Hab soeben (nicht: söben) geträumt, ich würde auf bLog.de so ein neumodisches Glumpert, nämlich ein (WWWe)bLog(Buch) starten ó und zwar unter der Adresse http://bloggy.blog.de ... Aber wenn das lediglich ein Elektrotraum war, entspricht dies selbstverständlich nicht den Tatsachen, Herrschaften.
Schiff im Schleudergang
Er musste eingenickt sein. Im Traum saß er gerade im Space-Shuttle und drang mit großem Gerüttel und Geschüttel in die rötlich leuchtende Erdatmosphäre ein.
Dann aber war er plötzlich Kapitän eines alten Segelschiffes und hörte ein dumpfes Getöse vom nordöstlichen Horizont heranrollen. Durch die Sunda-Straße raste eine riesige Wasserwand auf sie zu. "Krakatau!", schrie eine sich überschlagende Stimme von achtern herüber, und auch der Himmel sah plötzlich ganz entsetzlich aus: klumpiges Schwarz, aus dem in rasender Folge Blitze schlugen - wie weiße Riesenschlangen auf tintigem Grund! Er atmete schwerer; feinster Staub erfüllte die Luft, und der Tag war zur Nacht geworden. Schwefelflammen durchzuckten das Firmament,. Graue Schwaden dunklen Aschenstaubs rieselten herab. Auch im Südosten schossen plötzlich rasende Feuerketten in die Luft. Ganze Katarakte weißglühender Bälle schnellten auf ihn zu, er zuckte zusammen und erwachte schweißgebadet.
Doch Moment mal, in seiner winzigen Einzimmer-Altbauwohnung wackelte ja tatsächlich alles! Plötzlich war er hellwach und blickte sich entsetzt um. Was war hier los? War das ein Erdbeben? Der Atomkrieg? Das Ende der Welt? Die Schränke in seinem Zimmer bebten. Bilder fielen von der Wand. In der Küche rasselten schon die Teller von der Spüle und zerschellten auf dem Boden. Lautes Dröhnen erfüllte die gesamte Wohnung!
Benommen ließ er sich aus dem Bett fallen. Er stürzte in die Küche. Und da fiel es ihm endlich wieder ein. Es war ja bloß seine neue Waschmaschine, die er vorhin zum ersten Mal in Betrieb genommen hatte. Sie befand sich im niedrigstwählbaren Schleudergang. " JAN SÜSELBECK
taz Berlin lokal Nr. 7570 vom 21.1.2005, Seite 25, 58 Kommentar JAN SÜSELBECK,†Kolumne
taz muss sein: Was ist Ihnen die Internetausgabe der taz wert? Sie helfen uns, wenn Sie diesen Betrag überweisen auf: taz-Verlag Berlin, Postbank Berlin (BLZ 100 100 10), Konto-Nr. 39316-106
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Vervielfältigung nur mit Genehmigung des taz-Verlags
Auf News4Press stand heute ein interssanter Artikel. Dort wird beschrieben wie der angesehene Heise Zeitschriften Verlag unabhängige Nachrichtenagenturen bedrängt. Über ein Hamburger Anwaltsbüro soll Heise Abmahnungen versenden, um die Verbreitung einer Meinung zu verhindern.
Wenn Heise damit durchkommt, wird nicht einmal mehr der Cyberspace frei von öffentlicher Zensur sein. Ohne freie Meinung gibt es auch keine Träume.
Vollständige Meldung hier klicken
During the years that followed Kuno"s escapade, two important developments took place in the Machine. On the surface they were revolutionary, but in either case men"s minds had been prepared beforehand, and they did but express tendencies that were latent already.
The first of these was the abolition of respirator.
Advanced thinkers, like Vashti, had always held it foolish to visit the surface of the earth. Air-ships might be necessary, but what was the good of going out for mere curiosity and crawling along for a mile or two in a terrestrial motor? The habit was vulgar and perhaps faintly improper: it was unproductive of ideas, and had no connection with the habits that really mattered. So respirators were abolished, and with them, of course, the terrestrial motors, and except for a few lecturers, who complained that they were debarred access to their subject- matter, the development was accepted quietly. Those who still wanted to know what the earth was like had after all only to listen to some gramophone, or to look into some cinematophote. And even the lecturers acquiesced when they found that a lecture on the sea was none the less stimulating when compiled out of other lectures that had already been delivered on the same subject. "Beware of first- hand ideas!" exclaimed one of the most advanced of them. "First-hand ideas do not really exist. They are but the physical impressions produced by live and fear, and on this gross foundation who could erect a philosophy? Let your ideas be second-hand, and if possible tenth-hand, for then they will be far removed from that disturbing element - direct observation. Do not learn anything about this subject of mine - the French Revolution. Learn instead what I think that Enicharmon thought Urizen thought Gutch thought Ho-Yung thought Chi-Bo-Sing thought LafcadioHearn thought Carlyle thought Mirabeau said about the French Revolution. Through the medium of these ten great minds, the blood that was shed at Paris and the windows that were broken at Versailles will be clarified to an idea which you may employ most profitably in your daily lives. But be sure that the intermediates are many and varied, for in history one authority exists to counteract another. Urizen must counteract the scepticism of Ho-Yung and Enicharmon, I must myself counteract the impetuosity of Gutch. You who listen to me are in a better position to judge about the French Revolution than I am. Your descendants will be even in a better position than you, for they will learn what you think I think, and yet another intermediate will be added to the chain. And in time" - his voice rose - "there will come a generation that had got beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely colourless, a generation
From taint of personality,
which will see the French Revolution not as it happened, nor as they would like it to have happened, but as it would have happened, had it taken place in the days of the Machine."
Tremendous applause greeted this lecture, which did but voice a feeling already latent in the minds of men - a feeling that terrestrial facts must be ignored, and that the abolition of respirators was a positive gain. It was even suggested that air-ships should be abolished too. This was not done, because air-ships had somehow worked themselves into the Machine"s system. But year by year they were used less, and mentioned less by thoughtful men.
The second great development was the re-establishment of religion.
This, too, had been voiced in the celebrated lecture. No one could mistake the reverent tone in which the peroration had concluded, and it awakened a responsive echo in the heart of each. Those who had long worshipped silently, now began to talk. They described the strange feeling of peace that came over them when they handled the Book of the Machine, the pleasure that it was to repeat certain numerals out of it, however little meaning those numerals conveyed to the outward ear, the ecstasy of touching a button, however unimportant, or of ringing an electric bell, however superfluously.
"The Machine," they exclaimed, "feeds us and clothes us and houses us; through it we speak to one another, through it we see one another, in it we have our being. The Machine is the friend of ideas and the enemy of superstition: the Machine is omnipotent, eternal; blessed is the Machine." And before long this allocution was printed on the first page of the Book, and in subsequent editions the ritual swelled into a complicated system of praise and prayer. The word "religion" was sedulously avoided, and in theory the Machine was still the creation and the implement of man. but in practice all, save a few retrogrades, worshipped it as divine. Nor was it worshipped in unity. One believer would be chiefly impressed by the blue optic plates, through which he saw other believers; another by the mending apparatus, which sinful Kuno had compared to worms; another by the lifts, another by the Book. And each would pray to this or to that, and ask it to intercede for him with the Machine as a whole. Persecution - that also was present. It did not break out, for reasons that will be set forward shortly. But it was latent, and all who did not accept the minimum known as "undenominational Mechanism" lived in danger of Homelessness, which means death, as we know.
To attribute these two great developments to the Central Committee, is to take a very narrow view of civilization. The Central Committee announced the developments, it is true, but they were no more the cause of them than were the kings of the imperialistic period the cause of war. Rather did they yield to some invincible pressure, which came no one knew whither, and which, when gratified, was succeeded by some new pressure equally invincible. To such a state of affairs it is convenient to give the name of progress. No one confessed the Machine was out of hand. Year by year it was served with increased efficiency and decreased intelligence. The better a man knew his own duties upon it, the less he understood the duties of his neighbour, and in all the world there was not one who understood the monster as a whole. Those master brains had perished. They had left full directions, it is true, and their successors had each of them mastered a portion of those directions. But Humanity, in its desire for comfort, had over-reached itself. It had exploited the riches of nature too far. Quietly and complacently, it was sinking into decadence, and progress had come to mean the progress of the Machine.
As for Vashti, her life went peacefully forward until the final disaster. She made her room dark and slept; she awoke and made the room light. She lectured and attended lectures. She exchanged ideas with her innumerable friends and believed she was growing more spiritual. At times a friend was granted Euthanasia, and left his or her room for the homelessness that is beyond all human conception. Vashti did not much mind. After an unsuccessful lecture, she would sometimes ask for Euthanasia herself. But the death-rate was not permitted to exceed the birth-rate, and the Machine had hitherto refused it to her.
The troubles began quietly, long before she was conscious of them.
One day she was astonished at receiving a message from her son. They never communicated, having nothing in common, and she had only heard indirectly that he was still alive, and had been transferred from the northern hemisphere, where he had behaved so mischievously, to the southern - indeed, to a room not far from her own.
"Does he want me to visit him?" she thought. "Never again, never. And I have not the time."
No, it was madness of another kind.
He refused to visualize his face upon the blue plate, and speaking out of the darkness with solemnity said:
"The Machine stops."
"What do you say?"
"The Machine is stopping, I know it, I know the signs."
She burst into a peal of laughter. He heard her and was angry, and they spoke no more.
"Can you imagine anything more absurd?" she cried to a friend. "A man who was my son believes that the Machine is stopping. It would be impious if it was not mad."
"The Machine is stopping?" her friend replied. "What does that mean? The phrase conveys nothing to me."
"Nor to me."
"He does not refer, I suppose, to the trouble there has been lately with the music?"
"Oh no, of course not. Let us talk about music."
"Have you complained to the authorities?"
"Yes, and they say it wants mending, and referred me to the Committee of the Mending Apparatus. I complained of those curious gasping sighs that disfigure the symphonies of the Brisbane school. They sound like some one in pain. The Committee of the Mending Apparatus say that it shall be remedied shortly."
Obscurely worried, she resumed her life. For one thing, the defect in the music irritated her. For another thing, she could not forget Kuno"s speech. If he had known that the music was out of repair - he could not know it, for he detested music - if he had known that it was wrong, "the Machine stops" was exactly the venomous sort of remark he would have made. Of course he had made it at a venture, but the coincidence annoyed her, and she spoke with some petulance to the Committee of the Mending Apparatus.
They replied, as before, that the defect would be set right shortly.
"Shortly! At once!" she retorted. "Why should I be worried by imperfect music? Things are always put right at once. If you do not mend it at once, I shall complain to the Central Committee."
"No personal complaints are received by the Central Committee," the Committee of the Mending Apparatus replied.
"Through whom am I to make my complaint, then?"
"I complain then."
"Your complaint shall be forwarded in its turn."
"Have others complained?"
This question was unmechanical, and the Committee of the Mending Apparatus refused to answer it.
"It is too bad!" she exclaimed to another of her friends.
"There never was such an unfortunate woman as myself. I can never be sure of my music now. It gets worse and worse each time I summon it."
"What is it?"
"I do not know whether it is inside my head, or inside the wall."
"Complain, in either case."
"I have complained, and my complaint will be forwarded in its turn to the Central Committee."
Time passed, and they resented the defects no longer. The defects had not been remedied, but the human tissues in that latter day had become so subservient, that they readily adapted themselves to every caprice of the Machine. The sigh at the crises of the Brisbane symphony no longer irritated Vashti; she accepted it as part of the melody. The jarring noise, whether in the head or in the wall, was no longer resented by her friend. And so with the mouldy artificial fruit, so with the bath water that began to stink, so with the defective rhymes that the poetry machine had taken to emit. all were bitterly complained of at first, and then acquiesced in and forgotten. Things went from bad to worse unchallenged.
It was otherwise with the failure of the sleeping apparatus. That was a more serious stoppage. There came a day when over the whole world - in Sumatra, in Wessex, in the innumerable cities of Courland and Brazil - the beds, when summoned by their tired owners, failed to appear. It may seem a ludicrous matter, but from it we may date the collapse of humanity. The Committee responsible for the failure was assailed by complainants, whom it referred, as usual, to the Committee of the Mending Apparatus, who in its turn assured them that their complaints would be forwarded to the Central Committee. But the discontent grew, for mankind was not yet sufficiently adaptable to do without sleeping.
"Some one of meddling with the Machine---" they began.
"Some one is trying to make himself king, to reintroduce the personal element."
"Punish that man with Homelessness."
"To the rescue! Avenge the Machine! Avenge the Machine!"
"War! Kill the man!"
But the Committee of the Mending Apparatus now came forward, and allayed the panic with well-chosen words. It confessed that the Mending Apparatus was itself in need of repair.
The effect of this frank confession was admirable.
"Of course," said a famous lecturer - he of the French Revolution, who gilded each new decay with splendour - "of course we shall not press our complaints now. The Mending Apparatus has treated us so well in the past that we all sympathize with it, and will wait patiently for its recovery. In its own good time it will resume its duties. Meanwhile let us do without our beds, our tabloids, our other little wants. Such, I feel sure, would be the wish of the Machine."
