A woman with curly blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a wide smile appeared on the screen. This was the face of Shirley Winters, the host, and she appeared to be introducing her guest. Addie turned the volume back on.
"...in the large-scale landfills used for the disposal of television sets and other electronic devices which have been replaced in recent years by the availability of new media technologies. The chemicals used in the production of television sets, cellular phones, and other 20th Century technology found in these landfills has taken a powerful toll on the villagers' health. Despite this, they refuse to seek medical attention, stating that they want to show the world the real face of the modern human being.
"Thank you for joining us, Mr. Zeitgeist," she said, as the camera panned out to include Gabriel Zeitgeist on-screen, who looked disheveled and incredibly unhealthy. "Your group, the Televillagers, have been gaining a lot of media attention in the past few months and appears to be very well organized despite the... primitive lifestyle you're apparently practicing. I understand that in your village, despite being surrounded by non-functioning television sets, you don't actually have any working media outlets."
"Yes," he responded with some difficult coughing, "well, part of the concept of the group is that we are living in the technology, but not through them."
Winters did not respond immediately, but sat staring, for a moment, still awed by her guest's appearance despite having seen pictures of him on her windows at home and having met him before the show.
Zeitgeist's face was covered with lesions and chemical burns. His skin was leathery and wrinkled from the hazardous materials that made up his home and the stress put on his body from the damage they did to his health. He sat on the opposite side of a small black coffee table and his body constantly trembled, slightly, as if he was always cold.
The look on his face was like that of an impoverished elderly man, tortured with what looked like confusion even though he was clearly fully aware of where he was and what he was doing.
Catching herself quickly, she asked, "So, how is it that you're able to be so well organized without the aid of current technology?"
Struggling to speak clearly without coughing, Zeitgeist explained, "We, uh, we do maintain a small office in San Francisco. The Televillagers operate NetWorld, which is a media research organization."
"Y-you've said in previous interviews and speaking events that your political attitudes seem to put yourself at odds with even many of those media-focused groups and organizations on the left of the political spectrum, but you refuse to compromise your life's work in order to be more easily ameliorated into dysfunctional movements which either refuse or fail to recognize the source of their conflicts. Could you say more about that?"
Winters, more and more feeling she was out of her depth, was beginning to have visible difficulty maintaining her composure.
"There have been many social activist groups trying to work against the short-sighted trends of the mainstream in its relationship to the media, coming from many different perspectives. Some, similar my group, are opposed to the intrusion and proliferation of media outlets throughout public and private spaces; that is, the sort of interweaving of our lives with media technology. Others, the most famous of which right now are the nodes, look at these technologies as liberating if they're used correctly.
"What distinguishes the Televillagers from even those groups who are critical of media technology as a whole is our insistence that we need to actually step outside the media to critique it. All we see, that is, we, the Televillagers and our supporters see, are groups that are working to critique these trends from within the trends themselves. In other words, they use media to criticize the media. We don't believe this can work. However, we do need to keep attention on the media and associated technologies, without being consumed by them. This is why we say we live in the media, and not through them."
Shirley Winters shifted awkwardly in her seat and glanced at the index card in her hand with her notes to find the next subject. "I see... um..."
Winters shifted awkwardly in her seat, glancing first at the card in her hand, then sitting back in her chair, looking at the floor with her right hand covering her face. She appeared to have reached her limit. "I... I'm sorry..." she apologized as she got up from her chair suddenly and walked quickly off-camera. Gabriel Zeitgeist sat with his sad, confused face, unsure of what to do now. The image on the window switched to commercials.
Addie laughed out loud, "That was great! He's too much, really. Just fantastic. I should tell Ed and Fran to get in touch with him. That'd be great."
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Monday, May 19, 2008
"Gustav"
"I think I'm going to get a stick to put my head on."
Gustav was fond of collecting skulls. There were many around his house. But none were on sticks.
"Yes, I will indeed have to find a stick on which to place my head."
He walked down the road to town. A car came up and he had to move over onto the grass beside him to make way. It made a racket over the cattle catcher grating. Gustav hated them. Cattle don't walk around here so much any more, he thought, do we really need them? Yes, they did, but he did not understand that. He was foolish.
