Thursday, 27 December 2012
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
My Mum, The Ninja
At half past six while the whole world sleeps,
from out of bed, he yawns then he leaps.
Gathering his wares and then on he will go,
with the bedlam and grace of a wild buffalo.
Into the shower that's far from not warm,
with all of the fanfare from a tropical storm.
Drying himself and yet still in a hurry,
knocking all down akin to a lorry.
Dressing is next, putting on all of his clothes,
descending the stairs for his coffee he goes.
Tiptoeing down with all of his charm,
now for the hard bit, the dreaded alarm!!!
Silence is golden, a wise man once said,
praying the family stay asleep in thier bed.
Key in the numbers, wow!!! that's awful loud,
more than enough to awaken a crowd.
Oh no! he thought...but maybe, it's not,
that definately sounds like a noise from the cot.
Heavens to Murgatroyd, it surely can't be,
in a flash, up the stairs to the cry of "Daddy".
While the other shift is a different story.
unlike Daddy's descent its not quite as gory.
Last night her uniform was already laid out,
Not a bellow, a whisper, much less a shout.
Fleeting like a fairy, in not so much space,
teeth, then hands, then washing her face.
Uniform on, then her shoes and her socks,
No bang, no peep nor a murmur, she rocks!!!
With all of the grace of Tinkerbell fairy,
Daddy should learn how she does it is scary.
But then there's a squeak from inside the house,
but the culprit I know is the resident mouse.
So we're all still asleep, not a stir or a mutter,
as she negotiaties her way down through all of our clutter.
She's down the stairs and way out of the door,
while my sister and I are still in a snore.
Now hold it, Dad thought as he rolled in his bed,
How does she do it? 'Unbelieveable' he said.
My Mom is the greatest, if things don't work out,
she could be a ninja, she'd be in with a shout!
from out of bed, he yawns then he leaps.
Gathering his wares and then on he will go,
with the bedlam and grace of a wild buffalo.
Into the shower that's far from not warm,
with all of the fanfare from a tropical storm.
Drying himself and yet still in a hurry,
knocking all down akin to a lorry.
Dressing is next, putting on all of his clothes,
descending the stairs for his coffee he goes.
Tiptoeing down with all of his charm,
now for the hard bit, the dreaded alarm!!!
Silence is golden, a wise man once said,
praying the family stay asleep in thier bed.
Key in the numbers, wow!!! that's awful loud,
more than enough to awaken a crowd.
Oh no! he thought...but maybe, it's not,
that definately sounds like a noise from the cot.
Heavens to Murgatroyd, it surely can't be,
in a flash, up the stairs to the cry of "Daddy".
While the other shift is a different story.
unlike Daddy's descent its not quite as gory.
Last night her uniform was already laid out,
Not a bellow, a whisper, much less a shout.
Fleeting like a fairy, in not so much space,
teeth, then hands, then washing her face.
Uniform on, then her shoes and her socks,
No bang, no peep nor a murmur, she rocks!!!
With all of the grace of Tinkerbell fairy,
Daddy should learn how she does it is scary.
But then there's a squeak from inside the house,
but the culprit I know is the resident mouse.
So we're all still asleep, not a stir or a mutter,
as she negotiaties her way down through all of our clutter.
She's down the stairs and way out of the door,
while my sister and I are still in a snore.
Now hold it, Dad thought as he rolled in his bed,
How does she do it? 'Unbelieveable' he said.
My Mom is the greatest, if things don't work out,
she could be a ninja, she'd be in with a shout!
Monday, 17 October 2011
'One Small Step for Me'
We all know people with children who go on about how talented their wonderful child is,
how bright or how cute they are, forever droning on as if we care. If you don’t like listening
to the likes of that, I am going to take this opportunity here and now let you to stop reading this, put it down and walk away. After a lifetime of griping I am coming off the fence, as
proud father of a couple of wonderful little girls.
Morbid curiosity of what appealed to the masses, combined with a love for a beautiful woman. I enrolled in that great institution of marriage in 2008. In fact, it wasn’t really a quantum leap when one considers that we had co-habited for two years prior. We’d hardly noticed any shift in our own little matrix. Life went about it’s own routine, dinner out at the weekend, with the odd trip abroad and my Sunday running around the rugby pitches of Connacht keeping order as a referee.
There are comparisons a child’s arrival that mirror an amphibious assault landing. Any amount of training and preparation might give the troops a vague sense of what is on the cards, but not until the ramp goes down that one realises theory and practice are far removed.
