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Posts Tagged ‘In Progress’

Feral Hypertext : When Hypertext Literature Escapes Control

A new idea! Instead of a weekly update of what I am reading for my thesis and the project Toni and I are working on, how about I just blog my research daily as it goes on. Bear with me: I am bouncing between a number of sources so posts will go back and forth between them often. My goal is to upload one per day. In fact, if all goes well the focus of this blog will shift for the time being to my current, in progress, research and writing almost exclusively.

Oh, I will get back to War Prayers soon.

History Lesson
My first entry will be for Jill Walker-Rettberg‘s . Dr. Walker’s paper offers a lot of useful information on two fronts. There is plenty of good historical information about hypertext and many useful arguments for what Toni and I are working towards in our project, which is moving towards a focus on how texts have been, and are, defined and how this effects electronic literature. Walker argues that hypertext before the World Wide Web is “domesticated…bred in captivity” (1). She continues by arguing that hypertext was, however, always intended for individual users. In 1974, Ted Nelson insists that ordinary people need to have access to personal computers. Thirty years before, in an essay for The Atlantic in 1945, Vannevar Bush also argues for this:

Consider a future device for individual use, which is a sort of mechanized private file and library. It needs a name, and to coin one at random, “memex” will do. A memex is a device in which an individual stores all his books, records, and communications, and which is mechanized so that it may be consulted with exceeding speed and flexibility. It is an enlarged intimate supplement to his memory.

Continuing the historical look, Nelson creates the term “hypertext” in 1965. Two years later, Julia Kristeva does the same for Intertextuality. What becomes important here for my own thinking is, as Walker notes, the similarities between contemporary critical theory and hypertext have been pointed out numerous times, including, the work I am most familiar with, George Landow’s Hypertext 2.0 from 1997. Walker is quick to point out, as Landow is as well, that the “relationship between hypertext and critical theory is not that simple” (3).

Walker continues by offering a brief history of preweb hypertext systems like Hypercard and Storyspace:

Though the first personal computers became available in the late seventies, the first home hypertext systems weren’t available till the late eighties. Peter Brown’s GUIDE [8] was followed by HyperCard, a hypertext authoring system that was packaged with Macintosh computers. Soon afterwards, Eastgate’s Storyspace became available, first for the Macintosh and later for the PC. Tinderbox, released from Eastgate in 2001, is probably the tool that most closely follows in the footsteps of these systems, which were very much created in the spirit of Vannevar Bush and the desire for an intimate extension to memory. These hypertext authoring systems allow an individual to organise his or her personal notes and create his or her own self-contained hypertext which can be shared with others by copying it onto a diskette or CD or by emailing it as a single file. While Tinderbox and HyperCard were primarily intended as organisational tools, Storyspace was explicitly developed as a tool for fiction authors.

The Evolution Of The Writerly Text
Distribution of literary hypertext before the World Wide Web still shared many of the characteristics of the bounded text. Like a copy of Sorrentino’s Aberration of Starlight in paperback, a CD of Shelley Jackson’s Patch Work Girl still restricted readers to a “sustained reading of a self-contained work” (5). The rise of cheaper personal computers and the World Wide Web began to allow anyone with an Internet account to publish on the web, link, and be linked to. This led to what Walker refers to as “feral hypertext,” hypertext that is “no longer tame and domesticated” (1). For my own work, the most important point here is that hypertext on the World Wide Web in general cannot be tamed any longer. Hypertext is very unruly and rather disobedient!

As Walker points out, literary hypertext that has gone, in her words, “feral” demands of the reader “to accept structures that are neither predefined nor clearly boundaried” (2). Collaboratively written works like The Unknown and digital poetry like Megan Sapnar and Ingrid Ankerson’s Cruising defy the boundaries of the bounded text. An interactive memoir like Caitlin Fisher’s These Waves Of Girls is an unruly and rather untamed account of growing up told with audio and visual links. After making sure to note that Landow and others have pointed out the differences between critical theory and hypertext while pointing out their similarities, Walker expresses the idea, which I strongly agree with, that theorists involved with critical theory and intertextuality are already arguing that texts are unruly and extremely disobedient. Literary hypertext on the World Wide Web is an evolution of the writerly text. Hypertext that is feral is, as I see it, an interactive expression of the writing of the work on authorship of theorists like Foucault, Derrida, and Barthes.