Thousands of miles away his audience applauded. The Machine still linked them. Under the seas, beneath the roots of the mountains, ran the wires through which they saw and heard, the enormous eyes and ears that were their heritage, and the hum of many workings clothed their thoughts in one garment of subserviency. Only the old and the sick remained ungrateful, for it was rumoured that Euthanasia, too, was out of order, and that pain had reappeared among men.
It became difficult to read. A blight entered the atmosphere and dulled its luminosity. At times Vashti could scarcely see across her room. The air, too, was foul. Loud were the complaints, impotent the remedies, heroic the tone of the lecturer as he cried: "Courage! courage! What matter so long as the Machine goes on ? To it the darkness and the light are one." And though things improved again after a time, the old brilliancy was never recaptured, and humanity never recovered from its entrance into twilight. There was an hysterical talk of "measures," of "provisional dictatorship," and the inhabitants of Sumatra were asked to familiarize themselves with the workings of the central power station, the said power station being situated in France. But for the most part panic reigned, and men spent their strength praying to their Books, tangible proofs of the Machine"s omnipotence. There were gradations of terror- at times came rumours of hope-the Mending Apparatus was almost mended-the enemies of the Machine had been got under- new "nerve-centres" were evolving which would do the work even more magnificently than before. But there came a day when, without the slightest warning, without any previous hint of feebleness, the entire communication-system broke down, all over the world, and the world, as they understood it, ended.
Vashti was lecturing at the time and her earlier remarks had been punctuated with applause. As she proceeded the audience became silent, and at the conclusion there was no sound. Somewhat displeased, she called to a friend who was a specialist in sympathy. No sound: doubtless the friend was sleeping. And so with the next friend whom she tried to summon, and so with the next, until she remembered Kuno"s cryptic remark, "The Machine stops".
The phrase still conveyed nothing. If Eternity was stopping it would of course be set going shortly.
For example, there was still a little light and air - the atmosphere had improved a few hours previously. There was still the Book, and while there was the Book there was security.
Then she broke down, for with the cessation of activity came an unexpected terror - silence.
She had never known silence, and the coming of it nearly killed her - it did kill many thousands of people outright. Ever since her birth she had been surrounded by the steady hum. It was to the ear what artificial air was to the lungs, and agonizing pains shot across her head. And scarcely knowing what she did, she stumbled forward and pressed the unfamiliar button, the one that opened the door of her cell.
Now the door of the cell worked on a simple hinge of its own. It was not connected with the central power station, dying far away in France. It opened, rousing immoderate hopes in Vashti, for she thought that the Machine had been mended. It opened, and she saw the dim tunnel that curved far away towards freedom. One look, and then she shrank back. For the tunnel was full of people - she was almost the last in that city to have taken alarm.
People at any time repelled her, and these were nightmares from her worst dreams. People were crawling about, people were screaming, whimpering, gasping for breath, touching each other, vanishing in the dark, and ever and anon being pushed off the platform on to the live rail. Some were fighting round the electric bells, trying to summon trains which could not be summoned. Others were yelling for Euthanasia or for respirators, or blaspheming the Machine. Others stood at the doors of their cells fearing, like herself, either to stop in them or to leave them. And behind all the uproar was silence - the silence which is the voice of the earth and of the generations who have gone.
No - it was worse than solitude. She closed the door again and sat down to wait for the end. The disintegration went on, accompanied by horrible cracks and rumbling. The valves that restrained the Medical Apparatus must have weakened, for it ruptured and hung hideously from the ceiling. The floor heaved and fell and flung her from the chair. A tube oozed towards her serpent fashion. And at last the final horror approached - light began to ebb, and she knew that civilization"s long day was closing.
She whirled around, praying to be saved from this, at any rate, kissing the Book, pressing button after button. The uproar outside was increasing, and even penetrated the wall. Slowly the brilliancy of her cell was dimmed, the reflections faded from the metal switches. Now she could not see the reading-stand, now not the Book, though she held it in her hand. Light followed the flight of sound, air was following light, and the original void returned to the cavern from which it has so long been excluded. Vashti continued to whirl, like the devotees of an earlier religion, screaming, praying, striking at the buttons with bleeding hands.
It was thus that she opened her prison and escaped - escaped in the spirit: at least so it seems to me, ere my meditation closes. That she escapes in the body - I cannot perceive that. She struck, by chance, the switch that released the door, and the rush of foul air on her skin, the loud throbbing whispers in her ears, told her that she was facing the tunnel again, and that tremendous platform on which she had seen men fighting. They were not fighting now. Only the whispers remained, and the little whimpering groans. They were dying by hundreds out in the dark.
She burst into tears.
Tears answered her.
They wept for humanity, those two, not for themselves. They could not bear that this should be the end. Ere silence was completed their hearts were opened, and they knew what had been important on the earth. Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled, and here was his reward. Truly the garment had seemed heavenly at first, shot with colours of culture, sewn with the threads of self-denial. And heavenly it had been so long as man could shed it at will and live by the essence that is his soul, and the essence, equally divine, that is his body. The sin against the body - it was for that they wept in chief; the centuries of wrong against the muscles and the nerves, and those five portals by which we can alone apprehend - glozing it over with talk of evolution, until the body was white pap, the home of ideas as colourless, last sloshy stirrings of a spirit that had grasped the stars.
"Where are you?" she sobbed.
His voice in the darkness said, "Here."
Is there any hope, Kuno?"
"None for us."
"Where are you?"
She crawled over the bodies of the dead. His blood spurted over her hands.
"Quicker," he gasped, "I am dying - but we touch, we talk, not through the Machine."
He kissed her.
"We have come back to our own. We die, but we have recaptured life, as it was in Wessex, when ∆lfrid overthrew the Danes. We know what they know outside, they who dwelt in the cloud that is the colour of a pearl."
"But Kuno, is it true ? Are there still men on the surface of the earth ? Is this - tunnel, this poisoned darkness - really not the end?"
"I have seen them, spoken to them, loved them. They are hiding in the midst and the ferns until our civilization stops. Today they are the Homeless - tomorrow ------ "
"Oh, tomorrow - some fool will start the Machine again, tomorrow."
"Never," said Kuno, "never. Humanity has learnt its lesson."
As he spoke, the whole city was broken like a honeycomb. An air-ship had sailed in through the vomitory into a ruined wharf. It crashed downwards, exploding as it went, rending gallery after gallery with its wings of steel. For a moment they saw the nations of the dead, and, before they joined them, scraps of the untainted sky.
The "Machine Stops" was first published in the Oxford and Cambridge Review in 1909
Copyright ©1947 E.M. Forster
THE MENDING APPARATUS
By a vestibule, by a lift, by a tubular railway, by a platform, by a sliding door - by reversing all the steps of her departure did Vashti arrive at her son"s room, which exactly resembled her own. She might well declare that the visit was superfluous. The buttons, the knobs, the reading-desk with the Book, the temperature, the atmosphere, the illumination - all were exactly the same. And if Kuno himself, flesh of her flesh, stood close beside her at last, what profit was there in that? She was too well-bred to shake him by the hand.
Averting her eyes, she spoke as follows:
"Here I am. I have had the most terrible journey and greatly retarded the development of my soul. It is not worth it, Kuno, it is not worth it. My time is too precious. The sunlight almost touched me, and I have met with the rudest people. I can only stop a few minutes. Say what you want to say, and then I must return."
"I have been threatened with Homelessness," said Kuno.
She looked at him now.
"I have been threatened with Homelessness, and I could not tell you such a thing through the Machine."
Homelessness means death. The victim is exposed to the air, which kills him.
"I have been outside since I spoke to you last. The tremendous thing has happened, and they have discovered me."
"But why shouldn"t you go outside?" she exclaimed, "It is perfectly legal, perfectly mechanical, to visit the surface of the earth. I have lately been to a lecture on the sea; there is no objection to that; one simply summons a respirator and gets an Egression-permit. It is not the kind of thing that spiritually minded people do, and I begged you not to do it, but there is no legal objection to it."
"I did not get an Egression-permit."
"Then how did you get out?"
"I found out a way of my own."
The phrase conveyed no meaning to her, and he had to repeat it.
"A way of your own?" she whispered. "But that would be wrong."
The question shocked her beyond measure.
"You are beginning to worship the Machine," he said coldly.
"You think it irreligious of me to have found out a way of my own. It was just what the Committee thought, when they threatened me with Homelessness."
At this she grew angry. "I worship nothing!" she cried. "I am most advanced. I don"t think you irreligious, for there is no such thing as religion left. All the fear and the superstition that existed once have been destroyed by the Machine. I only meant that to find out a way of your own was----Besides, there is no new way out."
"So it is always supposed."
"Except through the vomitories, for which one must have an Egression-permit, it is impossible to get out. The Book says so."
"Well, the Book"s wrong, for I have been out on my feet."
For Kuno was possessed of a certain physical strength.
By these days it was a demerit to be muscular. Each infant was examined at birth, and all who promised undue strength were destroyed. Humanitarians may protest, but it would have been no true kindness to let an athlete live; he would never have been happy in that state of life to which the Machine had called him; he would have yearned for trees to climb, rivers to bathe in, meadows and hills against which he might measure his body. Man must be adapted to his surroundings, must he not? In the dawn of the world our weakly must be exposed on Mount Taygetus, in its twilight our strong will suffer euthanasia, that the Machine may progress, that the Machine may progress, that the Machine may progress eternally.
"You know that we have lost the sense of space. We say ìspace is annihilatedî, but we have annihilated not space, but the sense thereof. We have lost a part of ourselves. I determined to recover it, and I began by walking up and down the platform of the railway outside my room. Up and down, until I was tired, and so did recapture the meaning of ìNearî and ìFarî. ìNearî is a place to which I can get quickly on my feet, not a place to which the train or the air-ship will take me quickly. ìFarî is a place to which I cannot get quickly on my feet; the vomitory is ìfarî, though I could be there in thirty-eight seconds by summoning the train. Man is the measure. That was my first lesson. Man"s feet are the measure for distance, his hands are the measure for ownership, his body is the measure for all that is lovable and desirable and strong. Then I went further: it was then that I called to you for the first time, and you would not come.
"This city, as you know, is built deep beneath the surface of the earth, with only the vomitories protruding. Having paced the platform outside my own room, I took the lift to the next platform and paced that also, and so with each in turn, until I came to the topmost, above which begins the earth. All the platforms were exactly alike, and all that I gained by visiting them was to develop my sense of space and my muscles. I think I should have been content with this - it is not a little thing, - but as I walked and brooded, it occurred to me that our cities had been built in the days when men still breathed the outer air, and that there had been ventilation shafts for the workmen. I could think of nothing but these ventilation shafts. Had they been destroyed by all the food-tubes and medicine-tubes and music- tubes that the Machine has evolved lately? Or did traces of them remain? One thing was certain. If I came upon them anywhere, it would be in the railway-tunnels of the topmost storey. Everywhere else, all space was accounted for.
"I am telling my story quickly, but don"t think that I was not a coward or that your answers never depressed me. It is not the proper thing, it is not mechanical, it is not decent to walk along a railway-tunnel. I did not fear that I might tread upon a live rail and be killed. I feared something far more intangible-doing what was not contemplated by the Machine. Then I said to myself, ìMan is the measureî, and I went, and after many visits I found an opening.
"The tunnels, of course, were lighted. Everything is light, artificial light; darkness is the exception. So when I saw a black gap in the tiles, I knew that it was an exception, and rejoiced. I put in my arm - I could put in no more at first - and waved it round and round in ecstasy. I loosened another tile, and put in my head, and shouted into the darkness: ìI am coming, I shall do it yet,î and my voice reverberated down endless passages. I seemed to hear the spirits of those dead workmen who had returned each evening to the starlight and to their wives, and all the generations who had lived in the open air called back to me, ìYou will do it yet, you are coming,î"
He paused, and, absurd as he was, his last words moved her.
For Kuno had lately asked to be a father, and his request had been refused by the Committee. His was not a type that the Machine desired to hand on.
"Then a train passed. It brushed by me, but I thrust my head and arms into the hole. I had done enough for one day, so I crawled back to the platform, went down in the lift, and summoned my bed. Ah what dreams! And again I called you, and again you refused."
She shook her head and said:
"Don"t. Don"t talk of these terrible things. You make me miserable. You are throwing civilization away."
"But I had got back the sense of space and a man cannot rest then. I determined to get in at the hole and climb the shaft. And so I exercised my arms. Day after day I went through ridiculous movements, until my flesh ached, and I could hang by my hands and hold the pillow of my bed outstretched for many minutes. Then I summoned a respirator, and started.
"It was easy at first. The mortar had somehow rotted, and I soon pushed some more tiles in, and clambered after them into the darkness, and the spirits of the dead comforted me. I don"t know what I mean by that. I just say what I felt. I felt, for the first time, that a protest had been lodged against corruption, and that even as the dead were comforting me, so I was comforting the unborn. I felt that humanity existed, and that it existed without clothes. How can I possibly explain this? It was naked, humanity seemed naked, and all these tubes and buttons and machineries neither came into the world with us, nor will they follow us out, nor do they matter supremely while we are here. Had I been strong, I would have torn off every garment I had, and gone out into the outer air unswaddled. But this is not for me, nor perhaps for my generation. I climbed with my respirator and my hygienic clothes and my dietetic tabloids! Better thus than not at all.