For the child though it is a different scenario, catapulted for no apparent reason out of her comforts into a cold bright environment with a load of strangers looking and poking at you. I’m having none of that.
For some of our large mammal cousins life on earth may start with the ability to stand
within a few hours of birth, for logistical and security issues. Movement for Homo-sapiens
is an entirely different kettle of fish, not a curve but a vector. With movement there is a single goal, it comes with a concept, independent movement as soon as possible. I wasn’t doing all that kicking inside for your benefit mom.
Once out and about firstly comes ‘the Grip’, followed by ‘the Stretch’ and ‘the Kick’ too.
On then to rolling over on her side in preparation for the 180 degree ‘Rollover’, the ability
to go from her back to her belly ad lib, with tremendous accolades from her parents. This
culminates with ‘the Sit Up’. Without ‘the Sit Up’ the child is lost, and subject to a totally
abstract view of the world. Back drop of a ceiling, the most humble artifact of the domestic room. Annoying persons moving in and out into her field of vision saying ridiculous things, how stimulating? And yet you wonder I cry!
All this changes with ‘the Sit Up’. Now our young protégé gets the view in the same axis as her ‘Yoda”, Life can begin in earnest. All that is not battened, bolted or tied down is destined to becomes an appetizer. This is often in conjunction with the arrival of the first teeth, the want to start nibbling, gnawing and chomping at all and sundry. I’ll have me some of that!
With ‘the Sit Up’ the penny drops, she can deduce that limb motions equate to movement.
The concept of ‘the Pull’, dawns on her, soon followed by ‘the Kick’. Soon first limb motions start to accumulate into traction, at last!!! Anyone for Karate?
Alas, as with all of us things never happen as quick as we like them to and our little one
starting out on her journey is no different. She is now well on her way to developing ‘the Cry’ tactic, to which the most common counter is ‘the Ignore’, where her rebuttal is of course an increase in volume with recourse to a few tears. Playing Dad like a Stradivarius.
With the advent of ‘the Crawl’, we attain the ‘Mohammad to the mountain’ syndrome. A glance over your shoulder and you will see her constantly shuffling towards you. The first tentative crawl begins with little or no traction but soon she will be up to speed, culminating in ‘the Scoot’. Look out Usain Bolt.
‘The Scoot’ is a nasty period as her unsuspecting parent has been lulled into a sense of
security, unaware that at the slightest opportunity, a door ajar or any opening for that
matter, and she will be off like it’s Aintree in March. An inattentive guardian can find her
out wallowing in a puddle or a garden bed, oblivious to the fact that not all places are as
clean as home. But if ‘the Scoot’ is bad, the nemesis of every well intentioned parent is
looming around the corner. What is that big thing in the middle of the house?
‘The Climb’ starts off cute, lulled again by the “isn’t our child wonderful” scenario, it is the
one component that multiplies the perils of the standard home by a factor of ten. Stairs, the best toys in the house by far. Her cute grin as she set out up ‘The Ogre’ between upstairs and downstairs. Lumbering on with scant regard to the Newtonian Laws that govern physics. On then to ‘the Stand Up’. This is what it is all about, now I’m getting like Daddy. By now the skill of pulling herself up has been honed to and Art form. Cupboards become mini ‘Narnias’ waiting to reconnoiter, by brute force if necessary, anti-child devices violently destroyed. That will teach you.
It take hours of collapsing on her bum but ‘the Stand Up’ is what it is all about. It begins the metamorphoses into a kind of primeval swing, a standing scoot between handles in various guise. Damn Newton and those pesky laws, I will triumph! But slipping and falling on the bum is a mere occupational hazard, it is apparent that engaging her upper limb in conjunction with sequential movement of her lower limbs in a common direction, is the formula that has eluded her for the year. Eureka!! Now we are motoring.
Then finally one year into the programme, after hour upon hour of hardship, up and down the stairs, in and out of every room an infinite number of times, the cranial cogs seem to mesh and it all comes together. Ah, so that’s how this works!
Ideally at a predetermined location with notification to the local press, maybe some regional media if possible and of course, an orchestra playing ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’ by Richard Strauss. More likely when Dad is in the shower or Mum in loading the washing machine for the umpteenth time, finally ‘The Step’.
