Saturday night marked the third instance of my book, "Black Rock", being burned. The first was the first draft of the manuscript, which I burned myself (and filmed) in San Francisco in January. The second was at Burning Man this year: I placed a copy of "Black Rock" in the Temple of Transition, which was destroyed with the book (and numerous other artifacts contributed by thousands of people) inside, on the final night of the festival. The third copy was burned by a friend of mine last night at Golden Gardens beach park in Seattle. So three copies of "Black Rock" have been destroyed now, in three different states (California, Nevada, and Washington). The fact that this ritual has been performed in such disparate locations is fascinating to me, and I intend to do what I can to spread the destruction further.
What would it take to get copies of my book burned in all 50 states? I'm considering reaching out to my friends, the burner community, and other interested parties to make this happen. It seems to me that each time "Black Rock" is destroyed, it gains a little more momentum in the world. If I were able to keep track of when and where each copy was destroyed, I could generate interest in the campaign, and the book itself. Some states would be easier than others to cover: I'm pretty sure I could find friends to burn copies in Colorado, New Mexico, Hawaii, and probably New York and Maine, without too much trouble. The rest may be more challenging. But it feels like a rewarding project, and, in the end: why not?
The largest question here would be how to get copies of the book into the hands of people who want to help in the project. Since the book isn't yet published, they can't buy/order it themselves. I've considered using print-on-demand publishing or some such thing, but I don't know much about how that works and have some research to do on that before I can judge whether it'd be a good idea or not. I could just print copies on my home printer and mail it to people, but that would become expensive very quickly. I could send them the file and let them print it themselves, but I'm not completely comfortable with that (for a variety of reasons). So this is a logistical hurdle I'll have to get past, but I think the answer will become clear in time.
The thought is percolating. We'll see what comes of it. Maybe nothing. Much more than that, more likely.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Painted Against the Metalwork
Legs ajar,
she invited me to sidle
up crablike
my claws clenched
she perspired
inspired me to think backwards
akimbo
in the sullen sunless
withheld her alienation
she
couldn’t be cured
by blacklight
& traced forlorn
mandalas in shadows
on the industrial wallscapes
when her fingers
when her hips
she threw herself
arrived into dance
& scattered droplets
sleek
she was
born to be alive
she
reverberated
I
vibrated along
alone
lost in icicle light
part of the sudden
she took me
at the hand
like a lunge
she
understood
in 4/4
I moved my left foot
to the left
and my right foot
to the left
she rotated
her right shoulder
groins
in proximity
when hand arrived
at hip
she spun
masks about me
glittery male smiles
I dodged
without seeming to
fishnet breasts
when they undid the overhead
I conceived something else
entirely
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
New Publication
An excerpt of my short novel Black Rock is out now in Caveat Lector.
Check it out:
http://caveat-lector.org/2202/website/fiction/jcalsyn.html
Check it out:
http://caveat-lector.org/2202/website/fiction/jcalsyn.html
Monday, September 26, 2011
On the Importance of Giving Until It Hurts-So-Good
Today I sent an excerpt of my book Black Rock to Jack Rabbit Speaks, which could be called the public relations arm of the Burning Man festival. Since completing the manuscript a few months ago, I've been struggling with the question of how to go about publishing it. It isn't an easy text, as far as publishing goes: it's an odd length (140 pages), the formatting is quite specific, and some of the text is in color. The work itself is hybrid and non-linear, which is to say it is difficult to classify and doesn't take the form of a traditional novel. Beyond this, the manuscript asks its reader to burn it after reading it.
This last consideration brings up a few issues. First, any printing must be done in a burnable way, which would seem to preclude most hardback publishing, and also would suggest that the type of paper, ink, and binding should be recycled and safely burnable (non-toxic, acid-free, and so forth). Second, the publisher would have to be willing to print materials which are intended to be destroyed. Third, this emphasis on the book's physicality eliminates an entire publishing market, namely e-books (Kindle and the like). Finally, the very concept of book burning is associated with censorship, fascism, and various other forms of religious and governmental intolerance. Though this last concern is misplaced in this case (as elaborated in my essay, "In Defense of Book Burning: Literature as Temporary Art"), it could still cause consternation at first glance.
