tales from the sands

The drumming beat reaches across the expanses of a valley of metal. The whistle of the crowd brings about a small contempt and discomfort, but laughter and joy pervades this atmosphere. This is a vibrant and colorful festival, contrasted starkly with the rolling wastes of sands and ruin. 

Here we find our wanderer, still surviving in this harsh reality.

Festival season is here, the wanderer thinks to themself. A tradition as long kept as the wanderer could remember, the purpose of these festivities is the yearly departure of a new exhibition team.

Habitable locations are harder to come by nowadays, and so the community sends out this group of adventurers in hopes that they can find new areas to expand modern civilization. Housed within the small areas that have been left unphased by the encroaching end perhaps these festivities are another way to cope.

Regardless, not one of the exhibition teams have ever returned.

After grabbing a kebab from a local stall, a street food made of pungent artificial recreations of meat(which has become the main protein for the people of this metal valley), the wanderer sets out back to the wastes to once again search for collectible scrap. They’ve never been one for festivities, especially these.

So they set out into the wastes, a place which feels more like a home to the wanderer than their home itself.

“Maybe I can find some stuff for Cypher” the wanderer says to themselves, much more comfortable to speak out loud in the rolling dunes. Since our last checkpoint with the wanderer, they have become close friends to the gleeful old man with an oddly large understanding of old world objects.

Despite our wanderers origin (a tale for another time, perhaps), the old man has met them with nothing but what they perceive as kindness and warmth. It doesn’t hurt that he pays fairly for anything new I can get my hands on, the wanderer continues the thought in their head.

Cypher has given the wanderer a curious lead, moving them towards an old abandoned facility entrance which can only be assumed was created in the time of the ancients. Miraculously, the door was indeed there at the wanderers' arrival.

The exploration of this place felt as if opening of an old tomb, preserved perfectly and hidden away by sands of time. The wanderer thinks semi-jokingly about the idea of unearthing a horrible curse, much like the old folktales they heard growing up, but then swipes the thought away with the shake of their head and moves on.

Within the first few rooms lay a scattered arrangement of wrappers and ash, leftover echoes of communion over campfires in a place where shelter was needed at dead of night. This created an unsettling feeling for the wanderer, at the thought that they may not be alone here. Logic takes over after a few moments and reassures them that whoever made this is now long gone.

Like many in the valley of metal, the guests which stayed here seemingly held no interest in this place which gave them roof and warmth. Doors to the deeper confines of the facility were left locked or closed without signs of disturbance. 

The constructs of the ancients were mostly viewed as something to be avoided by the world outside, especially considering most couldn't even step foot near them in the first place. It was generally agreed that the ancients brought about ruin and ravage to the world and land. Thought to have caused their own demise, guaranteeing an eventual end for everything. 

Is it surprising for many to want to avoid the doomsday clock set right in front of them, ticking away?

Instead, study and understanding of ancient culture was left to select few thinkers known as Scholarites, who’s curiosity led them towards a pursuit of understanding the cursed world which the ancients created. Scholarites typically gained no fame or valor for this, and so they hid themselves away and cast modern society aside in pursuit of the past.

However, there were a few eccentric fellows like Cypher who just liked the idea of collecting old and intricate machines.

The door they set their eyes on, which seemingly was rusted shut from years of idle abandon, comes open with the use of a small torch device powered by Neothene, a synthetic fuel material made of fungus grown in the region. Stepping through the doorframe the wanderer is met with a stale air, taking caution not to step on shards of broken glass and metal strewn about randomly.

As much as the feeling of exploring this place was both creepy and claustrophobic to the wanderer, they couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder at the curiosity of it all. Subconsciously, a smaller sense of familiarity was beginning to eat away at them.

While exploring the facility, a slight thud sends the wanderer forward tumbling. Looking back at the cause, they find a person

Well, perhaps not a person, but instead a synthetic one. 

Time has been cruel to this mechanical body, the wanderer thinks to themselves. 

To their surprise, and momentary terror, this humanoid machine seemingly clicks to life.