‘The Step’, eternally freed from the bondage of the static, she manages to loosen her grip
on the handles. I don’t need you anymore, not now not ever. We are no longer parents but
contemporaries, there’s a little glint in her eye and behind the grin is a new born confidence. One small step for me, one large leap for Mankind.
how bright or how cute they are, forever droning on as if we care. If you don’t like listening
to the likes of that, I am going to take this opportunity here and now let you to stop reading this, put it down and walk away. After a lifetime of griping I am coming off the fence, as
proud father of a couple of wonderful little girls.
Morbid curiosity of what appealed to the masses, combined with a love for a beautiful woman. I enrolled in that great institution of marriage in 2008. In fact, it wasn’t really a quantum leap when one considers that we had co-habited for two years prior. We’d hardly noticed any shift in our own little matrix. Life went about it’s own routine, dinner out at the weekend, with the odd trip abroad and my Sunday running around the rugby pitches of Connacht keeping order as a referee.
There are comparisons a child’s arrival that mirror an amphibious assault landing. Any amount of training and preparation might give the troops a vague sense of what is on the cards, but not until the ramp goes down that one realises theory and practice are far removed.
For the child though it is a different scenario, catapulted for no apparent reason out of her comforts into a cold bright environment with a load of strangers looking and poking at you. I’m having none of that.
For some of our large mammal cousins life on earth may start with the ability to stand
within a few hours of birth, for logistical and security issues. Movement for Homo-sapiens
is an entirely different kettle of fish, not a curve but a vector. With movement there is a single goal, it comes with a concept, independent movement as soon as possible. I wasn’t doing all that kicking inside for your benefit mom.
Once out and about firstly comes ‘the Grip’, followed by ‘the Stretch’ and ‘the Kick’ too.
On then to rolling over on her side in preparation for the 180 degree ‘Rollover’, the ability
to go from her back to her belly ad lib, with tremendous accolades from her parents. This
culminates with ‘the Sit Up’. Without ‘the Sit Up’ the child is lost, and subject to a totally
abstract view of the world. Back drop of a ceiling, the most humble artifact of the domestic room. Annoying persons moving in and out into her field of vision saying ridiculous things, how stimulating? And yet you wonder I cry!
All this changes with ‘the Sit Up’. Now our young protégé gets the view in the same axis as her ‘Yoda”, Life can begin in earnest. All that is not battened, bolted or tied down is destined to becomes an appetizer. This is often in conjunction with the arrival of the first teeth, the want to start nibbling, gnawing and chomping at all and sundry. I’ll have me some of that!
With ‘the Sit Up’ the penny drops, she can deduce that limb motions equate to movement.
The concept of ‘the Pull’, dawns on her, soon followed by ‘the Kick’. Soon first limb motions start to accumulate into traction, at last!!! Anyone for Karate?
Alas, as with all of us things never happen as quick as we like them to and our little one
starting out on her journey is no different. She is now well on her way to developing ‘the Cry’ tactic, to which the most common counter is ‘the Ignore’, where her rebuttal is of course an increase in volume with recourse to a few tears. Playing Dad like a Stradivarius.
With the advent of ‘the Crawl’, we attain the ‘Mohammad to the mountain’ syndrome. A glance over your shoulder and you will see her constantly shuffling towards you. The first tentative crawl begins with little or no traction but soon she will be up to speed, culminating in ‘the Scoot’. Look out Usain Bolt.
‘The Scoot’ is a nasty period as her unsuspecting parent has been lulled into a sense of
security, unaware that at the slightest opportunity, a door ajar or any opening for that
matter, and she will be off like it’s Aintree in March. An inattentive guardian can find her
out wallowing in a puddle or a garden bed, oblivious to the fact that not all places are as
clean as home. But if ‘the Scoot’ is bad, the nemesis of every well intentioned parent is
looming around the corner. What is that big thing in the middle of the house?
‘The Climb’ starts off cute, lulled again by the “isn’t our child wonderful” scenario, it is the
one component that multiplies the perils of the standard home by a factor of ten. Stairs, the best toys in the house by far. Her cute grin as she set out up ‘The Ogre’ between upstairs and downstairs. Lumbering on with scant regard to the Newtonian Laws that govern physics. On then to ‘the Stand Up’. This is what it is all about, now I’m getting like Daddy. By now the skill of pulling herself up has been honed to and Art form. Cupboards become mini ‘Narnias’ waiting to reconnoiter, by brute force if necessary, anti-child devices violently destroyed. That will teach you.