My publishing efforts thus far have been targeted in traditional ways. I've sent letters and samples to various agents and literary presses which strike me as potentially open to a text like this. I've spoken to my various (fairly limited) contacts in the literary world in search of leads. These avenues have thus far turned up dry, and though I've only been at it a short time, it's hard not to feel discouraged. I've received glowing feedback on Black Rock from people whose opinions I respect, but this only goes so far when my goal is publication -- publishers aren't likely to be interested if I tell them, "My friends like it!" So... what to do? Do I keep plugging away in the standard manner, and hope that I come across the right person, someone at a press or literary agency who is receptive to my work, even if it takes many months or even years to make that connection? Or is there another way?
My answer may have come on Saturday night. Many of the answers to major questions in my life come late on Saturday nights, though those answers often turn out to be worthless by Sunday. This feels different though. On Saturday I attended an equinox party hosted by Burners Without Borders Seattle, a marvelous organization which raises money to help impoverished people throughout the world, notably those left destitute and homeless by the recent earthquake in Haiti. I volunteered for the event, and spent much of the day helping set up the space, which was in an old metalworking shop in northern Seattle. I met many wonderful people through this experience, and had a great sense of satisfaction in contributing to something positive. We finished the setup by late afternoon, and I went home to nap, eat, and shower, before returning for the actual party that night.
The event itself was magical: great music, hundreds of people in funky costumes, and that unique kind of positive creative vibe that can only be found at burner events. I had a great time, and would have been completely satisfied with the night if that's all there was to it. But, in the wee hours of the morning, I got wrapped up in a long conversation with a fascinating and beautiful woman, and eventually the conversation turned to Black Rock and my attempts to publish it. I also told her that I'd attended Burning Man this year and talked to many individual people about my project. She listened to my situation for a while with a confused look on her face and eventually said, "Why haven't you sent it to Jack Rabbit Speaks?" I was stunned. I had always thought of JRS as a newsletter, a source to turn to for information as Burning Man approaches each year, not as a place to turn to for publishing help. I explained this, and she shook her head.
"This is exactly the kind of thing they do," she said. She explained that JRS is always helping people with their BM-related projects, whether artistic or otherwise. Which made perfect sense, once I thought about it for half a second. The thought simply hadn't occurred to me, and I don't know why. She implored me to write them right away, to present the project to them and ask them to point me in the right direction. "Do it tomorrow," she said. "They're about to shut down for a while, maybe this week." This also makes sense -- Burning Man was almost a month ago now (that long ago? Only that long?), and there's bound to be some downtime before preparations begin for next year's event. She went on to tell me exactly what to send them, how to format it, and more. I was blown away, and deeply thankful to her. I did as she instructed, and this morning sent JRS an email presenting my situation. I feel confident that they'll respond in a helpful way.
I can't help but think that this connection happened because it was meant to. I mean that in the sense that I truly believe that Black Rock is meant to find a publishing home, but also, in a way, because of my contribution to the Burners Without Borders event. I've always done my best to contribute in my own way to the Burning Man community, though I must admit that over the years that contribution has been less than it could have been. Helping BWB, and by extension their charity work, was the kind of giving-back that I need to do more of. Burning Man has always thrived on the concept of giving: of time, energy, creativity, money, food, whatever it may be. We do this without the expectation of getting anything in return, and yet the more we give, the more we seem to receive. I don't think it's a 1-to-1 thing. And yet, I truly feel that this new avenue for my manuscript opened because I was willing to give of myself. Which is a powerful thing with all kinds of implications for myself and the world, how we approach our daily lives, how we interact with one another. And, in the end, Black Rock, as an artistic project, is meant as a gift to the world. I can only hope that this is a gift which is someday received in the spirit intended. Love and light, community and beauty, hope and magic, art and creation. Namaste has deeper meaning every day.
This last consideration brings up a few issues. First, any printing must be done in a burnable way, which would seem to preclude most hardback publishing, and also would suggest that the type of paper, ink, and binding should be recycled and safely burnable (non-toxic, acid-free, and so forth). Second, the publisher would have to be willing to print materials which are intended to be destroyed. Third, this emphasis on the book's physicality eliminates an entire publishing market, namely e-books (Kindle and the like). Finally, the very concept of book burning is associated with censorship, fascism, and various other forms of religious and governmental intolerance. Though this last concern is misplaced in this case (as elaborated in my essay, "In Defense of Book Burning: Literature as Temporary Art"), it could still cause consternation at first glance.
