Horton-Scorton
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Apr 29, 2008
- Messages
- 110
Peter looking down at a spread out old book sitting on his lap, turning pages and pointing when he comes to the parts he finds most important, calling these parts the shapers of man's statue.
Photographs. He points at old shots of Indian chiefs cracked and colored primitive, the first portraits, the first replicas of certain experiences- you could say, that's faithful to what my eye saw. The man in the picture is my uncle, for instance. Then Peter pointed to the tape recorder, the miniature tape recorder, film, 35mm, 16mm, 8mm, moving pictures and still single-frame ones full of vigor in their fixed momentary stares.
He pointed at microphones. He pointed at espionage mics; wire taps. Morse code. And looking at ways of recording even older; sitting still, he breathed in fully and smiled long at the reality-storm called the written word. The "this happened on this day and so on." It was a smashing way to capture a thing, even still, the ghost of glyphs and lovely cuneiform, and Peter exhaled at the splendor of these things... The digital revolution bore more fruits. These are the things we should worship.
To Peter, it was all about recording. The universe was a great recording and The Great Recorder, and we ourselves record with our senses and subdue or intensify occurrences at our emotions' behest; our neural system is the greatest recorder yet. But computers, computers were also amazing recorders. The poet records. The artist records. The journalist, the scientist, the mathematician, the historian, the anthropologist, the filmmaker, the lover, the father, the mother, the child, the lost, the lonely, the loved, the rich, the poor. Recordings recording recordings. This, to Peter, was it.
Beth had left him. She was the love of his life. It was wrong, she was a botched revolving recording that had to be fixed, reassembled, redone. it was going to be his task to marry together bits of the past from his recording library and reignite his experience of having had her. He was going to then erase the bad parts of the recording; he would edit with a barber's precision. Past present and future could be at the operator's discretion if, Peter thought, recording was given primacy over forgetfulness and disorder.
His most intense memory of Beth; the two of them sat together at an orange booth in a hip nightspot; there they ordered breakfast at midnight and got their omelets and ate them like starved puppies. They giggled and didn't even speak much. It was great. The lighting was a bit bright- but that's not much of a bother. Peter was dressed well in gray and she was a sparkling northern queen in her lush silver gown. A big band was performing. The energy was just so - so vivid and many-angled and pure, that it captured the whole of their relationship wonderfully, at least to Peter's nervous system.
He would have to first replicate this day, this part of a day, before he could revise the whole relationship to fit his precisely recorded liking. He would have to experiment with diaries, meditation, hypnosis, neural scans, computer info, public records, tapes of audio, tapes of video, photographs, paintings he made, replicating the physical conditions of the day, and generally getting into a headspace that he had once been in, thereby hacking the master recording ritually. How he would then rewrite and envision future recordings, he did not know. It was time to experiment, to replicate. Focus on one program at a time.
Photographs. He points at old shots of Indian chiefs cracked and colored primitive, the first portraits, the first replicas of certain experiences- you could say, that's faithful to what my eye saw. The man in the picture is my uncle, for instance. Then Peter pointed to the tape recorder, the miniature tape recorder, film, 35mm, 16mm, 8mm, moving pictures and still single-frame ones full of vigor in their fixed momentary stares.
He pointed at microphones. He pointed at espionage mics; wire taps. Morse code. And looking at ways of recording even older; sitting still, he breathed in fully and smiled long at the reality-storm called the written word. The "this happened on this day and so on." It was a smashing way to capture a thing, even still, the ghost of glyphs and lovely cuneiform, and Peter exhaled at the splendor of these things... The digital revolution bore more fruits. These are the things we should worship.
To Peter, it was all about recording. The universe was a great recording and The Great Recorder, and we ourselves record with our senses and subdue or intensify occurrences at our emotions' behest; our neural system is the greatest recorder yet. But computers, computers were also amazing recorders. The poet records. The artist records. The journalist, the scientist, the mathematician, the historian, the anthropologist, the filmmaker, the lover, the father, the mother, the child, the lost, the lonely, the loved, the rich, the poor. Recordings recording recordings. This, to Peter, was it.
Beth had left him. She was the love of his life. It was wrong, she was a botched revolving recording that had to be fixed, reassembled, redone. it was going to be his task to marry together bits of the past from his recording library and reignite his experience of having had her. He was going to then erase the bad parts of the recording; he would edit with a barber's precision. Past present and future could be at the operator's discretion if, Peter thought, recording was given primacy over forgetfulness and disorder.
His most intense memory of Beth; the two of them sat together at an orange booth in a hip nightspot; there they ordered breakfast at midnight and got their omelets and ate them like starved puppies. They giggled and didn't even speak much. It was great. The lighting was a bit bright- but that's not much of a bother. Peter was dressed well in gray and she was a sparkling northern queen in her lush silver gown. A big band was performing. The energy was just so - so vivid and many-angled and pure, that it captured the whole of their relationship wonderfully, at least to Peter's nervous system.
He would have to first replicate this day, this part of a day, before he could revise the whole relationship to fit his precisely recorded liking. He would have to experiment with diaries, meditation, hypnosis, neural scans, computer info, public records, tapes of audio, tapes of video, photographs, paintings he made, replicating the physical conditions of the day, and generally getting into a headspace that he had once been in, thereby hacking the master recording ritually. How he would then rewrite and envision future recordings, he did not know. It was time to experiment, to replicate. Focus on one program at a time.