It take hours of collapsing on her bum but ‘the Stand Up’ is what it is all about. It begins the metamorphoses into a kind of primeval swing, a standing scoot between handles in various guise. Damn Newton and those pesky laws, I will triumph! But slipping and falling on the bum is a mere occupational hazard, it is apparent that engaging her upper limb in conjunction with sequential movement of her lower limbs in a common direction, is the formula that has eluded her for the year. Eureka!! Now we are motoring.
Then finally one year into the programme, after hour upon hour of hardship, up and down the stairs, in and out of every room an infinite number of times, the cranial cogs seem to mesh and it all comes together. Ah, so that’s how this works!
Ideally at a predetermined location with notification to the local press, maybe some regional media if possible and of course, an orchestra playing ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’ by Richard Strauss. More likely when Dad is in the shower or Mum in loading the washing machine for the umpteenth time, finally ‘The Step’.
‘The Step’, eternally freed from the bondage of the static, she manages to loosen her grip
on the handles. I don’t need you anymore, not now not ever. We are no longer parents but
contemporaries, there’s a little glint in her eye and behind the grin is a new born confidence. One small step for me, one large leap for Mankind.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
'if I had ten divisions of those men, then our troubles would be over very quickly" W.E. Kurtz
Back in my time in New York University I had a lecturer, Michael Warnham. When Micheal had something of major importance to say, he would merely repeat it in the conversation. No change of tone or no change of pitch, simply repeat the item during the normal course of the conversation, simply repeat the item during the normal course of the conversation. This was very effective as it meant that you had to listen intently.
On receiving this assignment I decided on the Jstor database and the British Broadcasting Corporation website as my two sources. As with any comparative situation, we must first lay out parameters as a standard to equate them with. So I logged on to the internet and opened the Jstor.org website and bbc.co.uk to see what they offer.
I picked two keywords ‘ONLINE’ and ‘DATABASE’. Despite the fact that both BBC and Jstor are in existence around the same time, Jstor database came into existence in 1995 while the BBC took their bbc.co.uk service online in 1997. The difference is the former is an search engine for academic writings while the latter is a derivative of the BBC’s own news journalism desk.
My experience with the BBC website is entirely a more familiar experience as I logged into it on a daily basis. I find it well designed and accessible with a high journalistic content. The standard that one would expect from them. The BBC use of a three column grid is similar to Jstor’s. Their aesthetic is masterful, clean and concise with a bold use of colour combined with good typographic treatment. Jstor’s on the other hand is functional, clearly appealing to a different market
While the BBC site search engine returned seventy three hits, broken into four main categories, News, Blog, Learning and TV/Radio. JStor returned 29,500 results to a search with the same key words, split into fifty nine separate categories. From this we must deduce that they are searching entirely different areas of the net. Jstor reaches much deeper into the web through a secure portal, as opposed to the BBC’s universal access option.
During my long absence from academia, a lot of things have changed. Libraries in my day were stuffy rooms full of silence. As I accessed Jstor from the comforts of my own terminal, the implications of what a modern research database can be dawned on me. I felt like a pre-Christian goat herder on the steps of the Library of Alexandria gazing in, another Rubicon crossed on the eternal quest for enlightenment.
The BBC is a cornerstone for Her Majesty’s empire, they are in fact the world oldest national broadcaster. As a news source it is seen as a fair well informed opinion, although there is no doubt that is stance is conservative and in spite of a Royal charter, it is a privately owned autonomous institution.
In many ways British society stands for much I believe in. As a legacy to their empire ‘where the sun never sets’, there is a multi-ethnic society of much political correctness to which the BBC supplies fair comment too.
While my search of the BBC site seemed to return a concise search of it’s own matter from contemporary sources, the corresponding return from Jstor revealed just the tip of the iceberg, it would require more decisions of refine precisely what I was looking for.
On which database to rely on for answers would depend on a number of overriding factors. In an effort to be objective with the comparison we must compare apple with apples. In terms of data returned, they are both are effective but the Jstor results are of course deeper in the web as one needs an academic motive to access it, thus needing a lot more involvement from the recipient.
At the turn of the century Time magazine did a series of surveys to find out the impact on society of a number of topics during the last millennium. The result of the greatest invention category was ‘Gutenberg's movable type’ for its contribution to dissemination of information. With assets like Jstor this takes on and entirely new meaning.
The fact that Jstor results are in PDF format allows for much greater applications for the information returned. Operations such as OCR (optical character recognition), annotation and encryption are native to it’s format. PDF files can also be reverse engineered, if required, bearing this in mind the singularity draws ever closer, the singularity draws ever closer.
Sunday, 25 September 2011
But there are also unknown unknowns, the ones you don't know...