My publishing efforts thus far have been targeted in traditional ways. I've sent letters and samples to various agents and literary presses which strike me as potentially open to a text like this. I've spoken to my various (fairly limited) contacts in the literary world in search of leads. These avenues have thus far turned up dry, and though I've only been at it a short time, it's hard not to feel discouraged. I've received glowing feedback on Black Rock from people whose opinions I respect, but this only goes so far when my goal is publication -- publishers aren't likely to be interested if I tell them, "My friends like it!" So... what to do? Do I keep plugging away in the standard manner, and hope that I come across the right person, someone at a press or literary agency who is receptive to my work, even if it takes many months or even years to make that connection? Or is there another way?
My answer may have come on Saturday night. Many of the answers to major questions in my life come late on Saturday nights, though those answers often turn out to be worthless by Sunday. This feels different though. On Saturday I attended an equinox party hosted by Burners Without Borders Seattle, a marvelous organization which raises money to help impoverished people throughout the world, notably those left destitute and homeless by the recent earthquake in Haiti. I volunteered for the event, and spent much of the day helping set up the space, which was in an old metalworking shop in northern Seattle. I met many wonderful people through this experience, and had a great sense of satisfaction in contributing to something positive. We finished the setup by late afternoon, and I went home to nap, eat, and shower, before returning for the actual party that night.
The event itself was magical: great music, hundreds of people in funky costumes, and that unique kind of positive creative vibe that can only be found at burner events. I had a great time, and would have been completely satisfied with the night if that's all there was to it. But, in the wee hours of the morning, I got wrapped up in a long conversation with a fascinating and beautiful woman, and eventually the conversation turned to Black Rock and my attempts to publish it. I also told her that I'd attended Burning Man this year and talked to many individual people about my project. She listened to my situation for a while with a confused look on her face and eventually said, "Why haven't you sent it to Jack Rabbit Speaks?" I was stunned. I had always thought of JRS as a newsletter, a source to turn to for information as Burning Man approaches each year, not as a place to turn to for publishing help. I explained this, and she shook her head.
"This is exactly the kind of thing they do," she said. She explained that JRS is always helping people with their BM-related projects, whether artistic or otherwise. Which made perfect sense, once I thought about it for half a second. The thought simply hadn't occurred to me, and I don't know why. She implored me to write them right away, to present the project to them and ask them to point me in the right direction. "Do it tomorrow," she said. "They're about to shut down for a while, maybe this week." This also makes sense -- Burning Man was almost a month ago now (that long ago? Only that long?), and there's bound to be some downtime before preparations begin for next year's event. She went on to tell me exactly what to send them, how to format it, and more. I was blown away, and deeply thankful to her. I did as she instructed, and this morning sent JRS an email presenting my situation. I feel confident that they'll respond in a helpful way.
I can't help but think that this connection happened because it was meant to. I mean that in the sense that I truly believe that Black Rock is meant to find a publishing home, but also, in a way, because of my contribution to the Burners Without Borders event. I've always done my best to contribute in my own way to the Burning Man community, though I must admit that over the years that contribution has been less than it could have been. Helping BWB, and by extension their charity work, was the kind of giving-back that I need to do more of. Burning Man has always thrived on the concept of giving: of time, energy, creativity, money, food, whatever it may be. We do this without the expectation of getting anything in return, and yet the more we give, the more we seem to receive. I don't think it's a 1-to-1 thing. And yet, I truly feel that this new avenue for my manuscript opened because I was willing to give of myself. Which is a powerful thing with all kinds of implications for myself and the world, how we approach our daily lives, how we interact with one another. And, in the end, Black Rock, as an artistic project, is meant as a gift to the world. I can only hope that this is a gift which is someday received in the spirit intended. Love and light, community and beauty, hope and magic, art and creation. Namaste has deeper meaning every day.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
A Newer, Faster Ocean (The Problem is Godzilla)
I've been corralled by a friend of mine to write a myth story relating to the ocean, for use by her band, which is working on an album drenched in ocean themes. Something involving creatures of the deep: giant squid, Kraken, octopus, or some such. I'm certainly flattered by the idea that someone would turn to me for myth, and the project is exciting to me. And yet I'm stumped and flustered. I have so many ideas about it that I don't know how to choose, how to narrow things down to just one story.