"There was a ladder, made of some primÊval metal. The light from the railway fell upon its lowest rungs, and I saw that it led straight upwards out of the rubble at the bottom of the shaft. Perhaps our ancestors ran up and down it a dozen times daily, in their building. As I climbed, the rough edges cut through my gloves so that my hands bled. The light helped me for a little, and then came darkness and, worse still, silence which pierced my ears like a sword. The Machine hums! Did you know that? Its hum penetrates our blood, and may even guide our thoughts. Who knows! I was getting beyond its power. Then I thought: ìThis silence means that I am doing wrong.î But I heard voices in the silence, and again they strengthened me." He laughed. "I had need of them. The next moment I cracked my head against something."
"I had reached one of those pneumatic stoppers that defend us from the outer air. You may have noticed them no the air- ship. Pitch dark, my feet on the rungs of an invisible ladder, my hands cut; I cannot explain how I lived through this part, but the voices till comforted me, and I felt for fastenings. The stopper, I suppose, was about eight feet across. I passed my hand over it as far as I could reach. It was perfectly smooth. I felt it almost to the centre. Not quite to the centre, for my arm was too short. Then the voice said: ìJump. It is worth it. There may be a handle in the centre, and you may catch hold of it and so come to us your own way. And if there is no handle, so that you may fall and are dashed to pieces - it is till worth it: you will still come to us your own way.î So I jumped. There was a handle, and ----"
He paused. Tears gathered in his mother"s eyes. She knew that he was fated. If he did not die today he would die tomorrow. There was not room for such a person in the world. And with her pity disgust mingled. She was ashamed at having borne such a son, she who had always been so respectable and so full of ideas. Was he really the little boy to whom she had taught the use of his stops and buttons, and to whom she had given his first lessons in the Book? The very hair that disfigured his lip showed that he was reverting to some savage type. On atavism the Machine can have no mercy.
"There was a handle, and I did catch it. I hung tranced over the darkness and heard the hum of these workings as the last whisper in a dying dream. All the things I had cared about and all the people I had spoken to through tubes appeared infinitely little. Meanwhile the handle revolved. My weight had set something in motion and I span slowly, and then----
"I cannot describe it. I was lying with my face to the sunshine. Blood poured from my nose and ears and I heard a tremendous roaring. The stopper, with me clinging to it, had simply been blown out of the earth, and the air that we make down here was escaping through the vent into the air above. It burst up like a fountain. I crawled back to it - for the upper air hurts - and, as it were, I took great sips from the edge. My respirator had flown goodness knows here, my clothes were torn. I just lay with my lips close to the hole, and I sipped until the bleeding stopped. You can imagine nothing so curious. This hollow in the grass - I will speak of it in a minute, - the sun shining into it, not brilliantly but through marbled clouds, - the peace, the nonchalance, the sense of space, and, brushing my cheek, the roaring fountain of our artificial air! Soon I spied my respirator, bobbing up and down in the current high above my head, and higher still were many air-ships. But no one ever looks out of air-ships, and in any case they could not have picked me up. There I was, stranded. The sun shone a little way down the shaft, and revealed the topmost rung of the ladder, but it was hopeless trying to reach it. I should either have been tossed up again by the escape, or else have fallen in, and died. I could only lie on the grass, sipping and sipping, and from time to time glancing around me.
"I knew that I was in Wessex, for I had taken care to go to a lecture on the subject before starting. Wessex lies above the room in which we are talking now. It was once an important state. Its kings held all the southern coast form the Andredswald to Cornwall, while the Wansdyke protected them on the north, running over the high ground. The lecturer was only concerned with the rise of Wessex, so I do not know how long it remained an international power, nor would the knowledge have assisted me. To tell the truth I could do nothing but laugh, during this part. There was I, with a pneumatic stopper by my side and a respirator bobbing over my head, imprisoned, all three of us, in a grass-grown hollow that was edged with fern."
Then he grew grave again.
"Lucky for me that it was a hollow. For the air began to fall back into it and to fill it as water fills a bowl. I could crawl about. Presently I stood. I breathed a mixture, in which the air that hurts predominated whenever I tried to climb the sides. This was not so bad. I had not lost my tabloids and remained ridiculously cheerful, and as for the Machine, I forgot about it altogether. My one aim now was to get to the top, where the ferns were, and to view whatever objects lay beyond.
"I rushed the slope. The new air was still too bitter for me and I came rolling back, after a momentary vision of something grey. The sun grew very feeble, and I remembered that he was in Scorpio - I had been to a lecture on that too. If the sun is in Scorpio, and you are in Wessex, it means that you must be as quick as you can, or it will get too dark. (This is the first bit of useful information I have ever got from a lecture, and I expect it will be the last.) It made me try frantically to breathe the new air, and to advance as far as I dared out of my pond. The hollow filled so slowly. At times I thought that the fountain played with less vigour. My respirator seemed to dance nearer the earth; the roar was decreasing."
He broke off.
"I don"t think this is interesting you. The rest will interest you even less. There are no ideas in it, and I wish that I had not troubled you to come. We are too different, mother."
She told him to continue.
"It was evening before I climbed the bank. The sun had very nearly slipped out of the sky by this time, and I could not get a good view. You, who have just crossed the Roof of the World, will not want to hear an account of the little hills that I saw - low colourless hills. But to me they were living and the turf that covered them was a skin, under which their muscles rippled, and I felt that those hills had called with incalculable force to men in the past, and that men had loved them. Now they sleep - perhaps for ever. They commune with humanity in dreams. Happy the man, happy the woman, who awakes the hills of Wessex. For though they sleep, they will never die."
His voice rose passionately.
"Cannot you see, cannot all you lecturers see, that it is we that are dying, and that down here the only thing that really lives in the Machine? We created the Machine, to do our will, but we cannot make it do our will now. It was robbed us of the sense of space and of the sense of touch, it has blurred every human relation and narrowed down love to a carnal act, it has paralysed our bodies and our wills, and now it compels us to worship it. The Machine develops - but not on our lies. The Machine proceeds - but not to our goal. We only exist as the blood corpuscles that course through its arteries, and if it could work without us, it would let us die. Oh, I have no remedy - or, at least, only one - to tell men again and again that I have seen the hills of Wessex as ∆lfrid saw them when he overthrew the Danes.
"So the sun set. I forgot to mention that a belt of mist lay between my hill and other hills, and that it was the colour of pearl."
He broke off for the second time.
"Go on," said his mother wearily.
He shook his head.
"Go on. Nothing that you say can distress me now. I am hardened."
"I had meant to tell you the rest, but I cannot: I know that I cannot: good-bye."
Vashti stood irresolute. All her nerves were tingling with his blasphemies. But she was also inquisitive.
"This is unfair," she complained. "You have called me across the world to hear your story, and hear it I will. Tell me - as briefly as possible, for this is a disastrous waste of time - tell me how you returned to civilization."
"Oh - that!" he said, starting. "You would like to hear about civilization. Certainly. Had I got to where my respirator fell down?"
"No - but I understand everything now. You put on your respirator, and managed to walk along the surface of the earth to a vomitory, and there your conduct was reported to the Central Committee."
"By no means."
He passed his hand over his forehead, as if dispelling some strong impression. Then, resuming his narrative, he warmed to it again.
"My respirator fell about sunset. I had mentioned that the fountain seemed feebler, had I not?"
"About sunset, it let the respirator fall. As I said, I had entirely forgotten about the Machine, and I paid no great attention at the time, being occupied with other things. I had my pool of air, into which I could dip when the outer keenness became intolerable, and which would possibly remain for days, provided that no wind sprang up to disperse it. Not until it was too late did I realize what the stoppage of the escape implied. You see - the gap in the tunnel had been mended; the Mending Apparatus; the Mending Apparatus, was after me.
"One other warning I had, but I neglected it. The sky at night was clearer than it had been in the day, and the moon, which was about half the sky behind the sun, shone into the dell at moments quite brightly. I was in my usual place - on the boundary between the two atmospheres - when I thought I saw something dark move across the bottom of the dell, and vanish into the shaft. In my folly, I ran down. I bent over and listened, and I thought I heard a faint scraping noise in the depths.
"At this - but it was too late - I took alarm. I determined to put on my respirator and to walk right out of the dell. But my respirator had gone. I knew exactly where it had fallen - between the stopper and the aperture - and I could even feel the mark that it had made in the turf. It had gone, and I realized that something evil was at work, and I had better escape to the other air, and, if I must die, die running towards the cloud that had been the colour of a pearl. I never started. Out of the shaft - it is too horrible. A worm, a long white worm, had crawled out of the shaft and gliding over the moonlit grass.
"I screamed. I did everything that I should not have done, I stamped upon the creature instead of flying from it, and it at once curled round the ankle. Then we fought. The worm let me run all over the dell, but edged up my leg as I ran. ìHelp!î I cried. (That part is too awful. It belongs to the part that you will never know.) ìHelp!î I cried. (Why cannot we suffer in silence?) ìHelp!î I cried. When my feet were wound together, I fell, I was dragged away from the dear ferns and the living hills, and past the great metal stopper (I can tell you this part), and I thought it might save me again if I caught hold of the handle. It also was enwrapped, it also. Oh, the whole dell was full of the things. They were searching it in all directions, they were denuding it, and the white snouts of others peeped out of the hole, ready if needed. Everything that could be moved they brought - brushwood, bundles of fern, everything, and down we all went intertwined into hell. The last things that I saw, ere the stopper closed after us, were certain stars, and I felt that a man of my sort lived in the sky. For I did fight, I fought till the very end, and it was only my head hitting against the ladder that quieted me. I woke up in this room. The worms had vanished. I was surrounded by artificial air, artificial light, artificial peace, and my friends were calling to me down speaking-tubes to know whether I had come across any new ideas lately."
Here his story ended. Discussion of it was impossible, and Vashti turned to go.
"It will end in Homelessness," she said quietly.
"I wish it would," retorted Kuno.
"The Machine has been most merciful."
"I prefer the mercy of God."
"By that superstitious phrase, do you mean that you could live in the outer air?"
"Have you ever seen, round the vomitories, the bones of those who were extruded after the Great Rebellion?"
"Have you ever seen, round the vomitories, the bones of those who were extruded after the Great Rebellion?"
"They were left where they perished for our edification. A few crawled away, but they perished, too - who can doubt it? And so with the Homeless of our own day. The surface of the earth supports life no longer."
"Ferns and a little grass may survive, but all higher forms have perished. Has any air-ship detected them?"
"Has any lecturer dealt with them?"
"Then why this obstinacy?"
"Because I have seen them," he exploded.
"Because I have seen her in the twilight - because she came to my help when I called - because she, too, was entangled by the worms, and, luckier than I, was killed by one of them piercing her throat."
He was mad. Vashti departed, nor, in the troubles that followed, did she ever see his face again.
THE MACHINE STOPS
by E.M. Forster (1909)
Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee. It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. There are no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditation opens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An armchair is in the centre, by its side a reading-desk-that is all the furniture. And in the armchair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh-a woman, about five feet high, with a face as white as a fungus. It is to her that the little room belongs.
An electric bell rang.
The woman touched a switch and the music was silent.
"I suppose I must see who it is", she thought, and set her chair in motion. The chair, like the music, was worked by machinery and it rolled her to the other side of the room where the bell still rang importunately.
"Who is it?" she called. Her voice was irritable, for she had been interrupted often since the music began. She knew several thousand people, in certain directions human intercourse had advanced enormously.
But when she listened into the receiver, her white face wrinkled into smiles, and she said:
"Very well. Let us talk, I will isolate myself. I do not expect anything important will happen for the next five minutes-for I can give you fully five minutes, Kuno. Then I must deliver my lecture on ìMusic during the Australian Periodî."
She touched the isolation knob, so that no one else could speak to her. Then she touched the lighting apparatus, and the little room was plunged into darkness.
"Be quick!" She called, her irritation returning. "Be quick, Kuno; here I am in the dark wasting my time."
But it was fully fifteen seconds before the round plate that she held in her hands began to glow. A faint blue light shot across it, darkening to purple, and presently she could see the image of her son, who lived on the other side of the earth, and he could see her.
"Kuno, how slow you are."
He smiled gravely.
"I really believe you enjoy dawdling."
"I have called you before, mother, but you were always busy or isolated. I have something particular to say."
"What is it, dearest boy? Be quick. Why could you not send it by pneumatic post?"
"Because I prefer saying such a thing. I want----"
"I want you to come and see me."
Vashti watched his face in the blue plate.
"But I can see you!" she exclaimed. "What more do you want?"
"I want to see you not through the Machine," said Kuno. "I want to speak to you not through the wearisome Machine."
"Oh, hush!" said his mother, vaguely shocked. "You mustn"t say anything against the Machine."
"You talk as if a god had made the Machine," cried the other.