When
considering one's own position as a creator and consumer of media we
must first address the psyche. I have always been a 'normal' Irish guy.
When I sit down to analyze my journey I must concede this position. It
is only human nature to consider one's position above where it really is
on the spectrum. I suspect in my case as both consumer and creator it
would have me more enlightened than the average person on the street.
My Anglo-Irish roots have been cause for consternation and it is only with the benefit of four decades that I can begin to form a thesis about my raison d'etre. I grew up on a farm outside Athlone, a large provincial town. This farm has been home to my family for generations, eleven to be precise from circa 1733 and before. Before that our history is a little cloudy.
My father would have employed quite a large number of workers over the year, all of whom we treated as equals. Ireland has always had a very tense relationship between the proletariat and bourgeoisie. I suspect this exists as a reaction to seven hundred and fifty odd years of English/Norman occupation in Ireland.
This background led to family politics that would be centre right and my grandfather and uncle were both representatives on the county council since the formation of the state. Privately educated in a boarding school with a particular strong "West Brit" flavour, my own attitude while in attendance there, were as a 'Black Sheep', though not quite as ‘Black’ as in Athlone!
I attribute to my own outlook to growing as Church of Ireland in the devoutly Roman Catholic Ireland of the 1970's, with the spectre of the "Wee Six" haunting every aspect of that particular era, fostering in me an ‘outsider’ attitude which I carry with me today. I do feel that this affords me a more objective outlook in regards to message reception. Looking back at this, there was always air of cynicism involved in message consumption in our house.
From an early age I would have considered myself media aware, which channeled me into my current career. I was sensitive to texts of all sorts and even today I hold 'the written word' in great esteem. Throughout history, words (here we can read texts) are synonymous with power. Reading of these must be combined with a rational of the meaning behind it, on all levels.
Our proximity to Enniskillen allowed for both BBC and RTE to be beamed into our kitchen. Events now commonplace in Irish homes were scarce back then, so two media feeds allows for a better formed opinion. I can remember the fall of Saigon and being allowed watch Ali fighting when I as a kid. Perhaps it was this more than fate that led my path towards digital media.
As a creator my background is wide. I started in a pre-Media world where subject matter concerning media and the likes fell into a category that was headed "Communications". I hold a National Certificate in Design Communications and a Degree in Visual Communications, each of these endeavors began back in the analog days of the 1980's. My professional career then spans from darkened rooms where the analog message came into being to the lofty heights of the world of the corporate branding.
My first enterprise in New York in 1995 was in a photo-typesetting bureau, where the union typesetter were the top of the totem pole, computer operators likes of myself were very much on the bottom rung of the food chain. Having followed on from that as a cog in the media behemoth that is Madison Avenue, my insight is far from average.
Undoubtly in the current climate more traditional media channels are on the wane. Now media specific texts can precision hit their chosen targets with numerous options via database information. Algorithms patrol these databases throwing meaning out from mountains of data. Personal IP address' tag you across the digital spectrum, these harmless digits allow pin point accuracy to the marketers and other who may want to find you.
Though I am sure that my pigeon hole in life should have been destined to be dominant hegemonic, I would perceive myself more in negotiated position. That been said, it is my own belief that Reception Theory is exactly that, theory. In practice today’s media recipients are far more sophisticated than even a decade year ago. The proletariat are no longer ignorant and void of education, despite what we are often being told by the media...
My Anglo-Irish roots have been cause for consternation and it is only with the benefit of four decades that I can begin to form a thesis about my raison d'etre. I grew up on a farm outside Athlone, a large provincial town. This farm has been home to my family for generations, eleven to be precise from circa 1733 and before. Before that our history is a little cloudy.
My father would have employed quite a large number of workers over the year, all of whom we treated as equals. Ireland has always had a very tense relationship between the proletariat and bourgeoisie. I suspect this exists as a reaction to seven hundred and fifty odd years of English/Norman occupation in Ireland.
This background led to family politics that would be centre right and my grandfather and uncle were both representatives on the county council since the formation of the state. Privately educated in a boarding school with a particular strong "West Brit" flavour, my own attitude while in attendance there, were as a 'Black Sheep', though not quite as ‘Black’ as in Athlone!
I attribute to my own outlook to growing as Church of Ireland in the devoutly Roman Catholic Ireland of the 1970's, with the spectre of the "Wee Six" haunting every aspect of that particular era, fostering in me an ‘outsider’ attitude which I carry with me today. I do feel that this affords me a more objective outlook in regards to message reception. Looking back at this, there was always air of cynicism involved in message consumption in our house.