I've settled on the idea that it should be something contemporary: a story of a sea monster which feeds on the plastic and other waste we dump into the sea every day, or something along those lines. There are so many possibilities for mutation in this day and age that it's hard to pinpoint exactly which thread to follow. The problem is Godzilla. Particularly given the recent/ongoing Japanese nuclear reactor disaster, which is resulting in massive quantities of radioactive material pouring into the ocean, it's hard to imagine a fate for the seas which doesn't involve mutated monsters rising from the waters to crush a modern metropolis in revenge for the damage we've done. Perhaps this is the most likely scenario. Godzilla therefore becomes less myth and more speculative fiction. He/it is too obvious, too predictable in response to the current ecological scenario, and therefore loses power as a basis for myth.
Perhaps, rather than a mutation myth, the story should involve an endangered animal and its struggle for survival then. A last-of-its-kind adventure, a navigation of the perils of the 21st-century ocean: the pollutions, ecosystem devastations, and pollutions we conveniently can't penetrate the water's edge to see. A kind of overcoming, uplifting but sad. The last of its kind, alone, destined to fade into memory or be forgotten completely. But therefore poignant, taking in the small details with an urgency that's lacking from our day-to-day lives, which we assume will carry over into another day, another year, another generation. When the existence of an entire species is on the line, the stakes of each and every moment are magnified.
So perhaps this is the answer. The specifics will come out in the end. A rethinking of the ocean itself is central though, I think. As our society accelerates and digitizes, becomes more and more borne on the light arrays and digitized wireless signals that carry the tiniest particulars of our worlds everywhere, the ocean, itself a medium for information, travel, life, keeps pace. What does it mean to have a faster ocean? That is the next question to ponder, one that I think will help me to see my myth more clearly. I think my creature will have to adapt to this accelerated environment in order to survive, and thus will become something fundamentally different, something unique and greater than it was.
I've settled on the idea that it should be something contemporary: a story of a sea monster which feeds on the plastic and other waste we dump into the sea every day, or something along those lines. There are so many possibilities for mutation in this day and age that it's hard to pinpoint exactly which thread to follow. The problem is Godzilla. Particularly given the recent/ongoing Japanese nuclear reactor disaster, which is resulting in massive quantities of radioactive material pouring into the ocean, it's hard to imagine a fate for the seas which doesn't involve mutated monsters rising from the waters to crush a modern metropolis in revenge for the damage we've done. Perhaps this is the most likely scenario. Godzilla therefore becomes less myth and more speculative fiction. He/it is too obvious, too predictable in response to the current ecological scenario, and therefore loses power as a basis for myth.
Perhaps, rather than a mutation myth, the story should involve an endangered animal and its struggle for survival then. A last-of-its-kind adventure, a navigation of the perils of the 21st-century ocean: the pollutions, ecosystem devastations, and pollutions we conveniently can't penetrate the water's edge to see. A kind of overcoming, uplifting but sad. The last of its kind, alone, destined to fade into memory or be forgotten completely. But therefore poignant, taking in the small details with an urgency that's lacking from our day-to-day lives, which we assume will carry over into another day, another year, another generation. When the existence of an entire species is on the line, the stakes of each and every moment are magnified.
So perhaps this is the answer. The specifics will come out in the end. A rethinking of the ocean itself is central though, I think. As our society accelerates and digitizes, becomes more and more borne on the light arrays and digitized wireless signals that carry the tiniest particulars of our worlds everywhere, the ocean, itself a medium for information, travel, life, keeps pace. What does it mean to have a faster ocean? That is the next question to ponder, one that I think will help me to see my myth more clearly. I think my creature will have to adapt to this accelerated environment in order to survive, and thus will become something fundamentally different, something unique and greater than it was.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Navigating Eternity From the Suburbs
My current time/space coordinate is 2011 Lynnwood, WA, USA, just before the Autumn Equinox, on approach to the Libra New Moon. Planet Earth, in the solar system sometimes identified as Sol. My brother has a telescope with which he watched the full moon a few days back from the second story back deck of my family's home. The house is a standard-issue late-1970's suburban house, white, with a cracked cement driveway leading to a two-car garage, half of which has been taken over by storage. There's a rotting basketball hoop overhanging the driveway. The house, which my parents have lived in since I was an infant, is wooden, with aluminum siding, and is situated near the end of a cul-de-sac in a quiet suburban neighborhood.
