unseen_girl :: 2/5/01
He has a phone that he rarely uses. It’s not his preferred interface. He doesn’t do it well; he is shy and halting even with people he has known for years, even with his parents. He has one because, well, who doesn’t have one? But what he mainly hears through it are the voices of telemarketers, stationed in other cities, outlining the plans that distant entities have for him. May I speak to the person in charge of the phone service? Entities with intermeshing parts and indistinguishable outlines. Koch snowflakes interlocked with other ones; a series of infinite coastlines wired together. He’s too polite to interrupt them or to just hang up. Or maybe it’s not just politeness. For the minute that that telemarketer talks he is aware of his role: he is the focal point (the target) of an entire industry’s energies. It is a bit like prayer in reverse: the god addresses you. It’s no wonder that the unfolding spiel mesmerizes him, no wonder that he fumbles and stammers when it’s his turn to reply. Now all I need is for you to confirm a few details and we’ll get that card right out in the mail to you, OK? Um.
But the jack—ah, that’s the thing. He uses the phone jack all the time. He thinks of the jack as its own appliance, separate from the phone. And a very unusual appliance, too, because the jack actually is the terminal point in a large network. If the network is owned by the phone company, then presumably the jack is as well. An alien body in the home. Tiny, forgettable, inconspicuous as a mite, yet unmistakably a site of colonization (of infection?). Not that Thomas minds. Public, private, body, network — he wants to see the distinctions all break down. He wants total and continuous dialogue. New Msg. To the phone company the jack may be a terminal point but to Thomas it is a point of entry: it is the appliance he uses to put his words into the discussion.
He is on. He is in. Inbox - Netscape Folder. He has been needing to reply to an e-mail that Derek sent him a while ago: one of those “Hey, sorry I haven’t been in touch lately, what’s new with you?” kinds of e-mails. Part of the problem is that not much is new, or, more accurately, — well — information is any difference that makes a difference, and Thomas isn’t sure what differences will bear any relevance to Derek. Thomas’ week: working on the website, reviewing music that Derek doesn’t care about, comparing notes with other drone fans from all over, going out and wasting four nights waiting tables, seeing an occasional show, and, well, that’s about it. (Oh, and an occasional bout of loneliness, insinuating in its mildly crippling way, leaving him lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, mental energy fizzling without direction or point.) Derek is married, works in an office, is thinking about having a kid. Thomas isn’t sure where their lives overlap anymore.
He clicks Get Msg. Notify.wav gives its bone-flute whistle. A message appears at the bottom of the list: have you seen this? from unseen_girl. Unseen_girl? He doesn’t recognize the handle. He opens the message:
Hey. Love your site; check in all the time. You listen to a lot of digital music; ever make any yourself? I like playing around with AudioMulch:
http://download.cnet.com/downloads/0-1896426-100-3954350.html
or
http://www.audiomulch.com
although that seems to be down lately...
Are you in Chicago? (I’m guessing because your show writeups are usually Chicago shows, although I haven’t seen a new one lately.) You should drop me a line at unseen_girl@yahoo.com if you are, cause I am.
He’s intrigued. Multiply. New avenues for investigation suggest themselves, out of nowhere. This is how the Net happens. The logic of the Net is not linear or causal but associative and aleatory. Chance connections displace necessary relations.
When the microphone is no longer locally wired, strange echoes occur.
Further Reading ::
Information Prose : A Manifesto In 47 Points ::
A manifesto, outlining some of the aesthetic goals behind Imaginary Year, can now be read here.