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War Prayer 002

(just you and me)

War Prayer 002

All of this began when Drew was in sixth grade. The second week of school. The second month of Operation Desert Storm. He pissed himself in science class. His teacher would not let him go to the bathroom and near the end of the period he could not hold it anymore.

That evening, after spending the afternoon walking in the woods and trying to cry his way through the latest, and deepest, black hole his young life had spiraled into, he saw a girl from his class named Trish standing at the edge of the high school soccer field. To get to the trail which led back to his neighborhood he had to cross below the field and walk passed the school, down towards his house.

Trish pointed at him, laughed loudly, and announced to the assembled middle and high school soccer players what had happened earlier in the day. The sun burned red behind her. They laughed and chanted “faggot!” at him over and over.

He stared at her, pointing and laughing, and walked below them towards the path. After a childhood filled with fuck ups and failures he knew any chance to ever get his life on track had passed by that morning. Things would never be okay, never be right.

After thinking for a long moment he noticed, under the cover of the trees, Theresa sat waiting for him. Drew saw her and smiled. For a few minutes they sat in silence. Theresa and Drew looked up and took in each other. She eyed him curiously, stood up, and began walking towards home. Drew got up, caught up, and never looked back at Trish or any of them again.


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War Prayer 019

(squirmed)

War Prayer 019

Neither Drew or Theresa enjoyed making love. Penetrative sex was the most boring and bland thing possible for them. They made love twice: the night they decided to be lovers and then once again a few months later in a friend’s bands van while they played to a roaring crowd of woman hating, young Republican, Straight Edge fans.

Drew felt like a robot and did not like how ritualistic and necessary it felt. Once a male hits their teens and becomes sexually active it is very hard to stop that ritual, no matter how you feel. Most of the time Drew wished he could never get hard again. For the most part it was a complete waste of time, money, and energy. He would rather be reading a book.

Theresa squinted at him through the morning light. She did as much as she could to hide her sexuality. The closely cropped hair, the rare application of makeup, the complete lack of desire for anything resembling feminine clothing. Under the sheets they squeezed each other’s hands tightly. She slid up to his face to meet his smile. The sun flashed across her eyes as she smiled back and whispered good morning. Quietly Drew told her how much he loved her.


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War Prayer 001

War Prayer 001

Drew and Theresa lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It’s three years later and, for the first time in a very long time, they can feel something other than resigned despair flooding through their bodies. The first day of classes ended a few hours ago. She rolls over to his side of the bed and grins at him.

In class Drew stares at his classmates. Was it something he said? Did he speak too loudly while answering a question? Sometimes he did that. It was an unconscious action on his part; he did not even realize he was doing it before it was too late and he already embarrassed himself.

Drew seemed to embarrass people in public a lot. When he ran into a friend this morning, he found himself stuck in the middle of some pathetic scam conversation with a few young women. He was not sure if what he said was inappropriate, or just plain awkward, but his friend bummed out on him hard for ruining his chance to impress the ladies. He might have talked about a book, Sorrentino or Calvino or fucking John Barth. Who cares. It was probably Borges anyway.

Drew knew it was his own fault anyway. He never learned how to function amongst pleasant society and, honestly, if someone tried to teach him he was probably not paying attention. Theresa had tried to teach him the so-called rules of Non-Conventional Society but he seems to have royally fucked that one up too.

None of that really matters much though because those peers are part of a bigger puzzle now. Eat, drink booze, fuck once a week on that special night, pop out a couple babies. Drew’s peers are now sponsored by Pepsi and Budweiser. Pizza Hut has them in its jukebox

Amber has been dead for three years and the towers gone almost as long. Drew turned twenty five in between. He seems to have worn out his welcome; nothing had ever made him feel more alive.