"I believe that you pray to it when you are unhappy. Men made it, do not forget that. Great men, but men. The Machine is much, but it is not everything. I see something like you in this plate, but I do not see you. I hear something like you through this telephone, but I do not hear you. That is why I want you to come. Pay me a visit, so that we can meet face to face, and talk about the hopes that are in my mind."
She replied that she could scarcely spare the time for a visit.
"The air-ship barely takes two days to fly between me and you."
"I dislike air-ships."
"I dislike seeing the horrible brown earth, and the sea, and the stars when it is dark. I get no ideas in an air- ship."
"I do not get them anywhere else."
"What kind of ideas can the air give you?"
He paused for an instant.
"Do you not know four big stars that form an oblong, and three stars close together in the middle of the oblong, and hanging from these stars, three other stars?"
"No, I do not. I dislike the stars. But did they give you an idea? How interesting; tell me."
"I had an idea that they were like a man."
"I do not understand."
"The four big stars are the man"s shoulders and his knees.
The three stars in the middle are like the belts that men wore once, and the three stars hanging are like a sword."
"Men carried swords about with them, to kill animals and other men."
"It does not strike me as a very good idea, but it is certainly original. When did it come to you first?"
"In the air-ship-----" He broke off, and she fancied that he looked sad. She could not be sure, for the Machine did not transmit nuances of expression. It only gave a general idea of people - an idea that was good enough for all practical purposes, Vashti thought. The imponderable bloom, declared by a discredited philosophy to be the actual essence of intercourse, was rightly ignored by the Machine, just as the imponderable bloom of the grape was ignored by the manufacturers of artificial fruit. Something "good enough" had long since been accepted by our race.
"The truth is," he continued, "that I want to see these stars again. They are curious stars. I want to see them not from the air-ship, but from the surface of the earth, as our ancestors did, thousands of years ago. I want to visit the surface of the earth."
She was shocked again.
"Mother, you must come, if only to explain to me what is the harm of visiting the surface of the earth."
"No harm," she replied, controlling herself. "But no advantage. The surface of the earth is only dust and mud, no advantage. The surface of the earth is only dust and mud, no life remains on it, and you would need a respirator, or the cold of the outer air would kill you. One dies immediately in the outer air."
"I know; of course I shall take all precautions."
She considered, and chose her words with care. Her son had a queer temper, and she wished to dissuade him from the expedition.
"It is contrary to the spirit of the age," she asserted.
"Do you mean by that, contrary to the Machine?"
"In a sense, but----"
His image is the blue plate faded.
He had isolated himself.
For a moment Vashti felt lonely.
Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere - buttons to call for food for music, for clothing. There was the hot-bath button, by pressure of which a basin of (imitation) marble rose out of the floor, filled to the brim with a warm deodorized liquid. There was the cold-bath button. There was the button that produced literature. and there were of course the buttons by which she communicated with her friends. The room, though it contained nothing, was in touch with all that she cared for in the world.
Vashanti"s next move was to turn off the isolation switch, and all the accumulations of the last three minutes burst upon her. The room was filled with the noise of bells, and speaking-tubes. What was the new food like? Could she recommend it? Has she had any ideas lately? Might one tell her one"s own ideas? Would she make an engagement to visit the public nurseries at an early date? - say this day month.
To most of these questions she replied with irritation - a growing quality in that accelerated age. She said that the new food was horrible. That she could not visit the public nurseries through press of engagements. That she had no ideas of her own but had just been told one-that four stars and three in the middle were like a man: she doubted there was much in it. Then she switched off her correspondents, for it was time to deliver her lecture on Australian music.
The clumsy system of public gatherings had been long since abandoned; neither Vashti nor her audience stirred from their rooms. Seated in her armchair she spoke, while they in their armchairs heard her, fairly well, and saw her, fairly well. She opened with a humorous account of music in the pre Mongolian epoch, and went on to describe the great outburst of song that followed the Chinese conquest. Remote and primÊval as were the methods of I-San-So and the Brisbane school, she yet felt (she said) that study of them might repay the musicians of today: they had freshness; they had, above all, ideas. Her lecture, which lasted ten minutes, was well received, and at its conclusion she and many of her audience listened to a lecture on the sea; there were ideas to be got from the sea; the speaker had donned a respirator and visited it lately. Then she fed, talked to many friends, had a bath, talked again, and summoned her bed.
The bed was not to her liking. It was too large, and she had a feeling for a small bed. Complaint was useless, for beds were of the same dimension all over the world, and to have had an alternative size would have involved vast alterations in the Machine. Vashti isolated herself-it was necessary, for neither day nor night existed under the ground-and reviewed all that had happened since she had summoned the bed last. Ideas? Scarcely any. Events-was Kuno"s invitation an event?
By her side, on the little reading-desk, was a survival from the ages of litter-one book. This was the Book of the Machine. In it were instructions against every possible contingency. If she was hot or cold or dyspeptic or at a loss for a word, she went to the book, and it told her which button to press. The Central Committee published it. In accordance with a growing habit, it was richly bound.
Sitting up in the bed, she took it reverently in her hands. She glanced round the glowing room as if some one might be watching her. Then, half ashamed, half joyful, she murmured "O Machine!" and raised the volume to her lips. Thrice she kissed it, thrice inclined her head, thrice she felt the delirium of acquiescence. Her ritual performed, she turned to page 1367, which gave the times of the departure of the air-ships from the island in the southern hemisphere, under whose soil she lived, to the island in the northern hemisphere, whereunder lived her son.
She thought, "I have not the time."
She made the room dark and slept; she awoke and made the room light; she ate and exchanged ideas with her friends, and listened to music and attended lectures; she make the room dark and slept. Above her, beneath her, and around her, the Machine hummed eternally; she did not notice the noise, for she had been born with it in her ears. The earth, carrying her, hummed as it sped through silence, turning her now to the invisible sun, now to the invisible stars. She awoke and made the room light.
"I will not talk to you." he answered, "until you come."
"Have you been on the surface of the earth since we spoke last?"
His image faded.
Again she consulted the book. She became very nervous and lay back in her chair palpitating. Think of her as without teeth or hair. Presently she directed the chair to the wall, and pressed an unfamiliar button. The wall swung apart slowly. Through the opening she saw a tunnel that curved slightly, so that its goal was not visible. Should she go to see her son, here was the beginning of the journey.
Of course she knew all about the communication-system. There was nothing mysterious in it. She would summon a car and it would fly with her down the tunnel until it reached the lift that communicated with the air-ship station: the system had been in use for many, many years, long before the universal establishment of the Machine. And of course she had studied the civilization that had immediately preceded her own - the civilization that had mistaken the functions of the system, and had used it for bringing people to things, instead of for bringing things to people. Those funny old days, when men went for change of air instead of changing the air in their rooms! And yet-she was frightened of the tunnel: she had not seen it since her last child was born. It curved-but not quite as she remembered; it was brilliant-but not quite as brilliant as a lecturer had suggested. Vashti was seized with the terrors of direct experience. She shrank back into the room, and the wall closed up again.
"Kuno," she said, "I cannot come to see you. I am not well."
Immediately an enormous apparatus fell on to her out of the ceiling, a thermometer was automatically laid upon her heart. She lay powerless. Cool pads soothed her forehead. Kuno had telegraphed to her doctor.
So the human passions still blundered up and down in the Machine. Vashti drank the medicine that the doctor projected into her mouth, and the machinery retired into the ceiling. The voice of Kuno was heard asking how she felt.
"Better." Then with irritation: "But why do you not come to me instead?"
"Because I cannot leave this place."
"Because, any moment, something tremendous many happen."
"Have you been on the surface of the earth yet?"
"Then what is it?"
"I will not tell you through the Machine."
She resumed her life.
But she thought of Kuno as a baby, his birth, his removal to the public nurseries, her own visit to him there, his visits to her-visits which stopped when the Machine had assigned him a room on the other side of the earth. "Parents, duties of," said the book of the Machine," cease at the moment of birth. P.422327483." True, but there was something special about Kuno - indeed there had been something special about all her children - and, after all, she must brave the journey if he desired it. And "something tremendous might happen". What did that mean? The nonsense of a youthful man, no doubt, but she must go. Again she pressed the unfamiliar button, again the wall swung back, and she saw the tunnel that curves out of sight. Clasping the Book, she rose, tottered on to the platform, and summoned the car. Her room closed behind her: the journey to the northern hemisphere had begun.
Of course it was perfectly easy. The car approached and in it she found armchairs exactly like her own. When she signaled, it stopped, and she tottered into the lift. One other passenger was in the lift, the first fellow creature she had seen face to face for months. Few travelled in these days, for, thanks to the advance of science, the earth was exactly alike all over. Rapid intercourse, from which the previous civilization had hoped so much, had ended by defeating itself. What was the good of going to Peking when it was just like Shrewsbury? Why return to Shrewsbury when it would all be like Peking? Men seldom moved their bodies; all unrest was concentrated in the soul.
The air-ship service was a relic form the former age. It was kept up, because it was easier to keep it up than to stop it or to diminish it, but it now far exceeded the wants of the population. Vessel after vessel would rise form the vomitories of Rye or of Christchurch (I use the antique names), would sail into the crowded sky, and would draw up at the wharves of the south - empty. so nicely adjusted was the system, so independent of meteorology, that the sky, whether calm or cloudy, resembled a vast kaleidoscope whereon the same patterns periodically recurred. The ship on which Vashti sailed started now at sunset, now at dawn. But always, as it passed above Rheas, it would neighbour the ship that served between Helsingfors and the Brazils, and, every third time it surmounted the Alps, the fleet of Palermo would cross its track behind. Night and day, wind and storm, tide and earthquake, impeded man no longer. He had harnessed Leviathan. All the old literature, with its praise of Nature, and its fear of Nature, rang false as the prattle of a child.
Yet as Vashti saw the vast flank of the ship, stained with exposure to the outer air, her horror of direct experience returned. It was not quite like the air-ship in the cinematophote. For one thing it smelt - not strongly or unpleasantly, but it did smell, and with her eyes shut she should have known that a new thing was close to her. Then she had to walk to it from the lift, had to submit to glances form the other passengers. The man in front dropped his Book - no great matter, but it disquieted them all. In the rooms, if the Book was dropped, the floor raised it mechanically, but the gangway to the air-ship was not so prepared, and the sacred volume lay motionless. They stopped - the thing was unforeseen - and the man, instead of picking up his property, felt the muscles of his arm to see how they had failed him. Then some one actually said with direct utterance: "We shall be late" - and they trooped on board, Vashti treading on the pages as she did so.
Inside, her anxiety increased. The arrangements were old- fashioned and rough. There was even a female attendant, to whom she would have to announce her wants during the voyage. Of course a revolving platform ran the length of the boat, but she was expected to walk from it to her cabin. Some cabins were better than others, and she did not get the best. She thought the attendant had been unfair, and spasms of rage shook her. The glass valves had closed, she could not go back. She saw, at the end of the vestibule, the lift in which she had ascended going quietly up and down, empty. Beneath those corridors of shining tiles were rooms, tier below tier, reaching far into the earth, and in each room there sat a human being, eating, or sleeping, or producing ideas. And buried deep in the hive was her own room. Vashti was afraid.
"O Machine!" she murmured, and caressed her Book, and was comforted.
Then the sides of the vestibule seemed to melt together, as do the passages that we see in dreams, the lift vanished , the Book that had been dropped slid to the left and vanished, polished tiles rushed by like a stream of water, there was a slight jar, and the air-ship, issuing from its tunnel, soared above the waters of a tropical ocean.
It was night. For a moment she saw the coast of Sumatra edged by the phosphorescence of waves, and crowned by lighthouses, still sending forth their disregarded beams. These also vanished, and only the stars distracted her. They were not motionless, but swayed to and fro above her head, thronging out of one sky-light into another, as if the universe and not the air-ship was careening. And, as often happens on clear nights, they seemed now to be in perspective, now on a plane; now piled tier beyond tier into the infinite heavens, now concealing infinity, a roof limiting for ever the visions of men. In either case they seemed intolerable. "Are we to travel in the dark?" called the passengers angrily, and the attendant, who had been careless, generated the light, and pulled down the blinds of pliable metal. When the air-ships had been built, the desire to look direct at things still lingered in the world. Hence the extraordinary number of skylights and windows, and the proportionate discomfort to those who were civilized and refined. Even in Vashti"s cabin one star peeped through a flaw in the blind, and after a few hers" uneasy slumber, she was disturbed by an unfamiliar glow, which was the dawn.
Quick as the ship had sped westwards, the earth had rolled eastwards quicker still, and had dragged back Vashti and her companions towards the sun. Science could prolong the night, but only for a little, and those high hopes of neutralizing the earth"s diurnal revolution had passed, together with hopes that were possibly higher. To "keep pace with the sun," or even to outstrip it, had been the aim of the civilization preceding this. Racing aeroplanes had been built for the purpose, capable of enormous speed, and steered by the greatest intellects of the epoch. Round the globe they went, round and round, westward, westward, round and round, amidst humanity"s applause. In vain. The globe went eastward quicker still, horrible accidents occurred, and the Committee of the Machine, at the time rising into prominence, declared the pursuit illegal, unmechanical, and punishable by Homelessness.
Of Homelessness more will be said later.