The neighborhood is comprised of several housing developments: the one my family lives in is the oldest, 30-odd years old now, while up the hill is a slightly newer development consisting of perhaps twenty or thirty single-family two-story homes, all of them of essentially the same design, though not identical. The rest of the immediate area used to be undeveloped forest, except for a creepy old abandoned church with a large clearing in front of it at the top of the hill, which everyone avoided and naturally assumed was haunted. That church was torn down long ago now, along with most of the surrounding trees. In their place are more developments: completely identical houses which, though probably about the same in terms of square footage, are more compact than the older houses, taller but more cramped, with very little in the way of yard space. Behind my parents' house is a ten-foot green belt along which squirrels, birds, and the occasional raccoon still roam, but beyond that is more new housing, each house more identical to the others than the others.
This destruction and homogenization of the surrounding lands continues as one leaves the immediate neighborhood: what were once expansive lands of pine and fir trees are now strip malls, car dealerships, Costcos and Starbucks and Targets. The same as everywhere. This tale of bland suburban expansion is hardly unique -- it's happening everywhere, at least in the United States, 2011 Earth, third planet of the Sol system. What is fascinating about all this isn't the sameness of it all, but rather the capacity for uniqueness in this, the least interesting of all possible scenarios. This expanding suburban nightmare is eternal and necessary to the completeness of the universe, yet fragile and fleeting, as all moments in space and time are, and in this realization we can find beauty, hope, and deep and profound meaning.
Thinking about the endless expansionism and destruction of ecological richness which typifies the present-day world often fills me with a deep and paralyzing depression. How can we, as a society, as a species, hope to survive, if we relentlessly pollute and destroy our environment, at a pace rivaled only by the meteor strike which we assume was the cause of the last great "extinction event" on this planet, some 60 million years ago? When we willingly and intentionally choose this extinction? When the mechanisms we've established to support our day-to-day lives are tantamount to the rape and murder of the planet which supports our lives?
Well, perhaps we can't. That's the answer I keep coming back to, and from my current subjective perceptional viewpoint, the vast American Suburbs, which are rapidly losing their plurality and becoming The Suburb, an enormous strip-mall without border or end, it's hard to argue otherwise. And yet, would the utter collapse of our society be such a terrible thing? In the short term, of course it would, of course, of course, of course. Panic, pandemonium, famine, death, misery. How many people are on the planet now? Six billion? Seven? Eight? I can't keep track. The count increases every time I look away. In a true civilization-collapse scenario, how many of those would die? Half? Three quarters? More? Billions, in any case. Unfathomable despair. We're running out of drinkable water. As we cut down more and more trees, which are the lungs of the planet, we run the risk of running out of breathable air. And yet.
In untended parts of the suburbs, the pavement cracks. My parents' driveway hasn't been maintained or repaired in a very long time. Weeds sprout between the cracks. Green things. As more species become extinct by the day, pigeons thrive in the inner cities. Cockroaches, rats, mosquitoes, fruit flies: these creatures we see as disgusting, even hazardous, teem and multiply. And the smog over the cities refracts the light of sunsets in the most brilliant way. If one believes, as I do, that each instant is an eternity, complete and whole in itself, these broken instants of our failing civilization are cause for celebration. Touch your lips against the rusting metal of an abandoned train track. It is forever, as are we, even as we fade into memory. Whose memory, I don't know. But catalogued in the annals of existence, fragments of a universe which, if it is everything, must be comprised of all possible eventualities, even pre-apocalypse Lynnwood, Washington, USA. It's ok. We're all here together, in that eternity. Hold onto your loved ones, but not too tight. We're all fading away, and never will.