Everything he has ever been taught turned out to be wrong. Drew leaned over and kissed Theresa gently on the mouth. Here, where it is just you and me, none of that matters anymore.

They kissed again. Everything went away. For now, all Drew could do is keep praying.


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Page Updates

I spent some time this morning updating some of the pages at the top of this blog. Attending now has a current list of conferences I will be going to in the upcoming months. In Progress has been updated, but still needs to be updated more once I have digital copies prepared for a few other in progress projects. Finally, Worth The Trip has also been updated.

 


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War Prayer 018

(how little)

War Prayer 018

Theresa was waiting for Drew on campus the morning after the towers fell. By the time he walked through the parking lot his stomach was in knots. Macho, dick measuring, conversations about “fucking ay-rabs” and “bombing them back to the stone age” filled the air as he made his way towards the large building at the end of campus. Supposedly “progressive” friends who stopped him sounded like members of a white supremacist organization. He could not even begin to deal with this. His best friend was barely dead for a week and now this? He blocked out the disgusting, racist, garbage others spewed around him.

Near the education center he glanced outside at the bench Amber had sat with him only months before. What they had done to each other with each other’s and their own hands, and only their hands, that night was done in silence. Amber bit her bottom lip and closed her eyes. Drew shivered and squirmed at her touch until she took his right hand and guided hers with it.

Upstairs, above the theater, at the end of a narrow hallway, Theresa sat on a couch staring at the floor. She looked up and smiled, patting the other side of the couch to encourage Drew to sit. He joined her in staring at the floor. After a minute, Theresa stood up and dramatically threw her arms in the direction of the window to their left. “No, really, fuck them,” she said quietly as she pointed towards a few large groups of students gathering outside below a flag. Theresa sat down again and interlocked her fingers with his, tightly squeezing them until it hurt both of them. “But like you said, it’s time to move on.”

They skipped their classes that day. No one seemed to care. Theresa leaned into Drew and kissed him. Both began to cry. He kissed her back, very hard, very intensely. They drove home and silently laid on his bed enjoying each other’s warmth while the world imploded around them.

No, really, fuck them.

Theresa buried her head in his shoulder and kissed the bottom of his chin. Drew did not need to move on anymore; it would be a few years before he could begin to feel anything even worth considering being called an emotion.


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War Prayer 017

War Prayer 017

On the first day of summer in 2001, Amber and Drew got together at a local bar where she purchased illegal drugs. While a hideous Lynard Skynard cover band played behind them they sat and talked. Amber had a couple of beers, Drew had a couple cups of coffee. This was the evening in which she relayed the events of Stephanie’s demise to him. Outside they sat in the back of her car talking about their own sexuality and their very similar sexual embarrassments. Each confessed some rather deviant desires for persons of a variety of gender identities and sexual orientations.

Drew called Amber’s sister to come pick up her car. He took Amber to the local diner. On the way in she stopped under a light pole and hugged him tightly. After a moment she nuzzled her head against his and gently, very slowly, kissed the side of his head. They pulled apart and, before either could say a word, she leaned forward to kiss his mouth. A second passed before Drew reciprocated.

They stepped away from each other a few paces. Amber reached out and took Drew’s hand in her own and into the diner they walked. It was 3am before they decided to call it a night. They spent the evening eating, Amber was buzzed enough that she paid for everything, and talking about each other’s lives. Behind Drew’s car they kissed again. Drew could still remember the way the diner lights shone around them.

She put his hands on her breasts and leaned forward to kiss him again. He did not move them, not sure what to do now that one of his teenage fantasies had come true. Eventually she smiled and laughed quietly. They drove home in silence. When Drew pulled up to Amber’s driveway they made out again. Before getting out of his car she stared at him for what must have been a full minute before walking inside.

The next morning she called and acted like nothing had happened. Each time they got together, each time they kissed, each time they made love, they never spoke of it afterwards. Later that day Amber and Drew made love for the first time. Five years or so too late. It was the only time either got any pleasure out of it.


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