Most of the channels on my parents’ satellite system have decayed to blackness. The lack of a new subscription card for the machine has starved it of decoder codes, or the alignment is so twisted on the windblown dish that it’s now more likely to obtain a signal from Empyrean XXX Hot Angel Babes. Whatever the cause, observable channels now squeak and bubble from the night sky like Radio Luxembourg or the tremulous handshakes of lonely, distant spies.
This flux of information, clicking through channels where the pictures and words both make half-senses that do not mutually coincide; it’s hypnotising, the flow of HMV with the coincidences that arise when serendipitous synchronicity is your only playlist. It’s the new short-wave, the shipping forecast on every channel, only they’re all pretending that instead they’re about current affairs, business news, NASDAQ, bears monkeys snakes and big cats, a cartoon, a cartoon, a transparent if dubbed rom-com, Al Jazeera, the world, the people in it.