From an early age I would have considered myself media aware, which channeled me into my current career. I was sensitive to texts of all sorts and even today I hold 'the written word' in great esteem. Throughout history, words (here we can read texts) are synonymous with power. Reading of these must be combined with a rational of the meaning behind it, on all levels.
Our proximity to Enniskillen allowed for both BBC and RTE to be beamed into our kitchen. Events now commonplace in Irish homes were scarce back then, so two media feeds allows for a better formed opinion. I can remember the fall of Saigon and being allowed watch Ali fighting when I as a kid. Perhaps it was this more than fate that led my path towards digital media.
As a creator my background is wide. I started in a pre-Media world where subject matter concerning media and the likes fell into a category that was headed "Communications". I hold a National Certificate in Design Communications and a Degree in Visual Communications, each of these endeavors began back in the analog days of the 1980's. My professional career then spans from darkened rooms where the analog message came into being to the lofty heights of the world of the corporate branding.
My first enterprise in New York in 1995 was in a photo-typesetting bureau, where the union typesetter were the top of the totem pole, computer operators likes of myself were very much on the bottom rung of the food chain. Having followed on from that as a cog in the media behemoth that is Madison Avenue, my insight is far from average.
Undoubtly in the current climate more traditional media channels are on the wane. Now media specific texts can precision hit their chosen targets with numerous options via database information. Algorithms patrol these databases throwing meaning out from mountains of data. Personal IP address' tag you across the digital spectrum, these harmless digits allow pin point accuracy to the marketers and other who may want to find you.
Though I am sure that my pigeon hole in life should have been destined to be dominant hegemonic, I would perceive myself more in negotiated position. That been said, it is my own belief that Reception Theory is exactly that, theory. In practice today’s media recipients are far more sophisticated than even a decade year ago. The proletariat are no longer ignorant and void of education, despite what we are often being told by the media...
Sunday, 18 September 2011
Into the nuts and bolts of Writing Machines Chapters 3 & 4
The benefit of hindsight is all very easy to judge, so in Chapter three, Entering the Electronic Environment, we watch as Hayles catalyses through the early days of the desktop publishing revolution, that we now take for granted. We must bear in mind that the author came from the generation of people whose greatest written works were created with that great instrument, the fountain pen.
As Hayles journeyed through academia, then on through her initial contacts with early computer systems, her first encounters with the desktop publishing concept was a breath of fresh air. Though even as she evangelized to her contemporaries, the full concept on by how much electronic literature was about to change, took some time to take on board.
Hayles embraced the various concepts and it was then that she began to realize their potential. It also began to dawn on her just how much conventional methods were so rigidly ingrained in the literary establishment. This enthusiasm would in turn lead to an awareness that a complete rethink of how everyone looked at literature would be required. The progression of this would have huge impact on artifact and meanings.
The initial raw text forms of literature, converted from artifacts, would eventually give way to more and more radical concepts such as rich media, with their images, audio and navigational devices etc. At this period in history, the metamorphosis of inscription technologies had a huge impacted on culture and concepts. Not all were in favour with the herald of new technologies, but naturally there were early adapters. These individuals followed in the footsteps of those who previously had combined words with images and went on to prospect new frontiers.
Hayles takes the time to point out that mankinds attachment to the artifact reflected the terms which were involved, one’s bond to the works were definitely on another level. Of course with this in mind, one can extrapolate that the texts created in new environments must also reach the reader at a separate level, part of the reflex loops mentioned in an earlier chapter. we
As Hayles journeyed through academia, then on through her initial contacts with early computer systems, her first encounters with the desktop publishing concept was a breath of fresh air. Though even as she evangelized to her contemporaries, the full concept on by how much electronic literature was about to change, took some time to take on board.
Hayles embraced the various concepts and it was then that she began to realize their potential. It also began to dawn on her just how much conventional methods were so rigidly ingrained in the literary establishment. This enthusiasm would in turn lead to an awareness that a complete rethink of how everyone looked at literature would be required. The progression of this would have huge impact on artifact and meanings.
The initial raw text forms of literature, converted from artifacts, would eventually give way to more and more radical concepts such as rich media, with their images, audio and navigational devices etc. At this period in history, the metamorphosis of inscription technologies had a huge impacted on culture and concepts. Not all were in favour with the herald of new technologies, but naturally there were early adapters. These individuals followed in the footsteps of those who previously had combined words with images and went on to prospect new frontiers.
