News, Reviews

Zone 6: Ex Machina: A Sci Fi Movie for the Literary

Read the full article here.

Two male characters spending the majority of the movie discussing human consciousness and tackling philosophical questions may not sound like an interesting hook to some, but its execution in Ex Machina is truly a work of art, and embodies the tradition of classic science fiction. Like Domnhall Gleeson, one of the movie’s main actors said: “Just because something is science fiction doesn’t make it just spaceships. In my head, they tell you more about people than they do about machines.”

Alex Garland, screenplay writer of 28 Days Later and Never Let Me Go makes his directorial debut with Ex Machina. The title of the movie alone evokes the universal question all of science fiction tries to answer: “What makes us human?” Ex Machina, or “from the machine”, immediately incites feelings of the uncanny, challenging our preconceived notions of what it means to be human.

The movie sets itself up innocently enough, in that it deceives its audience into a seemingly simple plot. A programmer of the world’s most popular internet search company, Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson), wins a contest to meet his hero, one he describes as the “Mozart of Computer Programming” – Nathan (Oscar Isaac). Caleb then travels to Nathan’s abode, where we are first introduced into the first lie, in a movie where the central theme is  deception and manipulation. Nathan’s hideout and laboratory is in the middle of a natural, beautiful landscape, the exterior of which is an inconspicuous cabin in he middle of the forest. Upon entering, Caleb finds himself in an immense mansion, complete with modern decoration, minimalist furniture, a vacant-looking Japanese maid, and a variety of android skins bearing creepy human expressions as decorations on the wall.

Click here to read the full article on Zone 6.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #35

I had a dream
that I had an infinite amount
of these round little pills
that forced us to dance
the crazy dance
of laconic conversations
for six hours straight
going up and then down
and then flinging our souls
away from the helpless
hopelessness of sobriety
until a tremble in the corner

of our dilated eyes
exploded
and rendered us
into colours
that couldn’t exist

while a rabid, quivering whisper

told us we held

the secret to life

that whatever it is that people

questioned, studied, searched and journeyed for

the golden truth, the elliptical bud

has been found—

but before we could

ask why
it died

before we could hear

 

anything.
 

 

 

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Day to Day Writing

Day to Day Writing #27

To the man who reads,

I am in love with you. I adore you. I adore the way you philosophize in a corner, away from all the blathering strangers with their conventional talk about the weather. You’re inside your own mind, traveling to far away cities – the distance between your folded legs and arms is a millennia – a place internalized, untouched by physical entities, created from the words and narratives of your favourite writers, your only teachers.

You understand the beauty in silence and isolation; the reverence and serenity in enjoying a good book while wrapped in the covers of your bed. You know that strength comes from working on your soul, that the food for your thoughts are the only sustenance that matters. You know of true romance undevoured by the unrealistic expectations of the selfish ego, of love that flourishes from the combined experience of two individuals, of unrequited, unconditional love that can only exist through knowing yourself completely, of love that persists in the solitary.

I am enamored by the world you inhabit – a silent world only you can visit, a world, that if I ever do enter, will only be left to misinterpretation, tarnished by the limitations of my own knowledge, lost in translation.

And so I leave you to it, my poet, my lover – and hope that I meet you somewhere, in between your journeys from the ordinary plains of human existence towards transcendence.

Until then I am yours, in idea.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry # 24

There’s a cricket living in my heater.
I feed him leaves through the dusty grate and listen to his chirping at night.

A few days ago I tried my best to lead him out,
And created a path for escape through my living room window —
But he stayed in his spot and chirped,
and forced us
to co-exist.

Every morning I check my heater
only to see the path I created for him remain
untraveled.

His chirps lull me through my nightmares,
on evenings when I leave my window open,
the cold sneaking in and settling deep within
my bones.

I paint my old heater forest-green
To make him feel at home.

A small thank you for his nightly song,
the one that holds my hand
and leads me through a yellow field,
an endless sea of stars burning bright above us —
and the songs of crickets and cicadas
surrounds us.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry # 22

I am the daughter of adventure and exploration,
an old-school, classic adrenaline junkie.
Despising routine,
Ghastly afraid
of the every day.

And yet —

the happiest and most content memory I have,
is sitting in the dark, curled up under the covers,
sipping warm tea, listening to the rain,
watching a horror movie
with you.

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