Steve GannIn the Land of Hypertext
July 5th 2007 02:22
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--------------------------------Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen to the House of HyperText
First a warning. Perspectives will be misleading. Your sense of time will be given a heightened or repressed level depending on your mood of the day. Finally, the reality that you will be experiencing in no way infers any commonality with others who are taking this journey. In other words, you are on your own.
At first assessment, the house is large and ramshackled. The exterior, although it has been painted at some stage, is in sad need of being looked after. The grass and garden have partly interchanged with the margins becomes a series of knots and mounds possibly inhabited by small animals, although no tracks give us any indication. We close the gate more out of courtesy than any sense of security. My female companion gives me a look as if to say that she wishes she had worn gloves. I give a rather tepid smile of encouragement, wondering if this was a good idea after all.
At the front door we are ushered quickly inside (to keep in the heat.) We pay our entry and the doorman, very sepulchre like in a dinner suit, offers to take our coats. We decline with tact and he indicates we should pass into the inner sanctum. From the very ordinary receiving area we are translated into a completely different world. In front of us on the fourth wall, is a huge diorama. Although the perspective is very forced the impact of the visual is striking. First it is clinically and completely black and white. In the centre of the image a huge Patchwork Girl is half turned towards us. We mainly see her back and face. The face although tucked into her shoulder is plainly visible. Her expression is of beginning to wonder. Here her make up shows the beginnings of Gothic tendency - think about that for a minute. The hair in pigtails trail down her back and over checked gingham apron and velvet toned dress. No scars are visible. Dr Martin boots complete the ensemble. To the right and in the distance we discover a figure who can only be Mary Shelley. She sits hugging her knees watching the Patchwork Girl. Her hair drawn back by a ribbon is neatly arranged in two large French knots. The blouse is neat and the waisted dress falls into a covering around her feet. She watches with an almost frown. It is not from uncertainty but more from discontent that this feeling comes. There are two other figures in the far distance. Again they are separated from each other, both regarding the Patchwork Girl with a certain reserve and uncertainty. One figure is Victor Frankenstein. The Other is L.Frank Baum.
On coming fully into the room one is assaulted by text. On the ceiling in large type is the Title, the authorship and various contributors, explained in full. The year 1913 is written large, bold and in embossed type. Then pages of text, each neatly framed, run the extent of the other three walls. The pages are in rows five deep right round the room. Sometimes the flow of pages is interrupted by a node. This is a point where the reader must make a choice. They can follow a linear direction of the text or they can jump off into a new direction. In the first case, they carry on reading. In the second case, the reader must go to a new node and continue reading. The node pages have the following information: 1 The name of the room they are in. 2 The node coordinates (First Wall, Second Row etc) 3 Links to previous nodes 4 Links to following nodes 5 Pages to follow to when coming from previous nodes. I also note at this time that all pages had a number of lines, usually horizontal indicating the page flow for readers who are following normal expected directions of reading. I debate with myself the possibility of being an outlaw and starting mid-way through. After all I have read all three versions, the originals and the cyber-version. Don't I get time off for good behaviour? My companion however, is made of sterner stuff . She today has chosen the orthodox path. We begin at the beginning.
Five pages in and we reach our first branching point. We have a fierce, whispered debate. No, she does not want us to go our separate ways and meet in the front room in an hour. I hold my tongue while she gives me a talking to. This is a night out together, she says. We spend enough of our time being apart or not talking because one or the other of us has been unreasonable in their behaviour. Finally she gives me a sharp dig in the ribs by way punctuation. The discussion has reached its final period. Full stop. I am allowed to differ in my opinion, but not permitted to express it until we are alone in bed at which time she will find other ways to distract me. I can't win. Accept the inevitable with a sigh, I tell myself. But don't let her hear the sigh or I will get properly served up once more and again, this time as the main course.
The internal sigh consigned to the deep, I follow my leader (lieder?) into the Hallway designated Long Passage #1. Here the lighting is warmer even suburbian. The picture rail is a new wriggle. Hanging from it are pages of text set on three levels. On the opposite wall are three large circles, each of them consisting of an outer circle, an inner circle and a central core of four pages of text. I like the aesthetic of this, if for a moment, I get a little confused as to the starting point and the topology. Does one read in clockwise motion on the outer ring, then change to anti-clockwise on the inner? This a question indeed for the Mock Turtle. I need no have worried myself however. The designers of the ebb and flow of reading had anticipated me. Lines and arrows which joined the pages of text made the intended direction easy to follow -- that and the page numbers of course. I then begin to appreciate what each number stands for. For LP #1 P 23 read Long Passage 1 Page 23. It was at this time that I notice the plan of the building. Copies of this appear inside each doorway showing the different rooms on the various levels - three levels and a basement. The three upper levels have 3, 4 and 3 rooms respectfully plus two long passageways and two short. Then there is the cellar and the stairway leading to it. All these areas have pages. Assuming all areas had between three to five pages deep and that three walls on average are available, that makes for a lot of pages. Hello we were about to be off again. My lover of all things labrynthian had found another point of departure. I quickly catch up with her reading and smile my readiness, aware that at any moment her well turned foot would begin to tap and I would be in trouble again.
I won't go into too much more detail. Just a couple of highlights to tease you with anticipation. Then if you want more, you will have to find the place yourself, won't you? We pass into the left attic. I am wheezing a little. My fitness for such alpine pursuits puts me in doubt as to the wisdom of this exercise. Here we are in the Uber room. In each corner of the room are glass heads with ground matte surfaces. The four heads are the Patchwork Girl, L Frank Baum, Viktor Frankenstein and Mary Shelley. The pages of texts are around the walls as usual, but with a difference. The texts are invisible until the lights go down. Then the texts light up, but not all together. It is like a long pulsation, like unto breathing. I breath in. The lights begin to fade. Viktor and the Patchwork girl share the same coloured pools of light pulsating in communication. The page I want is before me, lit from within - does this make it illuminated text? More pages shuffle us onwards in our journey. I breathe out and the room is submerged in light again.
The final room I enjoyed was one of the shorter passages. In this case the passage is very narrow. Spaced along the walkway are a series of half-sarcophagi, each labelled with a page number. Placing my head and shoulders within a sarcophagus, I place my eyes before the eye holes. As I watch, an huge poster sized page of text opposite me is illuminated, first in blue, then red and finally while light. Red white and blue - is there a hint there perhaps?
As my companion and I come to the final page in our journey, she stands folding my arm as we complete the page together. I watch the expression on her face, realising that here at least, we had shared the completion of something. She knows I am watching her. Her eyes smile an acknowledgment as we complete the final phrase. Where we were was not important, just to know that that for this moment at least we were together and enjoying the moment.
As we wended our way back to the entrance, I watch a young man eating what appears to be a ham and salad roll as he makes his journey. I wondered if eating would add to my enjoyment of the sensorium as I made the trip. My partner looked at me in question but I shook my head. For a moment I had a vision of just the two of us making a long leisurely journey through our textual maze - but with a difference - comepletely nude. Perhaps I could mould the pages to her body and change the topolgy of the page forever. This last thought peeks out as we pass through the last door into the street. I can not contain the laugh that breaks out in a sharp explosive bark. What? she says. I shake my head unable to hide the smile. Tell me! She moves in on the attack, tickling me in ways she knows I cannot survive.
Later. I say. Later.
Promise! She is relenting watching my face.
I promise. She nods. But would I keep that promise? We both knew that in life there are layers. Honesty and truth - what are they after all? - only words with pretentions of glory.
Maybe there is more to be found in the warmth of a woman's smile.
Her face is open to me as she grasps me round the waist and buries her head in my shoulder.
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