Hayles takes the time to point out that mankinds attachment to the artifact reflected the terms which were involved, one’s bond to the works were definitely on another level. Of course with this in mind, one can extrapolate that the texts created in new environments must also reach the reader at a separate level, part of the reflex loops mentioned in an earlier chapter. we
Hayles appreciation of the early pioneers who created various works in this new arena, combined with her own recognition in the established literary field took her to international conferences and allowed for interaction. It was while at these affairs that her theories were aired, sometimes conflicting with some of her earlier proteges. Despite these encounters she was now confident that her ideas were along the right lines.
As we open Lexia to Perplexia on our state of the art computers, we must try to imagine what the initial reader saw as they peered into the Pandora’s Box that Lexia to Perplexia heralded. Even the most staid of imaginations must have been stirred. We struggle to grasp just what exactly the pilgrim web surfers who happened upon it might have thought. The combinations and permutations that screen, hyperlink and clever typographic devices combine to project Lexia to Perplexia is an entirely new domain in terms of texts relationship to the conduit.
Memmott’s creation is still impressive today as his use of media broke away from conventions governing literature as he knew it. Granted the piece looks flat in dimension but of course we have the merits of over a decade in technology to judge it upon. At the works origin there must have been quite a bit of discussion on where all this technology was leading too, as it engages the reader on an entirely new basis.
Memmott’s pushing of the boundaries is admirable and we can only imagine his endeavours akin of Giotto’s application of perspective nearly 700 years prior. His contemporaries crying anathema as he explores the new media. One can see that it is much more than simply pretty pixels at work here. The language of the writing on dissection is a foray at combining a semantic with a semiosis. His clever use of noise through which emerges the strength of the symbol, perhaps is the first emergence of a digital Esperanto.
With the hindsight of twelve years and the advances in telecommunications technology, the modern use of text and twitter has accelerated the use of abbreviations, abridgments and symbols in everyday media. Acronyms have permeated through all modern languages, subliminal imagery burned upon the retina absorbed by our brains at every level. Somewhere here is a ode to Memmott’s original creation, where form overrode such details as the need to accurate structure, spelling or grammar. A road map for things to come.
'Like a diamond bullet straight through my forehead'. W.E. Kurtz
While everyone has a story, be it Jerry Brukheimer or the guy panhandling on the corner of the city street, leave fiction to the fiction writers, that’s what I say. Seventeen years ago I closed the cover on my last piece of fiction reading. The book was Homer's Iliad, I had purchased in Barnes and Noble, Fifth Avenue in August 1995, with my first pay cheque upon my arrival in New York City.
Why so precise you may ask? I have a habit of writing 'where and when' on the title page of the books I purchase, whether at an airport or on Ebay, the reference I put on the title page reminds me of the circumstance I attained them in. I also have a tendency to write any words that fall outside my vocabulary inside the back cover so that I can research them later, on the basis that one can learn something new everyday.
I love the nonfiction genre, all it’s various shapes, formats and fonts. Histories, biographies, militaria are the subjects that I crave, any amount of them. There are not enough hours in the day as far as I am concerned for books.
It was last Christmas then when a flaw appears in the plot. As a stocking filler from my parents I received “Zero Hour” by Andy McNabe. My eyes rolled towards the heavens. How inconsiderate can a mother be? After years of tripping over, moving and complaining in general about my books, did she not get the point? I DON’T READ FICTION.
There is a school of thought out there, that in life you don’t choose to read your books, they choose you. With this in mind combined with years of seemingly unrequited love, I decided that I’d give the book a chance. I mean it could have been wider off the mark in terms of subject matter, so how much could it hurt? The least I might do is be grateful.
It may sound strange, but the most prestigious place for my reading material in my little sphere, is the home toilet. Not to be confused with the work toilet, that's an entirely different place. The work toilet is where, occasion permitting, one might steal a few minutes to gaze into the literary portal during the hours of commerce. The home toilet however is pride of place, guaranteed at least four pages of reading each day, two pages ante meridian and two more then post meridian. This may not seem much but I suffer greatly from a ‘busy life syndrome’, so carpe diem as far as chances to read are concerned.
Much to my surprise I started to love McNabe’s offering, couldn’t put it down, in fact and eventually when I did, I found myself back in the local Simon shop. That great bastion of literature, searching out another offering from Mr McNabe’s repertoire. I began to question what attributes did his writing have, that had sucked me in.
