This is from Iain Sinclair’s London Orbital:
"I spent Saturday afternoon, in the rain, observing a pair of middle-aged mudlarks, up to the elbows in liquid sewage. One of them dragged an old tin bath out into the river, at low tide. The other worked with a sieve like a grizzled prospector, Walter Huston in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. They spent hours laboriously shifting shit, hoping for the odd ring or coin. And I stuck with them, watching. This was about as far as you could travel from John Prescott. He couldn’t, even it it were explained to him, find anywhere to place such humans. Demographically, they had pulled it off. They didn’t register."
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Cinematic stories have nothing to do with images. Cinematic stories are to do with silence. In silence, the images unpack themselves. Cinematic stories cannot be mediated. They cannot be told. Tell them, and you hide them. Tell them, and you convey nothing. Worse, you make a fetish of your own presence. Shame on you.
Cinematic stories are lunatic. Their selves have come unhinged.

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... or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Baroness Greenfield
http://bit.ly/aucOYV
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New Scientist are championing Geoff Ryman's anthology – and giving the story Zoology an outing in the process.
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On Saturday 18 July 2009 I was at the BFI on London's South Bank, exploring Kubrick's designs for space travel with Will Whitehorn, Chris Riley, Theo Kamecke and Tony Frewin. This blogpost was written to introduce the event.
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