The neighborhood is comprised of several housing developments: the one my family lives in is the oldest, 30-odd years old now, while up the hill is a slightly newer development consisting of perhaps twenty or thirty single-family two-story homes, all of them of essentially the same design, though not identical. The rest of the immediate area used to be undeveloped forest, except for a creepy old abandoned church with a large clearing in front of it at the top of the hill, which everyone avoided and naturally assumed was haunted. That church was torn down long ago now, along with most of the surrounding trees. In their place are more developments: completely identical houses which, though probably about the same in terms of square footage, are more compact than the older houses, taller but more cramped, with very little in the way of yard space. Behind my parents' house is a ten-foot green belt along which squirrels, birds, and the occasional raccoon still roam, but beyond that is more new housing, each house more identical to the others than the others.
This destruction and homogenization of the surrounding lands continues as one leaves the immediate neighborhood: what were once expansive lands of pine and fir trees are now strip malls, car dealerships, Costcos and Starbucks and Targets. The same as everywhere. This tale of bland suburban expansion is hardly unique -- it's happening everywhere, at least in the United States, 2011 Earth, third planet of the Sol system. What is fascinating about all this isn't the sameness of it all, but rather the capacity for uniqueness in this, the least interesting of all possible scenarios. This expanding suburban nightmare is eternal and necessary to the completeness of the universe, yet fragile and fleeting, as all moments in space and time are, and in this realization we can find beauty, hope, and deep and profound meaning.
Thinking about the endless expansionism and destruction of ecological richness which typifies the present-day world often fills me with a deep and paralyzing depression. How can we, as a society, as a species, hope to survive, if we relentlessly pollute and destroy our environment, at a pace rivaled only by the meteor strike which we assume was the cause of the last great "extinction event" on this planet, some 60 million years ago? When we willingly and intentionally choose this extinction? When the mechanisms we've established to support our day-to-day lives are tantamount to the rape and murder of the planet which supports our lives?
Well, perhaps we can't. That's the answer I keep coming back to, and from my current subjective perceptional viewpoint, the vast American Suburbs, which are rapidly losing their plurality and becoming The Suburb, an enormous strip-mall without border or end, it's hard to argue otherwise. And yet, would the utter collapse of our society be such a terrible thing? In the short term, of course it would, of course, of course, of course. Panic, pandemonium, famine, death, misery. How many people are on the planet now? Six billion? Seven? Eight? I can't keep track. The count increases every time I look away. In a true civilization-collapse scenario, how many of those would die? Half? Three quarters? More? Billions, in any case. Unfathomable despair. We're running out of drinkable water. As we cut down more and more trees, which are the lungs of the planet, we run the risk of running out of breathable air. And yet.
In untended parts of the suburbs, the pavement cracks. My parents' driveway hasn't been maintained or repaired in a very long time. Weeds sprout between the cracks. Green things. As more species become extinct by the day, pigeons thrive in the inner cities. Cockroaches, rats, mosquitoes, fruit flies: these creatures we see as disgusting, even hazardous, teem and multiply. And the smog over the cities refracts the light of sunsets in the most brilliant way. If one believes, as I do, that each instant is an eternity, complete and whole in itself, these broken instants of our failing civilization are cause for celebration. Touch your lips against the rusting metal of an abandoned train track. It is forever, as are we, even as we fade into memory. Whose memory, I don't know. But catalogued in the annals of existence, fragments of a universe which, if it is everything, must be comprised of all possible eventualities, even pre-apocalypse Lynnwood, Washington, USA. It's ok. We're all here together, in that eternity. Hold onto your loved ones, but not too tight. We're all fading away, and never will.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
On the Nonexistence of Unpopular Blogs
A blog page, perhaps containing bits of poetry and fiction, exists in the bowels of the internet, yet no one sees or reads it. The page is updated regularly but is only ever seen by the writer. Does it exist?
This is a little bit more complicated than "if a tree falls in the forest..." A book, a journal, a scrap of paper: these are physical things. They have a distinct form and time/space coordinate. They can be touched, held, eaten if one so desires. If no one reads these pages, they may not be part of any particular subjective experience, but they still exist as phenomena which can be perceived, can be apprehended by a human sensory mechanism.