“Oh, hello, I wasn’t expecting visitors.” The unexpected voice rings out in a feminine tone, paired with a slight glitching noise. “Could you tell me a story?”

At first The Wanderer is taken aback. “I’m sorry, what?”

“A story. Of anything, really.”

Taking a second to think, the wanderer agrees to share a moment. After all, it was the least they could do to ease the pain of the unimaginable time they must have been left here, alone.

The wanderer shares tales of past travels, of CDs with music, of many different places they’ve seen.

“The world outside has really changed a lot” she says with a thin smile in response, thinking to herself. “Thank you.”

“Wait, how about you?” the wanderer quickly says, not willing to let go of this moment. “Do you have any stories to share?”

A brief air of silence falls over the conversation, leaving a feeling of anxiety in the wanderer. Maybe I am asking too much of her, maybe she doesn’t have any memory left in the first place, they think to themselves while only the ambience of rust and ruin can be heard.

“I was created to be used and thrown away.” her voice interrupts the silence. “AI-29f “Secretary” Model, code “Hex” 762490, my purpose was to help the people here with research on the climate of our world. In hopes that we could reverse the damage that was done. My handler was named Marie, we were good friends.”

“Eventually,” a pause hovered over her as she shifted among thoughts of the previous statement in her head, “we realized that reversal wasn’t possible. We could only delay the inevitable. So we worked, until the end finally came.”

Although her body could no longer move, you could tell her soul was staring away into the distance, longing for days well past. 

“A part of me always believed that Marie would take me with her when she left, that maybe our relationship went beyond being some… synthetically made assistant.” You can tell that these heavy words are being shared through pain. 

“The EnBio Corporation, who we worked under, decided it was too late. The day was almost near that it was time to pull out. Then, all the people left with the lights still on.” 

“Since we were a small facility I was the only assistant from the beginning.” she explained, echoing her loneliness. “For the first hundred or so years, I continued doing the research in hopes to find something, any solution. Slowly, rust began to take over as lights went out and sections of the facility collapsed. I couldn’t continue my work.”

“Then I was purposeless.” She let those words hang in the air for what felt like an eternity. “I just wandered around what was left until my body could not move. I was always afraid that leaving would ruin the chances of Marie coming back to get me.”

“And so I’ve stayed here, as my body withered and no longer could function.” The Wanderer looks over her with sad eyes, wondering if they could possibly get her operational again. 

“I put myself into dormant mode to conserve what was left. You bumping into me reactivated my systems.”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you” The wanderer replies.

“It’s okay, I’m happy you did.” She says back with a warm smile. “You gave me so many stories to think about.” She pauses.

“I always have time to think.”

Again, silence rests over the conversation. “You know, you told me about that CD you found. Marie had a favorite CD too, so I kept it nearby. Would you grab it for me?”

“Yeah. I’d love to. just tell me where it is.” replies the wanderer.

After describing the location, the wanderer cautiously navigates through the ruined facility and finds the CD, along with a music player. They’ve gained a newfound understanding of this machine since they met Cypher, who's been sharing his own favorites with the wanderer when they visit.

Setting up the machine and placing the disc into the hatch with a small click, the wanderer looks over to the broken android. 

“You ready?” he asks, awaiting her response.

“Go ahead, I’m ready.”

The whir of the machine brings about the soft melody of an acoustic guitar and rhythmic drum fills the space. The sound immediately feels melancholic or nostalgic, leaving an air of sadness in the tone.

There are no auditory glitches in the sound of the disc, unlike many found in Cyphers collection. Perfectly preserved with love. The wanderer sits back into the metal hallway wall as the lead singer's soft voice starts up.

𝅘𝅥 

L.A., why you're so complicated for me, twilight

Waiting on the planet to turn to me, dark side

If loving you's a felony now, then I'm a renegade, riding

Trying to find tomorrow ain't easy 'til you dive in

Why you rolling waves over me now? That's all I need, dreaming

Waiting on L.A. to come find me, be forgiven

I'll be a regular guy for you, I never said I'd do that

Why you looking so beautiful to me now when you so sad?