Doubtless the Committee was right. Yet the attempt to "defeat the sun" aroused the last common interest that our race experienced about the heavenly bodies, or indeed about anything. It was the last time that men were compacted by thinking of a power outside the world. The sun had conquered, yet it was the end of his spiritual dominion. Dawn, midday, twilight, the zodiacal path, touched neither men"s lives not their hearts, and science retreated into the ground, to concentrate herself upon problems that she was certain of solving.
So when Vashti found her cabin invaded by a rosy finger of light, she was annoyed, and tried to adjust the blind. But the blind flew up altogether, and she saw through the skylight small pink clouds, swaying against a background of blue, and as the sun crept higher, its radiance entered direct, brimming down the wall, like a golden sea. It rose and fell with the air-ship"s motion, just as waves rise and fall, but it advanced steadily, as a tide advances. Unless she was careful, it would strike her face. A spasm of horror shook her and she rang for the attendant. The attendant too was horrified, but she could do nothing; it was not her place to mend the blind. She could only suggest that the lady should change her cabin, which she accordingly prepared to do.
People were almost exactly alike all over the world, but the attendant of the air-ship, perhaps owing to her exceptional duties, had grown a little out of the common. She had often to address passengers with direct speech, and this had given her a certain roughness and originality of manner. When Vashti served away form the sunbeams with a cry, she behaved barbarically - she put out her hand to steady her.
"How dare you!" exclaimed the passenger. "You forget yourself!"
The woman was confused, and apologized for not having let her fall. People never touched one another. The custom had become obsolete, owing to the Machine.
"Where are we now?" asked Vashti haughtily.
"We are over Asia," said the attendant, anxious to be polite.
"You must excuse my common way of speaking. I have got into the habit of calling places over which I pass by their unmechanical names."
"Oh, I remember Asia. The Mongols came from it."
"Beneath us, in the open air, stood a city that was once called Simla."
"Have you ever heard of the Mongols and of the Brisbane school?"
"Brisbane also stood in the open air."
"Those mountains to the right - let me show you them." She pushed back a metal blind. The main chain of the Himalayas was revealed. "They were once called the Roof of the World, those mountains."
"You must remember that, before the dawn of civilization, they seemed to be an impenetrable wall that touched the stars. It was supposed that no one but the gods could exist above their summits. How we have advanced, thanks to the Machine!"
"How we have advanced, thanks to the Machine!" said Vashti.
"How we have advanced, thanks to the Machine!" echoed the passenger who had dropped his Book the night before, and who was standing in the passage.
"And that white stuff in the cracks? - what is it?"
"I have forgotten its name."
"Cover the window, please. These mountains give me no ideas."
The northern aspect of the Himalayas was in deep shadow: on the Indian slope the sun had just prevailed. The forests had been destroyed during the literature epoch for the purpose of making newspaper-pulp, but the snows were awakening to their morning glory, and clouds still hung on the breasts of Kinchinjunga. In the plain were seen the ruins of cities, with diminished rivers creeping by their walls, and by the sides of these were sometimes the signs of vomitories, marking the cities of to day. Over the whole prospect air-ships rushed, crossing the inter-crossing with incredible aplomb, and rising nonchalantly when they desired to escape the perturbations of the lower atmosphere and to traverse the Roof of the World.
"We have indeed advance, thanks to the Machine," repeated the attendant, and his the Himalayas behind a metal blind.
The day dragged wearily forward. The passengers sat each in his cabin, avoiding one another with an almost physical repulsion and longing to be once more under the surface of the earth. There were eight or ten of them, mostly young males, sent out from the public nurseries to inhabit the rooms of those who had died in various parts of the earth. The man who had dropped his Book was on the homeward journey. He had been sent to Sumatra for the purpose of propagating the race. Vashti alone was travelling by her private will.
At midday she took a second glance at the earth. The air- ship was crossing another range of mountains, but she could see little, owing to clouds. Masses of black rock hovered below her, and merged indistinctly into grey. Their shapes were fantastic; one of them resembled a prostrate man.
"No ideas here," murmured Vashti, and hid the Caucasus behind a metal blind.
In the evening she looked again. They were crossing a golden sea, in which lay many small islands and one peninsula. She repeated, "No ideas here," and his Greece behind a metal blind.
Together in electric dreams
A computer program is changing the face of the music business by allowing record labels to predict a hit at the click of a mouse. Is this the death of pop as we know it, asks Jo Tatchell, or a new hope for unsigned bands everywhere?
Monday January 17, 2005
Martin and Ruth, aka Spike, the next big girl/boy duo (so they hope) add some synth and a new background vocal to the mix. He saves the song and she emails it to Polyphonic Human Media Interface who, within 24 hours, will tell them whether their song will be a hit. When the results arrive they hover over the 20in screen and click on the returned mail. There is a graph, showing a cluster of many dots, like a constellation, and somewhere in the cluster a red spot. The spot marks their song, not quite a bullseye, but still in the throng. "It's scored a seven," Ruth says, scanning down. "We're in. The record company will definitely meet us now." Their future suddenly looks a lot rosier.
Sounds unlikely? It shouldn't. Because, while no one's talking about it, it seems that the whole record industry is already using just this process. From unsigned acts dreaming in their garage, to multinationals such as Sony and Universal, everyone is clandestinely using a new and controversial technology to gain an edge on their competitors. And just as with athletes and performance-enhancing drugs, there is a remarkable reluctance to talk about it. But the secret is out: the record biz, once that bastion of wayward creative flair, is succumbing to the plain old-fashioned science of statistical analysis.
The magic ingredient set to revolutionise the pop industry is, simply, a piece of software that can "predict" the chance of a track being a hit or a miss. This computerised equivalent of the television programmer Juke Box Jury is known as Hit Song Science (HSS). It has been developed by a Spanish company, Polyphonic HMI, which used decades of experience developing artificial intelligence technology for the banking and telecoms industries to create a program that analysed the underlying mathematical patterns in music. It isolated and separated 20 aspects of song construction including melody, harmony, chord progression, beat, tempo and pitch and identifies and maps recurrent patterns in a song, before matching it against a database containing 30 years' worth of Billboard hit singles - 3.5m tunes in all. The program then accords the song a score, which registers, in effect, the likelihood of it being a chart success.
Ever since its initial trials, HSS has proven a hit with record labels who sent material to Polyphonic in hope of a second opinion. HSS confidently predicted Norah Jones's meteoric success (tipping no less than 10 songs on her debut album Come Away with Me) well in advance of her chart-topping appearances and in the face of an industry unconvinced she would have any commercial impact. HSS also picked out all the Maroon 5 hits, including both This Love and She Will be Loved. Other artists, including Anastacia, J-Lo and Robbie Williams are also rumoured to have asked for the hitmaker's analysis.
HSS doesn't come cheap. At Ä4,000 (£2,800) to score a finished CD it's no surprise that some are viewing it with suspicion. Certainly Mike Smith, A&R director at EMI, believes that HSS as a hit predictor merely reinforces decisions taken by A&Rs, those record company employees given the job of discovering new songs and artists. "A good A&R has a very accurate instinct for what the market needs," he says - and the fact that 95% of hit songs in the past 50 years are high scorers seems to back him up.
Tom Findlay of Groove Armada puts it into perspective: "HSS is a kind of polling instrument, but a lot of artists already poll stuff as they create it. We do. With [their song] Superstylin' we DJ'd various versions to see what kind of reaction each got live." What human beings may lack in mathematical accuracy they make up for with cultural understanding. Besides, Findlay says, "while there is a rules of construction in play - verse, bridge, chorus and so on - the aim as a musician is to make the musical statement you want to make. The end game is not to get the mathematics right." Though that doesn't mean it shouldn't be a money-spinner too.
HSS's crucial design flaw is that it can only look at the past. Those "leftfield", illogical and grassroots-inspired departures from the norm, such as disco or drum and bass, could not have been predicted - but they shift the mainstream and provide the momentum any culture needs to remain fresh. As Smith says, "Art is the one area where people can, and should be able to, make radical statements. Anything that encourages safe, consensus-driven music should be used with caution."
So perhaps it isn't so much about what the software does, but more about what it says about the music business. Some of the biggest names in the industry - such as the former head of Sony Records UK, Muff Winwood, and Tommy Mottola (the man who has put more divas on the map than anyone - and in the case of Mariah Carey, married one) - have backed the software. Labels within all of the major corporations are now using the software. It seems only a matter of time before it reaches tipping point to become an industry standard, like Dolby or ProTools.
Of course, the appeal to record labels is obvious, as it offers a rational underpinning for commercial decisions. With the recordings themselves being the least expensive element of launching an act, the marketing resource being the greatest, and most companies being run by bean counters, we can be certain that this kind of analytical software won't go away.
But neither is it all bad. Ironic as it seems, with the industry struggling it may be that radical application of HSS could inject some much-needed energy into the business. Mike McCready, CEO of Polyphonic, believes HSS will help executives make braver artist-related decisions. A high HSS rating may, paradoxically, encourage bolder, more unusual signings.
It's all in the clusters, you see. Hit songs, typically, fall into one of a number of groupings - there are around 50 in the US and 60 in the UK where, traditionally, tastes have been more diverse. Belonging to the same cluster does not mean songs sound the same, though, more that they are mathematically similar. And the analysis has thrown up some very unlikely musical bedfellows: Some U2 songs are in the same cluster as Beethoven, while spandex ultra rocker Van Halen sits right alongside MOR piano babe Vanessa Carlton. It is for this reason that Polyphonic are confident their software won't homogenise our already stratified and similar sounding charts. They are already working with one radio station to expand their playlist without losing audience share by selecting songs with the correct mathematical rhythms. In a world where drearily repetitive playlists have become the norm this could be the answer to an oft-uttered prayer.
This strategic approach may seal the software's place in history. McCready explains how they are helping a very well known "smooth male jazz crooner" who is finding it difficult to break into the US market. The label's marketing department are promoting him to the Norah Jones audience. But Polyphonic's analysis has shown that the crooner's song patterns are more similar to Linkin Park, Aerosmith and JayZ. This kind of interpretation offers an unprecedented rationale for appealing to a seemingly unlikely demographic.
There is also an HSS Basic model on offer to struggling musicians. With a good score, the story goes, you will get a record company to take a second look. While some artists may be lost under this new regime, others will surely be found.
But its greatest usefulness might be, as Smith says, in "helping with that all too frequent record company problem - a band that has written an album without any hits on it. Using the technology they might be able to write the radio-friendly songs required for the album release." For any artist that relies on success in the singles charts this technology provides a useful barometer of work-in-progress. Ric Wake, producer of international acts such as Jennifer Lopez and Anastacia, has drawn the technology into the heart of the creative process. When you're only a few "mathematical rhythms" away from a great hit this could save hours, days, even weeks of studio grind. At the end of each day relevant tracks are downloaded and feedback is presented the next morning. Supporters of the software argue that it does not detract from the artistic process; it is still the humans who must find the solutions to a low-scoring song.
Ultimately HSS is like focus groups to advertising, or audience research to film - it helps those afraid to be accountable to make decisions. But make no mistake; HSS aims to become a generic term, as Hoover is to vacuum cleaners, and a standard part of the signing and creative process for labels and producers. "'What's the HSS score?" should be in the first line of questions of any band at any stage of their career, says Tracie Reed of HSS. "We promise 100% success rate for songs released rather than the usual 20%. Which makes it a justifiable investment." And it would have to be in the current cost-cutting climate.
Though it might make the accountants happy and ultimately, even the artists and audiences too, isn't HSS just still a little, well, boring? Isn't half the fun of the pop industry the mistakes, legendary, apocryphal episodes that go into making the best - and worst - of the records we listen to? With HSS would we have had Led Zeppelin's Red Snapper escapades (no singles here), Brian Wilson's lost Smile album, Jeff Buckley et al?I doubt it. But while there's no doubt the romance has gone and while it might feel like a sad mathematical indictment on these most indecisive and creatively fearful of times, you had better get used to HSS. Your listening DNA is about to be mapped.
Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2005
ging so weit, dass ich heute nacht von n0name geträumnt habe. und zwar fand ich auf einem mini-flohmarkt ein buch, völlig ramponiert und aus dem ullstein verlag, das hiess: "fritz teufel - versuch einer rekonstruktion", in dem u.a. die aktivitäten von n0name in den 60er- und 70erjahren eine rolle spielten sowie herrn schmidts katze (sic!); mit foto. leider war der typ, der das buch angeboten hatte, ein richtig unzufriedenes arschloch, wollte 9 mark (träumt man immer in den währungen, mit denen man aufgewachsen ist?) und so liess ichs liegen, um in der schirn kunsthalle ins internetcafe zu gehen (das es im übrigen nicht gibt, wär aber mal eine idee) und herrn schmidt zu schreiben, was für ne schlimme welt das ist. und damit bin ich aufgewacht; zu einer unmöglichen zeit, und sie, herr schmidt, sind schuld. das verzeihe ich ihnen nie.
rohrpost - deutschsprachige Liste zur Kultur digitaler Medien und Netze
Archiv: http://www.nettime.org/rohrpost http://post.openoffice.de/pipermail/rohrpost/
seitdem ich umgezogen bin, habe ich jeden abend riesige spinnen vor dem fenster, die kurz nach sonnenuntergang ihre netze bauen. vor dem abendrot zeichnen sie sich kräftig ab und oft sind die die letzten figuren des tages, bevor das blauschwarz und das neon der stadt übernehmen. in den letzten tagen schlief ich bei gekipptem fenster, was zumindest theoretisch die möglichkeit eines eindringens oder abseilens der spinnen von den äußeren fensterrahmen auf mein gesicht beinhaltet, das dann direkt unter den fenstern liegt. in vergangenen nächten träumte ich also des öfteren, dass plötzlich die ein oder andere große spinne auf meinem gesicht landet, jedoch waren ihre körper sehr massiv, nämlich metallen, und jeweils verschluckte ich sie, wobei mir in diesem moment immer sofort - naked matrix-mäßig - bewusst wurde , dass sie mit einem silikonchip ausgestattet sind. klarer weise bin ich dann immer aufgewacht, denn wer will sich schon im schlaf von schaltkreisen beeinflussen lassen. ich bin nicht wirklich arachnophob, aber vielleicht sollte ich wenigstens andersherum schlafen.
