wrong with Acronia must be about time.  

     P’s peculiar dream also begs the reader to critically analyze the state of Acronia. It depicts natural scenes from human history repeated endlessly. Capanna repeatedly uses the phrase “time and again” (Capanna, p. 99) harkening back to P.’s claim that infinite repetition is the abolishment of time. In this, Capanna juxtaposes natural humanity with the suffocating repetition that characterizes this dystopian dome, perhaps implying that Acronia’s relationship with time is not unique. Through this implication, Capanna places a doubt in the reader’s mind about what fuels this dystopia.   

     The evolution of P.’s character comes to a climax when he awakens from this dream and proclaims that he has “already made his decision” (Capanna, p. 100).  Through the lens of the SF reader’s expectations, this decisiveness indicates P.’s identity as the revolutionary. However, from the time that P. makes this proclamation up until he knocks over a stack of papers, all that P. manages to accomplish is to find an old philosophizing robot and to receive a propaganda filled lecture about the “tranquility granted by total occupation” (Capanna, p. 103). In this moment with papers strewn across the floor in disarray, the reader’s high hopes for P. as a revolutionary fall flat.  The words “they had both lost control of the situation” (Capanna, p. 104) signal a shift in the narration of the story, and it becomes apparent that P. does not know any more than the reader.  

     In the absence of a reliable narrator, the reader begins to listen more and more to the robot-turned-philosopher. The robot exclaims at how “humans lost their curiosity to the degree that they didn’t even realize it” (Capanna, p. 106). The reader learns that the Planner is not a time-wielding tyrant, but a servant concerned at the human’s “lack of imagination” (Capanna, p. 106) and cognizant of the sickness that is allowed by their inability to feel wonder.  Though the aged robot does talk about the human’s relationship with time, it underscores that the greatest disaster of Acronia is that humans have lost a curiosity, imagination, and wonder as well as their ability to recognize them.  

     Through the robot’s explanations, it becomes clear that though P. is not the hopeful figure the reader once believed. Through all his great awakenings, P. experiences these human elements but does not realize it. When he becomes lost in a query about Acronia’s measurement of time he is experiencing curiosity; the euphoric freedom he feels following this “distraction” is a result of escaping an oppressive schedule which leaves no time for deep thought. His comparison of Acronia to a timeless hell of endless repetitions follows a moment of awe and wonder at the beauty and precision of the celestial dome. Even his dream, though subconscious, is an example of imagination. P.’s experience of these faculties is hopeful, but only passively. By the end of the story, P. is still unable to understand what is happening and why. He is not the revolutionary the reader was expecting, but through capturing the reader in P.’s experience, Capanna communicates on an even deeper level the danger that is posed to our society. Capanna played with our expectations, exploited them, and then defied them, all to broaden and deepen the impact of the story.   

     From the title alone, Capanna captures the sf audience with textual implication of time. With the reader’s attention already directed toward time, Capanna uses P.’s perspective to further distract the reader from what is truly missing in Acronia: wonder, curiosity, and imagination. Though P. exhibits all of three of these elements, he does so through a filter which superimposes the object of time. While the reader is busy investing in the problem of time and in P.’s promise of unveiling it, Capanna pulls the rug from under our feet by revealing P.’s lack of control and understanding, the incoherency of Acronia’s relationship with time, and the fact that the only hope for Acronia’s humanity is a robot wielding the human weapon of absurdity. This final revelation shows the extent to which the humans of Acronia have fallen, and our own susceptibility to become lost in the same obsession with time.     

Works Cited  

Capanna, Pablo. “Acronia” (1966). Trans. Andrea L. Bell. Ed. Andrea L. Bell and Yolanda Molina-Gavilán. Cosmos Latinos: An Anthology of Science Fiction from Latin America and Spain. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 2003. 93-108. 

Since starting this class, my android has been suggesting sf-related articles to me. This one by Gavin Miller of University of Glasgow popped up this week.¹ The article challenges the long time classification of sf as merely escape fiction and not literary in nature.