Andy McNabe is ex-SAS, Special Air Service, the créme de la créme of Her Majesty’s war machine, they put the special in Special Forces. From their origins creating mayhem in the deserts of North Africa in 1941. They have been rappelling through history and windows of embassies in London, crawling through the hedgerows of south Armagh or on the cold exposes of some Falkland hill. With their eyes peering out of a black ski mask which adorns their all black garb, these guys walked the walk. Synonymous with action, suspense and danger with ‘Who Dares Wins’ as their swashbuckling motto.
But what captured me was not so much the matter of his stories but the style of his writing. McNabe delivers his story of a happy go lucky ex-solider, as he struggle to get through just another day in the international mercenary market. A straight forward narrative of limited vocabulary, using quite a lot of dialogue delivered in five to six page chapters format involving no intricate literary architecture which makes for easy reading. With each foray, one is obliged to finish out the chapter yet spared any trips to the dictionary. His story made me think “Hey, I could write that!!!”
Perhaps it was by Grand Design or simple co-incidence, but my respite in the realm of fiction has provide me with inspiration. My “Writing in a Digital Age” module can be a conduit for my story. So now I’m out of excuses, I have both the confidence and the vehicle to put meat on the skeletal bones of my story. Where it will lead I don’t know but I feel that I am obliged to compile something out of my jottings and rantings.
Why so precise you may ask? I have a habit of writing 'where and when' on the title page of the books I purchase, whether at an airport or on Ebay, the reference I put on the title page reminds me of the circumstance I attained them in. I also have a tendency to write any words that fall outside my vocabulary inside the back cover so that I can research them later, on the basis that one can learn something new everyday.
I love the nonfiction genre, all it’s various shapes, formats and fonts. Histories, biographies, militaria are the subjects that I crave, any amount of them. There are not enough hours in the day as far as I am concerned for books.
It was last Christmas then when a flaw appears in the plot. As a stocking filler from my parents I received “Zero Hour” by Andy McNabe. My eyes rolled towards the heavens. How inconsiderate can a mother be? After years of tripping over, moving and complaining in general about my books, did she not get the point? I DON’T READ FICTION.
There is a school of thought out there, that in life you don’t choose to read your books, they choose you. With this in mind combined with years of seemingly unrequited love, I decided that I’d give the book a chance. I mean it could have been wider off the mark in terms of subject matter, so how much could it hurt? The least I might do is be grateful.
It may sound strange, but the most prestigious place for my reading material in my little sphere, is the home toilet. Not to be confused with the work toilet, that's an entirely different place. The work toilet is where, occasion permitting, one might steal a few minutes to gaze into the literary portal during the hours of commerce. The home toilet however is pride of place, guaranteed at least four pages of reading each day, two pages ante meridian and two more then post meridian. This may not seem much but I suffer greatly from a ‘busy life syndrome’, so carpe diem as far as chances to read are concerned.
Much to my surprise I started to love McNabe’s offering, couldn’t put it down, in fact and eventually when I did, I found myself back in the local Simon shop. That great bastion of literature, searching out another offering from Mr McNabe’s repertoire. I began to question what attributes did his writing have, that had sucked me in.
Andy McNabe is ex-SAS, Special Air Service, the créme de la créme of Her Majesty’s war machine, they put the special in Special Forces. From their origins creating mayhem in the deserts of North Africa in 1941. They have been rappelling through history and windows of embassies in London, crawling through the hedgerows of south Armagh or on the cold exposes of some Falkland hill. With their eyes peering out of a black ski mask which adorns their all black garb, these guys walked the walk. Synonymous with action, suspense and danger with ‘Who Dares Wins’ as their swashbuckling motto.
But what captured me was not so much the matter of his stories but the style of his writing. McNabe delivers his story of a happy go lucky ex-solider, as he struggle to get through just another day in the international mercenary market. A straight forward narrative of limited vocabulary, using quite a lot of dialogue delivered in five to six page chapters format involving no intricate literary architecture which makes for easy reading. With each foray, one is obliged to finish out the chapter yet spared any trips to the dictionary. His story made me think “Hey, I could write that!!!”
Perhaps it was by Grand Design or simple co-incidence, but my respite in the realm of fiction has provide me with inspiration. My “Writing in a Digital Age” module can be a conduit for my story. So now I’m out of excuses, I have both the confidence and the vehicle to put meat on the skeletal bones of my story. Where it will lead I don’t know but I feel that I am obliged to compile something out of my jottings and rantings.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)