I will always think about you

That's why I'm calling you back on my way through

I wanna stay with you for a long time; I wanna be stone, love

I wanna see L.A. in your eyes when I'm leaving with your love

I will always think about you

That's why I'm calling you back, 'cause I got to run soon

I will always think about you

That's why I'm calling you back on my way through

A tear rolls down the face of the old, broken synthetic person laying motionless in front of the wanderer. No words were shared for a long while. Instead the lyrics of the song lingered within minds of both wanderer and android alike.

It is not that nothing is left to be said. 

Instead, perhaps in moments such as these, the act of speaking could ruin such a moment.

Notes on The Wanderer

Something about this wanderer I have been dreaming up feels special. The world I envision, the stories I can tell with this theme, I feel strongly that this perhaps could be with much time and hard work a full book. I have been thinking a lot about worldbuilding and atmosphere.

There are changes and retcons in this that lead to inconsistencies in the previous writing, but I imagine that is simple to iron out with the idea of stretching the content to become a real piece. 

The main question I need to reflect on is whether the use of real music from our time should be kept in, is it a good theme, or does it feel forced after the first time?

I want to see what world I can create. I envision a dim but beautiful world which knows its own end is in sight. A wanderer who goes from place to place experiencing the stories, cultures, and people who were there past and present, finding relics of the past that emphasize those feelings?

Detail oriented descriptions of the tiniest objects and places. Centered around a protagonist who doesn’t understand themselves, who may seem distant, for reasons I wish not to spoil.

This world is coming together in my head, but what is the purpose? Is it to show the light of a humanity that knows darkness is descending? To illustrate a hypocritical world of wonder mixed with the harsh and ugly reality of our actions?

What lessons would this world have to teach us, what signs can lead us to experience empathy for a world not too dissimilar to our own future? I am very excited to continue and to find out.

what are the signs? and “the attention economy”

In the late 90s, a young musician by the name of Jun Seba sat in an underground record store he opened himself named Guiness Records in Japan. Formally trained in Graphic Design and digital production, he makes the decision to start making music by releasing single remixes he made himself. 

Adopting the artist name “Nujabes”, Jun slowly began to integrate these singles into his own record store. He would press the vinyls by hand and then place them within the bins of the artist he remixed, with customers not knowing that the owner himself created these beats.

Many years later, after he was taken from this world too early, he would go on to be known as one of the most legendary hip-hop producers in the world. Mixing elements of jazz, rap, spoken word poetry, and hip-hop. Now referred to as the godfather of the modern genre “Lo-Fi Hip-Hop,” Nujabes garners millions of monthly listeners on modern platforms.

To describe the music is a challenge in itself. Distant and serene, melancholic yet hopeful, the use of hip-hop drum loops with the talented features of various rappers, jazz instrumentalists, and hip-hop icons brings you to a world that draws you in with meaningful lyrics and emotions.

In 2005, Nujabes collaborated with the artist Pase Rock for a song on the album “The Sign(feat. Pase Rock”. The song combines spoken word poetry with distinct foley sounds and a simple piano and drum accompaniment.

A small group of jazz musicians stands upon the stage in a ritzy club. Guests chat on as their drinks slosh around in their glasses, laughing and enjoying the world around them. 

Preparing to start their set, the singer in the jazz band clears his throat, preparing to cue in on the drummer and pianist. His hand rises and the soft melody of a piano begins, followed by the light loop of the drums.

The crowd doesn’t so much as flinch, encapsulated in their conversations, stuck in their own worlds. 

The jazz singer begins to speak; The drinks continue, the clank of ice in hard liquor drowns the words of the young musician.

𝅘𝅥 

You wanna watch it all fall apart?

Every time I walk I watch

I look, I notice, I observe

I read the signs

And the signs are pointing in the wrong direction

The signs are not naming the streets

Or leading you to the highways

The signs are naming names

Tombstones to mark the death of children not even born

And I don't mean abortion I mean what is to come

The signs are telling me to turn back around

The signs are telling me to research my past

The signs are telling me to learn from my mistakes

The signs are asking me questions

Do you wanna watch it all fall apart?

