Claire has lent me her copy of William Gibson's Pattern Recognition, which is utterly good so far. His later work uses meditative, periodic language which is just so. As if the detritus of "postindustrial" culture recombined to make glassy poetry, and was recited by masked people with cleverly blank, cipher-like personalities. I wish I'd had the courage to get an autograph from Gibson when I saw him on a street corner in the East Village. Damn. I even happened to have a copy of Idoru on me. Fool.
Perversely, sometimes I actually wish I could be a strategic marketing wanker like those in Gibson's books, instead of being a marketing drone -- it'd be fun, if dumb. I've been trying my best though; lately, I've arrogantly dispensed with the details of execution, and have been writing notes on "how Eadweard Muybridge's 19th Century photographic motion studies and Chris Marker's La Jetee can be used as conceptual chrono-models for an unfolding campaign for {brand deleted}". At least being a wanker is more entertaining than the everyday miseries of employment.
