Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant Page A
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
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all sorts of things they didn’t see. Some psychologists believe eyewitness identifications shouldn’t be used in court because of their unreliability. Our memories are so inaccurate that they are pretty much the opposite of cameras or tape recorders. And I wonder, if we were all using the memory palace technique, would we have been more skeptical of memories recovered by hypnosis? This is purely speculation on my part, but I feel like the memory-palace technique makes it clearer that memories can be based on your imagination just as much as your sensory impressions.
Anyway, the reason I brought up the memory-palace technique is that I find it astonishing. Maybe it seems ordinary to you, but it feels much stranger to me than thinking about the brain as a computer, and I’d like to read a science-fiction story about the brain that has the same effect. Maybe that would require writers to come up with a new metaphor for the brain, but maybe it wouldn’t. I don’t ask that this story reflect the latest research in neuroscience; I just want it to talk about the brain in a way that I haven’t seen a hundred times before.
I think science fiction has reached the point where it’d actually be more interesting for a story to explore the ways that the brain isn’t like a computer. Even comparing the brain to a steam engine might be preferable, if it helps readers realize that the computer metaphor is just a product of our times.
As I said before, science fiction doesn’t have to be scientifically accurate. But there are some things I want science fiction to have in common with science. Science is about examining your assumptions and not simply relying on common sense about the way the universe works. I think science fiction should do the same. And that’s why I think we should be on the lookout for folk biology in science fiction, and avoid it when we can. Because folk biology confirms what you already think you know, and we should ask more of science fiction than that.
If you move, please remember to send us your Change of Address. We thank you!
Email: [email protected]
Paper mail: LCRW, 150 Pleasant St., #306,
Easthampton, MA 01027
Elite Institute for the Study of Arc Welders’ Flash Fever
Patty Houston
It’s true, I’m a little dizzy, but not falling over; not that I’m whining: where would that get me?—in the Toxicologist’s office, that’s where, so I recite, “When welding’s lethal, use asbestos-free electrodes.”
I’m crouching, sparks flying, the glow of super heat lighting up the space around me, wondering if a study nurse will stop by. Up to now, no nurse has donned a mask and sampled the fumes. Aida Blue’s having sudden freezing spells and threatening to call the Reverend Francine, Angel Communicator, which is against study rules and, well, frankly, worries me.
“Howard,” Aida says during a thaw, “I don’t so much mind the manganese in the air, but I might’ve caught a neurodegenerative disease.”
How am I supposed to feel about that? Aida’s ailing scares me. Though what she truly believes is that her stiff arms and legs are passing and that by guinea pigging we’re not only getting paid plenty, we’re also helping all welders all over. I hope she’s right. Because this study’s a lung-buster. Every day we enter the shed, put on our personal protective gear, our ppg (steel-toe boots, skullcaps, stout jeans, gauntlet gloves, goggles, hoods with the two-color lenses, earplugs) and doctor race cars: Barracudas, Mustangs, Firebirds, that variety, with monikers like Banshee, Belly Up, Burn in Hell.
At least our shed has a fume extractor, which is better than others. Some welders catch metal fever from breathing the mist of vaporized lead, nickel, chromium. Before Aida incurred gait disturbances, before she lost the knack of her ultraviolet welding smile, we’d visit the Alaska Pipeline shed for fish fries. Best grilled salmon this side of Wind Gap, Kentucky. There was
Anyway, the reason I brought up the memory-palace technique is that I find it astonishing. Maybe it seems ordinary to you, but it feels much stranger to me than thinking about the brain as a computer, and I’d like to read a science-fiction story about the brain that has the same effect. Maybe that would require writers to come up with a new metaphor for the brain, but maybe it wouldn’t. I don’t ask that this story reflect the latest research in neuroscience; I just want it to talk about the brain in a way that I haven’t seen a hundred times before.
I think science fiction has reached the point where it’d actually be more interesting for a story to explore the ways that the brain isn’t like a computer. Even comparing the brain to a steam engine might be preferable, if it helps readers realize that the computer metaphor is just a product of our times.
As I said before, science fiction doesn’t have to be scientifically accurate. But there are some things I want science fiction to have in common with science. Science is about examining your assumptions and not simply relying on common sense about the way the universe works. I think science fiction should do the same. And that’s why I think we should be on the lookout for folk biology in science fiction, and avoid it when we can. Because folk biology confirms what you already think you know, and we should ask more of science fiction than that.
If you move, please remember to send us your Change of Address. We thank you!
Email: [email protected]
Paper mail: LCRW, 150 Pleasant St., #306,
Easthampton, MA 01027
Elite Institute for the Study of Arc Welders’ Flash Fever
Patty Houston
It’s true, I’m a little dizzy, but not falling over; not that I’m whining: where would that get me?—in the Toxicologist’s office, that’s where, so I recite, “When welding’s lethal, use asbestos-free electrodes.”
I’m crouching, sparks flying, the glow of super heat lighting up the space around me, wondering if a study nurse will stop by. Up to now, no nurse has donned a mask and sampled the fumes. Aida Blue’s having sudden freezing spells and threatening to call the Reverend Francine, Angel Communicator, which is against study rules and, well, frankly, worries me.
“Howard,” Aida says during a thaw, “I don’t so much mind the manganese in the air, but I might’ve caught a neurodegenerative disease.”
How am I supposed to feel about that? Aida’s ailing scares me. Though what she truly believes is that her stiff arms and legs are passing and that by guinea pigging we’re not only getting paid plenty, we’re also helping all welders all over. I hope she’s right. Because this study’s a lung-buster. Every day we enter the shed, put on our personal protective gear, our ppg (steel-toe boots, skullcaps, stout jeans, gauntlet gloves, goggles, hoods with the two-color lenses, earplugs) and doctor race cars: Barracudas, Mustangs, Firebirds, that variety, with monikers like Banshee, Belly Up, Burn in Hell.
At least our shed has a fume extractor, which is better than others. Some welders catch metal fever from breathing the mist of vaporized lead, nickel, chromium. Before Aida incurred gait disturbances, before she lost the knack of her ultraviolet welding smile, we’d visit the Alaska Pipeline shed for fish fries. Best grilled salmon this side of Wind Gap, Kentucky. There was
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