A blog or web-based literature, however, does not have a comprehensible form until someone chooses to look at it. That is, it may exist as coding in a computer network, but it will not manifest as a text until someone specifically looks it up on the internet. Until that point, it is merely a potential text, a literary electron which exists as potential and probability, and does not have a fixed location in time and space. Once the text is located by a web browser, it will cohere on a screen as a grid of visible energy, without distinguishing auditory, olfactory, or textural characteristics. It can be said that all objects in our perception are fundamentally nothing more than energy grids (for example, a human body is made up of over 99% empty space -- we perceive each other as solid objects based on the energy fields created by the particles we are composed of), but digital information is unique in that it is a projection of data which maintains its physical characteristics even as its contents change. For instance, when text is viewed on a computer screen, the screen itself does not change. The weight and texture of a Kindle will not change depending on what text it is displaying -- a five-page essay will have the same heft and feel as Infinite Jest or a 100-year-old edition of Les Miserables. The only difference in the device will be the slightly different quality of light traveling to the reader's eyes from the screen. Further, if the device is turned off or the text is deleted, the device will not be changed in a noticeable/sensually-perceptible way. It will weigh the same; it will smell the same. The device itself can be altered, damaged, destroyed; however, this modification is distinct and separate from the life of the text(s) it displays.
It doesn't make much difference whether the texts in question are stored on the device itself or online. Since it doesn't manifest as a phenomenon which can be recognized by human senses until it is called upon. Thus, the question: does a blog which isn't read by anyone exist? Perhaps as a potential, but not specifically, and not now, in this distinct time and space, which is a foreign corner of the universe to most of us, in which graspable, killable, fuckable objects are rapidly giving way to potential holograms, maybe-worlds, ones and zeroes which are flickers of electric light within microchips, patterns which may never be accessed but lay imbedded, microscopically, as bits of code in silicon. Not only some wayward soul's web journal, but The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Leaves of Grass, The Odyssey, shrunken from their original grandeur until they can fit a million times over in the space of a human thumbnail. The world in a grain of sand.
This is a little bit more complicated than "if a tree falls in the forest..." A book, a journal, a scrap of paper: these are physical things. They have a distinct form and time/space coordinate. They can be touched, held, eaten if one so desires. If no one reads these pages, they may not be part of any particular subjective experience, but they still exist as phenomena which can be perceived, can be apprehended by a human sensory mechanism.
A blog or web-based literature, however, does not have a comprehensible form until someone chooses to look at it. That is, it may exist as coding in a computer network, but it will not manifest as a text until someone specifically looks it up on the internet. Until that point, it is merely a potential text, a literary electron which exists as potential and probability, and does not have a fixed location in time and space. Once the text is located by a web browser, it will cohere on a screen as a grid of visible energy, without distinguishing auditory, olfactory, or textural characteristics. It can be said that all objects in our perception are fundamentally nothing more than energy grids (for example, a human body is made up of over 99% empty space -- we perceive each other as solid objects based on the energy fields created by the particles we are composed of), but digital information is unique in that it is a projection of data which maintains its physical characteristics even as its contents change. For instance, when text is viewed on a computer screen, the screen itself does not change. The weight and texture of a Kindle will not change depending on what text it is displaying -- a five-page essay will have the same heft and feel as Infinite Jest or a 100-year-old edition of Les Miserables. The only difference in the device will be the slightly different quality of light traveling to the reader's eyes from the screen. Further, if the device is turned off or the text is deleted, the device will not be changed in a noticeable/sensually-perceptible way. It will weigh the same; it will smell the same. The device itself can be altered, damaged, destroyed; however, this modification is distinct and separate from the life of the text(s) it displays.
It doesn't make much difference whether the texts in question are stored on the device itself or online. Since it doesn't manifest as a phenomenon which can be recognized by human senses until it is called upon. Thus, the question: does a blog which isn't read by anyone exist? Perhaps as a potential, but not specifically, and not now, in this distinct time and space, which is a foreign corner of the universe to most of us, in which graspable, killable, fuckable objects are rapidly giving way to potential holograms, maybe-worlds, ones and zeroes which are flickers of electric light within microchips, patterns which may never be accessed but lay imbedded, microscopically, as bits of code in silicon. Not only some wayward soul's web journal, but The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Leaves of Grass, The Odyssey, shrunken from their original grandeur until they can fit a million times over in the space of a human thumbnail. The world in a grain of sand.
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