Do you have any control?

Is there anything that you can do?

Both of the previous examples are warning signs in the form of music that is used to convey a message to an audience. One talks about the complacency and lack of care from those listening. The other speaks on environmental crises such as global warming.

These “signs” as referred to by Pase Rock are no different from the stories and speculative futures we have seen through history. Yet with the times as there are, it feels as if the understanding of these signs is taken with less urgency.

Laughed off, seen as purely fiction, or denied their true meaning. We now turn these messages from the overtly political and raw to something entirely different. 

We cast them astray, alienize the concept. 

Even something with such surface level ideology such as the songs I’ve used as example can be twisted into something else with weaved narratives that suffocate the original meaning.

This is intentional, however. To live within a society where we are free to learn and consume as we please is a threat. There is nothing more dangerous to a government than differing opinions, the reason we do not truly live in democracy.

And so we arrive at the idea of “Media Literacy”. To give a simple definition of media literacy, it is the ability to view a story's intentions and themes critically and analyze the messaging dwelling beyond the surface level of the work.

Media literacy is a fundamental skill that allows any individual to view a piece of media and take from it the lessons and stories being conveyed. This is backed by the idea that all art, and media by extension, is made with intention. 

If media is “the signs”, “media literacy” is the language of understanding those signs.

And those signs are not vague, they tell the tale of the fall of an empire. Humorously we cast them aside,

“We are the greatest nation to exist at the greatest time in history. We are the exception.”

“The Attention Economy”

When people stop reading further into these signs and asking questions, the flames of curiosity are stamped out.

Commentary on complex political issues don’t change, but instead the people consuming choose to ignore in favor of segmented stories. Narratives dissected and turned into short form content. 6 second videos take over the internet.

So instead we adapt to that content, as designers and as people. We create advertisements with catchy colors and funny concepts. We explain that people do not care to look at our content for more than a few seconds, and we reinforce it.

In bed we lie** for hours, scrolling through unimaginably large repositories of digital content. Monotonous AI voices like the ferryman of the river Styx, as time folds in upon itself.

So much information travels to the brain in short periods that it becomes overwhelming. Stimulation becomes less effective. Now we need more. How about multitasking? You can watch 2 movies, play a game, and listen to music all at the same time!

On Tik-Tok, videos of complex topics are split down the middle with a person playing with sand. Dopamine becomes the new algorithm. “Satisfying” videos of someone cutting soap are paired with reports of a mass shooting in Florida.

People just don’t want to listen to someone talk about conflict anymore, instead they need their brain to be stimulated during it. Everything becomes faster, everything becomes consumerized, everything becomes splashed with vivid colors and catchy songs.

We are trapped in the attention economy. Our eyes gloss over as we stare at the screens that hold us prisoner.

wanderer

In a not too distant future, we glimpse.

Across these wastes, light reflects upon the harsh sand with a golden glow. Speckled with the memories of life and days long past, ruins sit melancholically silhouetted by rolling dunes. Concrete columns jut from the earth, almost mimicking the unique and mesmerizing patterns of nature.

Tiny in this mass expanse of a once considered great place, a wanderer marches on in the heat. They are looking for something; anything that could be recovered. 

Tirelessly, possibly out of necessity? 

Although the majority of what is found is worth no more than scrap metal, for only a moment, the harsh glint of a foreign object catches the eye of the wanderer. Curiously they approach, eagerly hoping to find something of value.

The small reflective object lay dormant, sleeping in what seemingly should have been its final resting place. The wanderer notches their finger into the fittingly sized hole in the center and rises up examining the curios; a mirror-like circular pattern creates a picture of themselves, returning a vague image of their curious expression back at them.

The wanderer excitedly flips over the foreign object, and is met with a cool matte blue. Etched across it the first line in bright yellow reads “Flying Microtonal Banana”, the second “King Gizzard and the Wizard Lizard” these strange combinations of ancient language fall flat on the eyes of the wanderer.