Am frühen morgen : der Lärm eines Hubschraubers weckt mich unsanft. Tieffrequentes unglaublich schnelles Tocken, meine Fensterbank gerät in Eigenresonanz, ich wende mich ab bevor es mein Hirn ihr nachtut. Beim Frühsport dann erfahre ich den Grund des Tieffluges. Trotz ca. 5 Grad Aussentemperatur liegt ein halbnackter junger Mann auffallend plappernd und gestikulierend in einem Schlauchboot auf der Alster und paddelt in Richtung Feenteich bedenklich nahe der Senatsvilla.
Es gibt eine neue Web-Technologie namens ªFilling´. Mit deren Hilfe werden Symbole oder auch kleine Filme über den Monitor ins Zimmer geschickt. Bei einer Vorführung sind es erst ein kleiner Halbmond, der über ein Gesicht wandert, dann werden (stark pixelige) Szenen eines Pferderennens auf die Rückseite einer Couch projiziert.
Wir befanden uns vermutlich in einem Wohnwagen. Uns gehörte ein winziges Fluggerät, auf dem gerade mit Mühe zwei Personen sitzen und einige Meter hoch fliegen konnten. Es sah aus wie eine runde Platte mit einer Düse darauf, die für den Auftrieb und die Fortbewegung sorgte.
Es ging um Aliens. Niemand außer mir konnte gegen sie kämpfen. Ich wußte auch nicht genau wie ich das tun konnte, aber ich besaß die Fähigkeit dazu. Deshalb waren die Aliens hinter mir her und versuchten mich auszuschalten. Ich versuchte einen von ihnen daran zu hindern überhaupt etwas zu tun. Weil ich dadurch selbst aktiv werden mußte erkannte mich ein zweiter, den ich vorher nicht als Alien erkannt hatte.
nach einem theaterstück in einer metzgerei. die welt war etwas anders. ein spionagesatallit von einer fremden macht ist in unsere gebiete eingedrungen. ich sass mit einigen bekannten im freien und diskutierte. wir waren unentschlossen. ich entschied mich zur metamorphose. ich nahm den leib einer grossen motte an.
Der Jäger faßt seine potentielle Beute ins Auge. Ihr Blick verrät ihm, ob sie sich als Beute hingeben wird. Wenn nicht, schweift sein Blick weiter bis sein Fadenkreuz ein williges Ziel findet.
Seiner Sache sicher, drückt er ab.
Das Opfer schwankt, entzieht sich seiner Sicht; erwartungsvoll stürtzt er darauf zu.
ich konnte nicht wissen, ob flo einen fahrradhelm bei seinem unfall getragen hat und stellte mir flo auf einem fahrrad vor. einmal mit, einmal ohne helm. aber der helm sah immer so seltsam gepixelt aus, dass mir sofort klar wurde, dass flo keinen fahrradhelm getragen hat. wird jetzt aber hoechste zeit.
der traum fand in der letzten woche von sonntag auf montag statt: ich befand mich mit einigen freunden auf einem floss in einer riesigen alten fabrikhalle, es war dunkel und alles war überschwemmt, stand metertief unter wasser, wir versuchten von den regalen in der fabrikhalle einige bücher zu retten, man sollte sich entscheiden, was uns wichtig war und ich erinnerte mich an truffauts film fahrenheit 451, den ich vor einiger zeit gesehen hatte. auf dem floss befand sich dann eine art küchentisch, an dem ich mit einigen anderen sass und mit meiner analytikerin, von der ich erfuhr, dass sie eigentlich im innern eine maschine ist, was allerdings nicht erschreckend oder so war. ich fand es eher informativ, dass sie mir mitteilte, dass es menschen gäbe, die nur so aussehen und eben eigentlich maschinen wären.
"Source Code - A dream in which you can see the computer source code for everyday objects is a warning to be careful in your business correspodence.
The more significant dream - that you can see the source code of a friend or family member - is a dream of ambiguous intensions. No one should be trusted or taken at face value following this dream." (p.204)
"Error Message 404 not found - The dream speaks of something forgotten which must be rememebered at all costs, a name, a phone number, incident, song lyric or sentence.
If 404 Not Found, the common error message from the World Wide Web, appears repeatedly the dream has its meaning reversed - that which has been forgotten must remain so at any cost, for evermore." (p.75)
Source: Tim Etchells: "Dream Dictionary for the Modern Dreamer" London: 2001
Der traum ist jetzt schon zwei nächte her. ich war in einer endsiebzieger vorstadtsiedlung, fast aus dem land. Die häuser waren großzügig gebaut, manchmal mit viel glas am treppenhaus und lichthof. Ich wusste nicht, was da gekommen ist - ich dachte mit etwas entsetzen: "mein gott, es ist so weit auf, so viel kommt hier durch."
wer kennt das nicht ... Inzwischen träume ich relativ selten, zumindest bewußt. Aber ich kann mich noch gut erinnern, wie es ist, sich morgens am Ende einer entspannten Nacht im Halbschlaf eines wunderbaren Traumes bewußt zu werden...
Als ich mein Geld noch mit Code-generieren verdiente, habe ich manchmal nächtigens die Lösung zu Problemen geträumt, an denen ich tagsüber gearbeitet hatte. Kam mir ziemlich seltsam vor, immer wieder.
irgendwie war mein ganzes leben in unterschiedlichen tabellen mit verschieden dicken bunten rähmchen einsortiert, und alles andere auch. ich lebte wie alles andere in einer großen schwarzen tabelle. ich hatte irgendein schweres problem, das schließlich nur durch die ergänzung 'colspan=2' gelöst werden konnte.
wie auch tausend andere LoD-spieler zocke ich hc im bnet. jedoch hätte ich niemals gedacht, dass solch ein spiel mich bis in meine träume hinein verfolgen würde.
Traum ist campcatatonia entnommen
Erleichtert nehme ich zur Kenntnis, dass auch andere Menschen Elektroträume haben. Mir träumte unlängst, ich träfe während einer Zugfahrt auf zwei junge kanadische Eishockeyspieler, die beide reichlich vernarbte Gesichter hatten, so riesige Körperschutzpanzer trugen und auch ihre Hockeyschläger dabei hatten.
Die ständig latente Panik, eine Computerpanne könnte die Arbeit meiner letzten Tage / Monate / Jahre auf ewig ins elektronische schwarze Loch saugen, läßt mich immer wieder von meinem Herzkind Notebook träumen
Ein besonders widerwärtiger, aber leider (wie in der Realität) immer wiederkehrender Traum kommt immer dann, wenn ich zuviel Zeit mit der Installation eines Scriptes verbracht habe: Der Traum kann wie ein ganz normaler Traum beginnen, aber mir ist von vorneherein bewußt, daß es ein HTML-Traum ist. Und sobald in diesem Input irgendeine Aktion von mir erwartet wird, endet der Traum in einem Error Code 500 (Internal Server Error).
Eine Variation ist der Traum, der wie ein fehlerhaftes Script in einem Loop gefangen ist.
in zeiten starker computertätigkeit träume ich immer in einer art windows-fenster, jedes neue thema meines traums öffnet sich in einem fenster, das ich dann wieder versuche zu schließen...sehr nervenaufreibend aber irgendwie auch witzig. nur wirklich erholt ist man dann am nächsten morgen nicht.
Schmatzend sauge ich alles in mir auf, Informationen, Dissertationen, Publikationen. Musik-Videos, Animationen, Pornowerbung.
Morgens, vor dem Frühstück, laufe ich meine 3 bis 5 Tartanbahnen in der Sonne. Diesmal fällt mir auf, wie ähnlich die stumpfe mechanische Bewegung in meinen Eträumen ist.
der grosse Bruder
Ich sattle Rosinante, rufe nach Sancho
--der pennt wieder-- gut, heute werd ich
Der Traum ausgelöst duch elektrische Signale in unserem Gehirn. Kann der Computer mich träumen lassen? Sind es seine Signale? Täuschung? Was ist der Traum, die Signale, die Intensintät?
Digital Dreaming Series #8: DATA : Selected Dream entries from April 2001 to June 2001 and Uses of Computer Dreams as Personal and Cultural Meaning Maps.
Dreamt I got sucked through my monitor and was actually in a chat room where everyone in there wore greet jump suits and carried torches with blue flames.
Ich sitze am See und träume: ein Netz von mir zu allen Menschen vermittelt mit einem Laptop.
Nehmen wir an, jeder entschiede selbst, wie kann dann noch ein System funktionieren,
Nach einem Tag harter Layout-Arbeit - der Übergang vom Computer in den Schlaf eher fliessend vorgenommen
sie schien kein interesse an seinem bild von ihr zu haben. er war nah daran zu verzagen. dennoch hatte er glück. sein www.tageshoroskop.net fiel für heute positiv aus.
Zugfahren ist wie Museum, wie Kino, wie ein Buch, durch das seine Phantasie jedem Charakter sein eigenes Aussehen und Ich verschaffen kann. Nur besser.
noch ein alter, aus der studienzeit: heftige auseinandersetzung mit einem professor in seinem zimmer im zehnten stock des uni-turms. er regt sich immer mehr auf, ich versuche, dazwischenzureden..
er kam vom strand, legte sein keyboard auf die abrichte, glättete seinen regenmantel, der vom langen surfen noch völlig unbefleckt war und strich sich durchs haar.
im traum habe ich ein kind, ziemlich ein kleines, ein baby. nach einem anstrengenden tag hab ich es ins bett gebracht und hoffe, dass es endlich schlaeft. aber nein, es hoert einfach nicht auf zu schreiben. es hat ein laptop im bettchen und tippt mit den minifingern emsig drauflos, irgendeinen text wohl, email, chat, keine ahnung.
je m'appelle franck balou, je suis chercheur en physique nucleaire et je reve toutes les nuits d'une bombe allemande qui m'exploserait au lit... si vous vous reconnaissez chere madmoiselle, bitte, schrieben sie mich; salut !
je m'appelle peugeot charles;; je cherche une peugea bien sympa;;; et meme siphonee;;; je trierai;;; schuss!!!
moi je reve en francais, est-ce normal ??
si vous connaissez une facon de me guerir de ce cauchemar, merci de m'ecrire
In einer Gruppe in einer Stadt wird ein oder mehrere Computer "ausgeschlachtet".
ich gehe in ein paar Monaten als Austauschstudentin nach Japan. Heute nacht habe ich von der Frau geträumt die sozusagen meine Austauschvorgängerin an der Uni in Japan ist und die ich nur aus e- mails kenne. Ihr Gesicht schaute mir von einem silberen Laptop mit sehr guter Auflösung entgegen. Der Hintergrund war türkis-grün und schlicht.
im traum befinde ich mich im online-chat mit einem mann, auf den ich steh. ich sitze vorm bildschirm und tippe mein liebesgeplaenkel ein, so wie ich jetzt vorm apparat sitz und tipp.
In meinem Traum war ich Urlaub. Ein mediteranes Land im Herbst. Alles war klamm und verbraucht. Ich kam an einem Zeltplatz an, der an einer Bahntrasse lag. Es war schon dunkel. Ich warf mein Gepäck auf eine Stelle, wo ich mein Zelt aufbauen wollte. Unter meinem Gepäck befand sich auch eine Tasche mit einem Laptop.
Ich träumte ich besäße 3 Taschenrechner. Einen kleinen, einen mittleren und einen großen. Ich steckte sie in meine Schulmappe; meine Klassenkameraden saßen drum herum und starrten mir auf die Finger, musterten die Rechner und diskutierten.
e-dreams is about momentum. A sheer momentum like a runaway train. It was exhilarating even as a witness. Itís about dreamers. Everyone has a dream but not many actually pursue it. Here were people who risked everything to realize their dreams.
Die Computerspiele sind Imperialisten, die den Tagtraum des spielenden Menschen einer strengen Regie unterwerfen Alle bewussten seelischen Vorgänge, die Wahrnehmungen, Gefühle, Denk- und Handlungsakte, werden stets von unbewussten oder weniger beachteten Aktivitäten begleitet.
