26 :: unseen_girl ::
[posted 2/5/01]
He has a phone that he rarely uses. It's not his preferred interface. He's not good on it; he is shy and halting even with people he has known for years, even with his parents. He likes to think things through before he speaks and the phone makes no allowance for this. This is why telemarketers always get the best of him. He's too polite or too slow to just hang up on them, and even though he may have no interest in whatever set of benefits they have to offer he can never articulate his objections quickly enough or well enough to avoid having to concede. Distant entities have worked out a plan for him: easiest, perhaps, to just go along with it.
He could probably do without the actual object of the phone entirely. He has one because, well, who doesn't have one?
This is not to say that he could be free of phone service. He needs the jack. He sees this as an entirely different appliance, the point of entry into an entirely different media—the Web—which is free of the demands of instantaneity. This is the way he can put his words into the discussion. The only way he can do it comfortably.
He is on. He is in. He opens up his Netscape inbox. He needs 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. Derek is married, works in an office, is thinking about having a kid. Thomas isn't sure where their lives overlap anymore.
Thomas' week looks like this: he works on the website, he reviews music that Derek no longer cares about, he compares notes with other drone fans from all over, he wastes four nights by going out and waiting tables, he sees an occasional show, and, well, that's about it. (Oh, and the episodes of loneliness, the afternoons and evenings where he lies on the sofa, mildly crippled, staring at the ceiling, letting his mental energy fizz with no direction or point.)
He has a new message: have you seen this? from unseen_girl. Unseen_girl? He doesn't recognize the handle. He opens the message and what he sees gives him a jolt of excitement:
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 stares at the screen in a kind of quiet amazement. He will respond. But first he has to think about what to say.
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.