Without much more thought, the item is placed into a small satchel with the rest of the day's haul.

Much later, as darkness begins to replace the light of day, the wanderer is in a small bustling market. The aroma of foods attack the nose, the sounds of hecklers invade the ears, the many colors and faces assault the eyes. Amongst the ruin, the world is still spinning, and the people are still here.

The wanderer is now attempting to haggle today's haul with a scrap dealer, hoping to get a few extra Shyll for the strange curios they found in the sand. To their surprise and disappointment, however, nobody seems interested in the item that reeks of the past. It has no material value to them.

Later, as they wander through a maze of stalls and vendors on the way to their current accommodation, they find a small stall filled with strange objects and ancient texts. The old man within greets them with a gentle smile, beckoning them to peruse the many wonder-filled oddments on offer.

Although they are tired and weary by now, they decide to give selling the object in their satchel one last chance. They reach for the small disc-like shape and show it to the stall owner, who’s eyes widen, glistening with a youthful glow at the sight.

“Ah, yes! How wonderful! I listen to those often myself!” says the shopkeeper happily.

“Listen to them?” replies the wanderer humorously, writing off the shopkeeper “How can you listen to this?”

“Easily!” quips the shopkeeper, “I have a machine for them, I recovered it many, many years ago.”

The wanderer's expression slowly turns from playful to curious, “What do they say?” they ask, impatiently.

After some thinking, the shopkeeper replies “Well… It’s actually a form of music. At Least that’s what I think, it’s pretty strange. As for what they say, I couldn’t tell ya, It’s all in ancient language, and I’m no Scholarite.”

“Music, on a small object such as that!” replies the wanderer in amazement, their hunger and exhaust seemingly gone from their body. “I can’t imagine how the ancients could have done that.”

“Would you like to give it a listen? Truth be told, I'm very curious myself!” The shopkeeper exclaims.

Nestled behind the stall, the wanderer is guided through curtains and doors into a small, messy apartment. Along the back wall a dusty, large machine sits idly on top of an old wooden shelf. The machine itself appears just as foreign as the mirror-like object to the wanderer. Complicated woven meshes and metal parts create an otherworldly finish. This machine is certainly from the old world, the wanderer thinks.

The old shopkeeper, however, is all too familiar with this anomaly. A hatch pops open, and the item is placed into the device with a small audible click. Like a mechanic tending to his vehicle the shopkeeper masterfully moves around knobs, presses buttons, and tinkers with the machine. The wanderer watches in amusement, taking in the scene.

After some work, the old shopkeeper announces “Well, it seems like a good bit of it is damaged, but I think I got this one working.”

Both the wanderer and shopkeeper await eagerly for the sounds to start. The disc begins to spin and the two are met with a scratching, screeching noise that quickly fades into the start of a melodic and alien sound. The tune starts out fuzzy and indecipherable, but slowly becomes more coherent.

𝅘𝅥 

M-lt—-g

Me—-ing, melti—-, -elti-g

m---ing

—-ltin-, melting, melti-g

Conflagrated and cremated

When the world is consummated

Devastated, populated

World of isolated mortal folk

The earth is melting down

Our home and our playground

Won't be fit for our children when our world

Has melted down

Melting

Melting, melting, melting

When the wanderer picked up the CD in the sand, they had no idea what it was. Furthermore, when they got to listen to the CD, the message being conveyed was the world they now lived within. Humans have been creating these warning signs about the direction of society for ages. 

Tales passed on over the flames of a crackling fire.

Drawings in a cave that warn of beasts and poison.

Language etched into tablets, telling of great disasters.

The melody of a song that warns of days to come.

The digital landscapes of a game ravaged from nuclear weapons.

The sign in a power plant illustrates the skull and crossbones.

Fictional stories have been created by us to pass down our lessons and teach our children from the very beginning, and yet in this oversaturated state of media, it seems we take for granted the stories and tales we hear.

What happens when we stop wandering? When we listen to those short stories once again? Will we understand?