Statistischen Untersuchungen zufolge sind in der westlichen Zivilisation die folgenden Traumthemen die häufigsten: Träume vom "Fallen, Fliegen, Nacktheit, Prüfungen, das Ausfallen von Zähnen, das Verlieren von Wertgegenständen, das Finden von Wertgegenständen und Sex" (A. Faraday, 1995, S. 67).
What does it mean when you go downstairs in the morning to find Bill Gates serving you coffee while Claudia Schiffer carries in a plate of flapjacks? Wake up, pal! It means you're dreaming.
They said people with amnesia who played the popular computer game Tetris dreamed about the images it invoked but could not remember actually playing the game. And, unlike people with normal memories, they never really got any better at the game
Der Traum spielte zum Hauptteil in einem Schwimmbad, ähnlich wie der Hallenpool in dem Film „Wild Palms“, wo die Hauptperson erschossen werden soll. Und zwar am langen Rand. Da sind eine Menge Arbeitsplätze aufgebaut, Computer und Kabel, ganz nah am Wasser.
Die Straße war sehr eng, so daß man aus den oberen Stockwerken gut in die gegenüberliegenden Häuser hineinsehen konnte, ja sie scheinbar sogar anfassen konnte. Auf der anderen Straßenseite stand ein altes Haus, das gerade renoviert wurde.
Bei einer Veranstaltung im Zoo wurde eine Performance der Künstlerin Vanessa Beecroft gezeigt. Die Performance zog sich über den ganzen Tag hin und es war ein warmer, sommerlicher Tag. Das Publikum ist sehr zahlreich erschienen, sozusagen mit Kind und Kegel, wie das nun mal an sommerlichen Tagen so ist. Die Menschen standen und spazierten entlang des Hauptwegs im Zoo, an dem die Performance stattfand.
Ich hatte einen E-Alptraum, der mich um den Schlaf brachte: Ich wohnte plötzlich wieder in der Schröderstraße in Berlin-Mitte, wo ich schon einmal vor etwa 10 Jahren wohnte. Wer die dortigen Hinterhöfe und ihre Atmosphäre von damals noch kennt, weiss, dass sie einen gleichermaßen idyllisch-versteckten wie labyrinthisch-bedrohlichen Charakter hatten. Jedenfalls wohne ich nun im meinem Traum wieder dort, jedoch ohne zu wissen warum.
Leute mit niedrigem Blutdruck, denen in einem fort kalt ist und man es ihnen auch ansieht, träumen nicht so gut wie andere.
Das sagt Sabrina Setlur in DIE ZEiT. Ob elektronische Träume die erste Traumgeneration beschreiben, die Frierenden positive Träume codieren?
im grunde waren es alltaegliche szenen: extrem an den alltag erinnernd, gespräche, die man fuehren muss, sachen die man erledigen muss, und es waren auch die schauspieler da, die sonst immer da sind. der elektronische clou war: ich hatte so einen laptop wie du, und ich konnte die files abspielen, aussuchen in welcher szene ich sein wollte, ich konnte zurueckgehen, stoppen loeschen. aber ich weiss keinen inhalt mehr. keinen inhalt. wie langweilig.
mein traum beginnt im sonnigen zentrum istanbuls, in dem es mindestens fünf blaue moscheen und acht mal die hagia sophia gibt. diese tatsache ist teil eines urlaubsintesivierungsprogramms - für die städte signifikante bauten können nicht mehr übersehen werden. mich verwirren diese veränderungen. die sonne scheint und ich steige in ein taxi, um in mein hotel zu fahren.
erstmal kann ich mich an nichts erinnern, vielleicht waren es auch zuviele becks, joints rauche ich ja schon seit jahren nicht mehr. schlafen ohne zu traeumen ist eine erholung.
ein traum den ich mehrmals träumte als ich jünger war:
jeder war ein errichter eines eigenen bahnhofs. wir arbeiteten alle eher desinteressiert an diesen systemen, es ging mehr um die gefühle.
Ich habe es mit verschiedener Bettlektüre versucht, mein Unterbewusstsein dahingehend zu überlisten endlich mal etwas technologisch/elektronisches zu träumen. Über die Auswahl der Texte lässt sich streiten. Weder das Buch über Marxismus/Leninismus, noch der Artikel über Arbeitsvisionen oder die über Kunstfilme haben es vermocht meine Traumwelten elektronisch auszustatten. Der alles entscheidende war die Mischung zwischen NATO-Historie und Familiengesetze. Und genauso diffus war auch das letzte Nacht Erlebte. Wie ich zu den einzelnen Stationen gelangt bin ñ keine Ahnung. Ich weiß nur, dass es 10H in der Früh ist und ich gegen das Vergessen anschreibe:
es ist ein großer familienausflug mit freunden und familie geplant. zu diesem zweck soll ich mehrere alte und reichlich verkrustete staubsauger auf ihre flugfähigkeit hin überprüfen.
Die Träume kamen jetzt öfter. Es war drei Uhr nachts, sie war um elf Uhr schlafen gegangen, auch sofort weggenickt, aber dann waren die Träume gekommen und die Stimmen.
die freiheit zu fliegen ist realer als code.
Solange hatte ich mir schon vorgenommen einmal wieder elektronisch zu träumen. Doch nichts kam jenen tagträumerischen BASIC-Befehlen nahe, über die ich einst in jugendlichen C-64er Tagen meinen Alltag kontrollierte (10 GOTO Kitchen. 20 IF there is bread EAT. 30 ELSE RETURN. 40 LOAD "Game". 50 RUN). Doch in der Nacht von Sonnabend auf Sonntag war es schliesslich so weit.
konventionsklappen dachte ich, sind die klappen im internet, die sich oeffnen, wenn man eine sms schickt, traeumte ich heute nacht und schickte eine sms an jemand:
heute nacht habe ich geträumt, ich würde in der firma, in der ich arbeite, in den aufzug einsteigen. der aufzug kann aber plötzlich in den neunten stock fahren, obwohl es vorher dieses stockwerk nicht gab. als ich oben aussteige stehe ich plötzlich auf einem parkdeck über welches sich in diesem moment automatisch eine kuppel schiebt.
ein Freund hat mir gestern erzählt, dass er als Kind einen bestimmten Wiederholungstraum hatte, in dem er von automatischen und elektrischen Geräten und Zuständen geträumt hat. Ich schreibe jetzt stellvertretend für einen, der keine Zeit hat, die erinnerten Traumteile auf. In dem Traum war ganz klar, dass der Automatikmodus eindeutig besser und erstrebenswerter sei als der Elektrische.
habe hier eine andere art von e-traum gefunden...:
ich kotze auf die Ohnmacht.
dieses wort stammt aus einer anderen Generation. zumindest wenn es um den Zusammenhang oder besser gesagt die drift des Bewusstseins geht. wer könnte auch behaupten, dass so etwas ein anstrebenswerter Zustand wäre. Wer will schon die perfekte kontrolle, schon gar über sich selbst?
Ich fuhr mit meinem Wagen auf der Suche nach einem vernünftigen Parkplatz durch Berlin - Besonders machte ich mir an diesem Tag Gedanken über die Gefahr abgeschleppt zu werden. Ich fand einen Parkplatz und vergewisserte mich übertrieben lange, ob ich denn dort nun Parken dürfte oder nicht.
Ich träumte neulich von meiner Mutter, die mir eine Geschichte aus einem Buch vorlaß. Die Geschichte handelte von einem alten Ehepaar, daß nach einiger Zeit des Weinens vor zwei Gräbern bemerkte, daß jeder der beide jeweils vor dem Grab des anderen saß. Der Mann saß vor dem Grab seiner Frau und die Frau vor dem ihres Gatten.
Meine Mutter machte mir klar, daß dies der beste Beweis dafür sei, daß ich ein Taschenrechner bin.
kopf im spiegel ... ... metallischer glanz ... klein ....
glasfaser .... angst .... unendlichkeit .... freiheit ...
Ich habe von einem grossem Kaufhaus geträumt, sowas wie die Arkaden - nur sehr viel abgenutzer. Es gab dort zwei verschiedene Supermärkte - Aldi und Real - direkt übereinander. Sie waren mit einer Rolltreppe verbunden.
php- und perl-code im traum? schon einige programmierprobleme habe ich im traum geloest und am naechsten morgen klappte es dann tatsaechlich...
in meinem traum habe ich mein schweres handy in einen ganz normales amtliches weisses kuvert gesteckt mit einer sms auf dem display, in der steht, wo wir abends sind und hingehen werden.
mein traum spielt in einem dieser klischeebehafteten kahlen räume. weisse wände, an denen computermonitore aufgereiht stehen, übrall liegen kabel verstreut.
Lese in einem Buch, meine Gedanken schweifen ab, verliere den Faden, frage mich wie lange ich schon "träume", mein Blick geht in die rechte obere Buchecke - aber der Finder des Buches zeigt die Uhrzeit nicht an! Ooops, wrong interface!
Ich hatte heute nacht einen klassischen eTraum. Solch plastischer Art, wie ihn bestimmt einige andere Mac-User nach der Installation des 10er Systems nachempfinden können.
ich blaettere durch eine art hochglanz-comic im din a 4 format und versuche die bilder einander einer logik zuzuordnen. nach einer weile entdecke ich den forward und backward button am unteren ende der seite...
die implosion des kohlensäureglobus in eine gutturale rückmeldung, der gruppenzwang in der fahrt an die oberfläche, zwanzigtausend meilen unter dem meer reiben sich methanblasen an ihrem aufstiegsschlot und warten auf die lebenszeichen der archaebakterien.
van allen gürtel in schillerlocken, elektro-magnetische verzerrungen in südlichtern geblockt, spektrale kirlianblaupause eines aurasturmes.
vor dem eindämmern noch information tanken ins bauchige unterbewußtsein, den abgesprengten känguruhbeutel des space shuttle, wasserstoff - sauerstoffgemisch in der fruchtblase vor dem abheben, der bildfetzen eines BOSCH-gemäldes subkutan implodiert -
ich bin mit einem freund im auftrag von jemanden unterwegs. wir fahren in einem gediegenen cabriolet herum, waelder, offene wiesen. wir kommen an ein riesiges haus, das aber trotzdem sehr buergerlich ist, mit schoenem garten und ueberdimensionalen schmiedeeisernen verschnoerkelten gartentor.
es geschieht unmerklich, dass der glaskörper des auges langsam seinen schmelzpunkt mit dem bildschirm sucht und die geschwindigkeit der tränenflüssigkeit das opake okapi über das plex treibt. es beginnt zu trinken und mutiert zu einem seHpferdchen, eingelegt in pearlMARMALADE;
logINbuch überträgt infektion: icons wärmen sich am blick, leiten die bildübertragung ein, führen den durchblick in den innenraum - den aufblick an die wände, die bilder der tastbaren umgebung ab -
Ein Haus, Koelner Nachkriegsstil, von aussen gekachelt, abwaschbar. in den Stockwerken ein-Zimmer-Appartements, Die Bewohner blass, Selbstmordkandidaten. Im obersten Stock, direkt unterm Dach, wohnt Lothar Matthäus. Nackter Oberkörper, gestaehlt, enge Jeans. Bissiger magerer Hund und blonde, junkie-artige Frau sind seine Mitbewohner. Grauer Teppich, die Wohnung wirkt ploetzlich wie ein Medienlabor, graue Bildschirme, Geflacker und Geflimmer, Mac-Kultur gemischt mit Fight Club-Eindrücken..
In meinem Traum bin ich mit einem orangenen Trabbi durch eine Kleinstadt, die an einem Wald grenzte, gefahren. Eine Frau, die mir nicht bekannt war, fuhr den Wagen. Ich sass auf der Rückbank. Wir kamen durch eine Siedlung, die eigentlich nicht für Autoverkehr freigegeben war. Wir mussten aussteigen, weil uns ein paar Bäume den Weg versperrten.
ich schalte meinen laptop an und öffne das dokument, an dem ich gerade arbeite: kapitel1_aktuell.doc. zu meinem entsetzen muß ich feststellen, daß alle dreissig seiten mit einem mal auf schwedisch sind.
ich mache urlaub in einem club mediterranÈe. zu den planschenden familien kommen immer wieder "the beach"-mäßige rucksacktouristen mit zerknitterten landkarten.
träume aus fieber, was ist mir lieber
sie oder die tablette, gib mir meine dosis von dem was mir zusteht.
elektrisch, nein , fiebrig, nein
antibiotisch ist das leben wieder lebenswert.
night and day you are the one. pharmacy and dreams should be friends.
Im Traum bin ich ein Journalist, der einen Interviewtermin bei der Ministerin hat. Erst spreche ich mit ihrer Referentin, dann mit der Ministerin. Dann sagt die Ministerin, dass sie jetzt Mittagessen fährt, zu einem Landgasthof, denn es sei ja Spargelzeit.
der funkturm am alex wurde letzte nacht von einem seltsamen funkferngesteuertem objekt getroffen und ist in sich zusammengestürzt. die videoaufzeichnungen beweisen, dass die kugel kurz vor dem aufprall schon merkwürdige veränderungen aufzuweisen hatte.
träume sind gegenüber anderen gedanken nicht privilegiert, sie interessieren nur denjenigen, der sie träumt
kommt in büchern eine traumpassage? weiterblättern oder buch wegwerfen und TV wieder laut drehen.ich hab heute nichts versäumt, denn ich hab nur von dir geträumt.