The article begins by quoting Ian McEwan, author of Machines Like Me,  who claims that the novel, about advanced AI, is not science fiction because it deals “not in terms of traveling at 10 times the speed of light in anti-gravity boots, but in actually looking at the human dilemmas.”² This quote has been cited all over the internet, mainly to point out the ways in which the literary world is ignorant and dismissive of the world sf.

I don’t know to what extent Ian McEwan really meant to put down sf as a genre, but regardless it provides an opportunity to reiterate how much good sf does focus on human dilemmas. This is why I titled my website “The Human Adventure;” it is through these fictional stories that we discover real things about the human condition, both through moral thought experiments and through the cognitive estrangement of our own societies.

The article ends with the claim: “Rather than ask us to pull on our anti-gravity boots, open the escape hatch and leap into fantasy, science fiction typically aspires to be a literature that faces up to social reality.”

1. Miller, Gavin. “Fan of Sci-Fi? Psychologists Have You in Their Sights.” The Conversation, 18 Feb. 2020, theconversation.com/fan-of-sci-fi-psychologists-have-you-in-their-sights-131342.

2. Adams, Tim. “Ian McEwan: ‘Who’s Going to Write the Algorithm for the Little White Lie?’.” The Guardian, Guardian News and Media, 14 Apr. 2019, www.theguardian.com/books/2019/apr/14/ian-mcewan-interview-machines-like-me-artificial-intelligence.

Much of our experience of science fiction tv and film is the music! In my exploration this week, I was curious what it is that characterizes sf soundtracks. What makes music “futuristic”? How were the sounds of early sf created?

Through my exploration I was struck by the idea that as the popular culture of the mid-20th century was exploring what it is to be human through an imagination of the future, the future of music was being made in order to suit those explorations. The BBC actually created the “Radiophonic Workshop” specifically to develop new techniques of making sound. As Mark Ayres put in an interview (“BBC Radiophonic Workshop: A Journey Through Time“), “If you wanted the sound effect of a car crash or a door opening, you could go to a sound effects library. If you wanted the sound effect of someone having a mental breakdown, you needed something a bit more creative.” Out of this workshop came the iconic Dr. Who theme song which was created by looping recordings of recordings and splicing the tape in just the right way. The BBC Radiophonic Workshop went on to be pioneers in electronic music, inspiring artists such as Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix (who are both featured in our class Spotify playlist)!

Other methods for creating science fiction sounds come from physical musical instruments. One of these in particular blew my mind. The theremin creates a sound that is heavily reminiscent of sf films mostly because of its prominence in the classic The Day the Earth Stood Still. It is somehow played without any physical touch as it uses electromagnetic currents to create a sounds whose pitch and volume are controlled by the proximity of the player’s hands to two antennas. I guess it must be “sufficiently advanced technology” cause it seems pretty magical to me. Here is a video of Coralie Ehinger playing the theremin in an arrangement of the prelude. Enjoy!

When I was little, I loved to indulge in those make-believe games where my backyard became the palace gardens of a majestic kingdom. I somehow had this great ability, as many kids do, to imagine brilliant fantastical layers on top of the mundane world. The crooks of trees became a pedestal on which to place magical transportation devices. One skate around an ice rink would be an entire journey from the ice castle to another faraway land.

When I was a little older and my imagination became less generative, I found that listening to audiobooks while I walked or worked in the garden was another way for me to layer other worlds onto my own. I still remember moments of “Ender’s Game” unfolding right in my back yard.

I remember my experiences in immersive imagination with great fondness and wonder. However, in all of these, my great journeys into the fantastic occurred as layers on top of the real world. Imagine embarking on an adventure that uses the real world as the actual landscape of the imagination. In fact, for the players of Alternate Reality Games (ARG) the journey begins very much in the physical world. Slowly, by tracking and tracing both physical and cyber clues scattered around the world and internet, the game becomes more and more fantastic. But it all unfolds not in a world layered on top of our own, but right here.

Take a look at some of the most well remembered ARGs. It takes a special type of dedication and sense of adventure to immerse oneself as a player of ARGs. But I think the thrill of immersive imagination might just be worth it!

“An alternate reality game (ARG for short) combines the best elements of viral marketing, role playing games and being an insane person who can’t tell fantasy from reality.” — Andrew Lang