Mit den Telefonnummern fing es an. Dauernd erschienen diese Telefonnummern am Display. Ich sollte sie alle "abarbeiten" , wobei mir nicht klar war, was das hieß. Aus den Zahlen wurden Codes, die ich nicht verstehen konnte, aber die ich auch irgendwie "abarbeiten" sollte.
Träume in der Nacht von beängstigenden Verschiebungen, Raumteilern, die auseinandergleiten, Personen im Gegenlicht...
By Marissa Raderman
What does it mean when you go downstairs in the morning to find Bill Gates serving you coffee while Claudia Schiffer carries in a plate of flapjacks? Wake up, pal! It means you're dreaming.But according to Jeremy Taylor, America Online's dream expert, "there is no such thing as a dream with only one meaning. All dreams have multiple layers of significance." Taylor believes that only a dreamer can genuinely know what meaning his or her dream may have - an understanding that usually arrives as a wordless "aha!" of self-realization.
Taylor, an ordained Unitarian Universalist minister and an instructor at several San Francisco Bay area colleges, has been combing through other people's dreams for more than 25 years. In late 1969, he was inspired by a community effort to fight racism.
After struggling with ineffective methods, Taylor began asking people to share their dreams about racism based on his belief that doing so brings relief to people afflicted by repressed racial hostility.
When America Online asked Taylor to practice his dream-analysis techniques in cyberspace, he wasn't sure that the Internet is a personal enough medium for such intensely emotional work. But after he relented to the provider's pleas, Taylor was pleasantly surprised by the results. Taylor says that despite the absence of facial expressions and body language online, you can still conduct high-quality dream work on the Web. "I miss the visual clues, but there are also clues in language and keyboard slips that are also quite revealing! A compensation process comes into play when the interlocutors are invisible to one another."
On AOL's Dream Show, a person named Kairosmg describes the late-night wanderings of his subconscious. "What does it mean when I dream about a girl I work with who has a baby, and I move my whole family into her house?" This cyber dreamer adds that the woman's neighbors are gangsters and that he witnesses a shootout in the dream. Keyboards tap furiously as chat room participants rush to decipher the layers of meaning. Taylor adds that death is an archetypal metaphor of psychospiritual growth and change.
Taylor is negotiating with AOL to create an online training program for those who guide others through group dream analysis. "Only online skills can be taught online," he says. "But eventually, with the availability of videophone technology, these distinctions will disappear."
ich wohne im rhein-main-gebiet in der einflugschneise des frankfurter flughafens und trete aus der tür, als ich ein sehr tief fliegendes passagierflugzeug unbekannten typs über mir sehe, das aber, im gegensatz zur sonst sehr real wirkenden welt, in einem grobgepixelten 8-bit-modus daherkommt.
in der wohnung, in der ich in meinem traum wohne, habe ich mir meinen schreibtisch mit meinem laptop im treppenhaus, also vor der wohnungstür eingerichtet. das ist nicht weiter schlimm, weil es das letzte stockwerk ist und ich diesen raum ungestört nutzen kann. ich sitze also da, als ich plötzlich lärm im treppenhaus hören und eine grosse, helle gestalt schnell durch die stützen des geländers um die ecke auf mich zukommen sehe. ein etwa doppelt-lebensgrosses mischwesen aus einhorn, lama und gemse steht vor mir und spricht, offensichtlich auf englisch, mit mir jedoch unverständlicher wortreihenfolge, stark gestikulierend auf mich ein.
ich bin in der annahme, es will meinen laptop benutzen, etwa um mails zu checken oder ähnliches, und biete dies an, aber als es meinen laptop sieht, wendet es sich gelangweilt ab und geht wieder die treppe hinunter. ein stockwerk unter mir muss aber jemand anderes seinen wunsch erfasst haben, denn kurze zeit später höre ich es, diesmal verständlich, kindliche jubelrufe ausstossen: "playstation! playstation!"...
1. dies ist kein werbetraum
2. ich bin leicht fiebrig
3. ist das überhaupt ein elektronischer traum?
erste szene: auf dem mond. ich stehe mit einer gruppe von jungen menschen, von denen ich spaeter naeher erfahre, wer sie sind, auf einer anhoehe. vor uns ausgebreitet eine mondlandschaft, gelblich leuchtend. in einer senke, etwa hundert meter entfernt, steht ein alter vw-bus, umgeben von einer art absperrung. der muss wohl aus den siebzigern sein, denke ich dabei. der vw-bus ist weiß. auf seinem dach ist ein markierung in form von einem kleinen schwarzen kreuz. jemand von uns sagt, "bis dahin sind sie damals gekommen, weiter nicht". ich weiß, was damit gemeint ist: diejenigen, die vor uns da waren, haben sich bis dahin vor gewagt, wir noch nicht.
zweite szene: immer noch auf dem mond. in einer buergervilla. alle raeume sind weiss. hier lebt die gruppe junger menschen, ich denke dabei an nachfahren derjeniger, die zuerst hier waren. in der mitte jedes raums steht eine weisse pritsche. ein dicker, unfoermiger typ mit schwarzen haar, das zu einem zopf gebunden ist, und eine junge frau mit blondem haar liegen auf einer dieser pritschen und pressen ihre koerper aneinander. sie fragt ihn dabei: "weisst du noch damals?". beide entdecken den computer (den ich aber nicht bildlich vor mir sehe) eines ihrer mitbewohner, von dem alle wissen, dass er etwas undefinierbares, jedenfalls 'boeses' im netz treibt, was ihm aber bisher nicht nachzuweisen war. sie finden einen logfile, der zum loeschen gedacht war, wobei aber der befehl letzendlich nicht ausgefuehrt wurde. ich, die als unsichtbare beobachterin dabei bin, bekomme mit, dass die umtriebe im netz etwas mit tieren und sex zu tun haben. der typ und die frau sichern den logfile. ich wache auf...
"Mein Zuhause ist ein mit anderen geteilter elektronischer Traum aus Erinnerungen an Comics, halbstündigen Fernsehserien und nationalen
Douglas Coupland; Life After God
der traum ist etwas verschwommen, übrig bleiben vor allem die farben.
ich sass mit einem nicht zu identifizierenden freund in einer vorlesung bei friedrich kittler, die, ähnlich einer von mir selbst vor vielen jahren besuchten vorlesung kittlers über "optische medien", der entwicklung bild- und illusionserzeugender gerätschaften gewidmet war. die wenigen studierenden, die, dies alles spielte sich eher im freien ab, an treppenförmig gestaffelten zweierpulten sassen, waren eher mit eigenen gesprächen beschäftigt, als sich um die ausführungen des vortragenden zu kümmern. darauf hin wurde kittler jähzornig und fackelte, in bester illusionistischer manier, vom katheder aus ein visuelles tischfeuerwerk ab, das, an halluzinatorische spätachtziger acid-videos erinnernd und in form von tausenden von einzelpixeln aller spektralfarben, mit einem ungeheuren schub auf die studierenden zuschoss. uns blieb nichts übrig, als hinter unserem pult deckung zu suchen. dann fehlt die erinnerung.
die atmospähre des traums gestaltet sich von beginn an als eine art cyberpunk-setting mit stark architektonischen elementen (glaswände, bunte möbel, alles ein bischen design-postmoderne; frankreich ca.1986).
ich bin teilnemer eines fortgeschrittenen-computerworkshops. der dozent möchte darstellungsmöglichkeiten von computersimulation demonstrieren und hantiert plötzlich mit einem gerät, das, an den computer angeschlossen, einem orgonakkumulator ähnelt. aus einer ventilähnlichen öffnung in dessen deckel entweichen die lebensgrossen neonblau-ähnlichen umrisse einer frau. anfangs halten die workshopteilnehmer die erscheinung für eine laserprojektion, dann nimmt der dozent einen datenhandschuh und erweitert, durch drag'n'drop an den umrissen, die gestalt zu einem dreidimensionalen, transparenten körper, durch den sich grafisch koordinaten ziehen; als die frau zu sprechen beginnt, spüre ich grosse zuneigung zu ihr, eher sympathischer art, kann mich aber nicht an an den weiteren traum erinnern.
Kunden, deren Websites ich auf vordere Plätze in Suchmaschinen geführt habe, rutschen im Ranking ab und landen im Niemandsland, beispielsweise auf Platz 150.
Ich muss neue Tabellenfelder einpassen, Wörter verschieben, alles von Hand, per Eingriff in den Bildschirm, und mit einem Stift schreibe ich Wörter darauf.
Wenn's nichts nützt, beginnt alles von vorn. Es beginnt, glaube ich, immer von vorn.
Der Geschmack im Mund ist dabei sauer.
Dem Forum "Ist das ein eTraum?" entnommen (-> Der Zeltfahrstuhl).
Der Traum spielt in der Zukunft. Mein Sohn fängt an zu studieren und ich bin das erstemal mit ihm in seiner neuen Stadt, um seine neue Wohnung in einem Studentenwohnheim zu beziehen. Die Stadt hat was von einer wiederaufgebauten und verschönerten Plattenbaussiedlung. Alles mit großzügigen Rasenflächen, mit Pinienbäumen bepflanzt, die Fassaden bestehen fast nur aus Fenstern. Wir fragen in einer Arztpraxis nach dem Weg. In der Praxis sind alle Leute merkwürdig verkleidet. 70er Stil. An den Wänden hängen Bilder, die ausgebleicht sind, wie es bei Fotos mit schlechten Fixierer über die Jahre passiert. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die Leute in der Praxis alles Filmstatisten sind und auf ihren Auftritt warten.
Dem Forum entnommen (-> Ich hatte einen superlangweiligen etraum heut nacht). Ein eTraum von sonstwem.
gestern hab ich ganz viele nutzer auf ein system eingerichtet und dann die daten versand. heut nacht hab ich geträumt, dass ich mit einem freund telefoniere und ein grosses buch vorliegen hab, in denen sämtliche zugänge stehen. anhand von aus tesafilm gebasteltet bookmarks markiere ich die bereits durchgegeben accounts. meni freund an der anderen leitung checkt die gegen. hm.
Schiebertätigtkeiten, die zu Inhalten führen, das geht manchmal ein bisschen schleppend, dann steh ich als Traummaster daneben und wippe mit dem Fuss. Dann geht’s weiter, wie ein Gabelstapler zieht mein Bewusstsein Dateien von der einen Stelle zur anderen. Und ja, alles passt: ist ja so fabriziert worden.
Dem Forum entnommen (-> Laptop Traum). Ein eTraum von Kito.
Ich wohne in einer ziemlich heruntergekommenen Behausung in einem ehemaligen Industriegebiet. Ein Bekannter ist zu Besuch, vielleicht ist es auch der Mitbewohner gewesen. Wir gehen spazieren.
Seit Tagen träume ich nur Schrott. Heisst: Einzelne, bedrohliche Fetzen, die gar nichts mit Machinen zu tun haben, obwohl ich doch den ganzen Tag dransitze! Nur so platt umgesetzte, übersteigerte wahre Erlebnisse, riesige Schuhe beim Schuster und tierisch schnelle Autos und Lärm aus blöden Richtungen. Dann wach ich auf und denk diese blöde Frage: Wo bin ich? Und warum habe schon wieder nicht von Hochhäusern geträumt. Ich glaube, wenn man Computer nicht versteht, dann träumt man auch nicht von ihnen.
Mein Freund Lionel ist groß und sehr behaart. Er steht in einem blauen Hallenbad mit nichts als einer Badehose bekleidet am Rand und setzt zum Sprung an. Vom anderen Beckenende kommen plötzlich zwei kleine japanisch gackernde Bademeister mit einem wehenden Tuch in ihrer Mitte auf ihn zugerannt. Es stellt sich heraus, dass es sich um eine Brustbadekappe handelt. Die Bademeister quacken heftig auf ihn ein und legen ihm die Brustbadekappe an, die übrigens so aussieht wie die klassische 70er-Jahre Badekappe (weiß mit einem dicken roten Streifen in der Mitte).
In meinem Traum war ich in einem Kittler-Seminar, das in Juliettes Literatursalon stattfand. Wir sassen auf den Bücherregalen und besprachen einen Freudtext. Ich hatte das Buch nicht dabei, also zog ich einen dicken gelben Reclamband aus dem Regal. Eigentlich war nur der vordere Teil des Buches zu gebrauchen, der Rest waren ganzseititge Illustrationen mit wenig Text. Während des Seminars wurde mein Buch immer abgenutzter. Die Seiten waren verdreckt und geknickt, obwohl ich nicht unbedingtig nachölässig mit dem Buch umging. Am Ende des Seminars hatte ich ein schlechtes Gewissen. Sollte ich das Buch bezahlen? Da waren aber soviele schwarze Quadrate (mind 9) drauf, solche, die den Preis bei Reclam festlegen. Das Buch war zu teuer. Wir gingen dann in dem Film Final Fantasy...