Gustav lived in a very small country town, and would purchase his skulls in the city. He was afraid to tell anyone in town about his hobby. He had friends who had been chased away from their homes and one who had been killed for having an interest in pagan religions. The skulls, he figured, would go over badly with his neighbors.
The town was essentially a loose conglomeration of houses with one main street where the few shops and restaurants were placed. It was probably more accurately labeled a "village," but the locals were resentful of such a name. They believed it made them sound small, not just the town, but the people themselves. And so everyone called it a town, and corrected any visitors passing through.
He entered the town from the side road off of which his house was located. He walked down the rows of buildings, looking in shop windows on either side, wondering where he might be able to purchase a suitable stick. He saw no prospects, and so kept walking down the road, until he reached the home of a friend.
Friedrich was prone to somewhat erratic behavior. He might go off wandering somewhere all of a sudden, his only explanation being that he had things to do (or that something must be done, in some cases it was not clear whether it was he that had to do anything or if it was just that someone had to, and no one realized this but him). He had grown a large beard that was just beginning to turn gray from his usual dark brown, and expanded outwards in all directions from his face. His behavior had created friction with the other residents of the town, and this friction left him with an open mind. He and Gustav had become good friends.
"Gustav!" Friedrich held on to the vowels of his friend's name, hoping this would serve as evidence of his excitement. "Friedrich, I have a problem. I need a stick."
"For your heads?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"Of course! Allie and I have been saying you need at least one stick in that room for months now! You're running out of room, you know," he said, shaking his index finger up in the air, close to his own face, like a grandfather trying to teach a lesson. He brought Gustav in.
Friedrich lived in a very large house. He had a second floor and a basement. The air was thick, on almost every visit Gustav made, with a variety of smells. He could tell that some of it was tobacco smoke, and some must be from scented candles and he could usually see at least one stick of incense, but there were still usually two or three indiscernible smells.
Downstairs there was laughter, loud music, and clinking glasses. Friedrich was often host to revelry, Gustav understood. He was an author, and apparently fairly popular in some of the more cultured circles of foreign countries. He traveled often, to London, Paris, New York... He would send Gustav postcards or letters with pictures of himself with some famous artist or musician or filmmaker of whom Gustav had no knowledge (unless Friedrich had made an effort to introduce Gustav to their work at some point). Earlier in his career his life had been quieter. This was when the wandering was more common, and his friction with the locals had begun. Lately he had kept largely to himself for the most part, speaking almost only to Gustav.
His friends would come in from the larger neighboring town. Theirs was almost a legitimate city. They had many roads and buildings. Gustav found employment there in an office building. He sometimes wished he lived there, but often cursed the noise and strangeness of the town and its people. And this was nothing compared to the actual, legitimate city which was some distance past that place. On occasion, friends would visit Friedrich from the city, but their visits always involved complaints about the lack of public transportation and suggestions that he move. Gustav did not like the city people, and would only visit the city if he had no choice.
"Well," Friedrich began, "you won't be finding a suitable stick in this small village--"
"Town," Gustav corrected.
"...yes. No, we will have to be making a trip into town."
"Into the town just a while down the road, you mean? I wouldn't like to have to go all the way to the city..."
"I know, I know you don't like the city. Don't worry. I have friends here from town. We can go down and collect someone to accompany us."
Gustav was fond of collecting skulls. There were many around his house. But none were on sticks.
"Yes, I will indeed have to find a stick on which to place my head."
He walked down the road to town. A car came up and he had to move over onto the grass beside him to make way. It made a racket over the cattle catcher grating. Gustav hated them. Cattle don't walk around here so much any more, he thought, do we really need them? Yes, they did, but he did not understand that. He was foolish.
Gustav lived in a very small country town, and would purchase his skulls in the city. He was afraid to tell anyone in town about his hobby. He had friends who had been chased away from their homes and one who had been killed for having an interest in pagan religions. The skulls, he figured, would go over badly with his neighbors.
The town was essentially a loose conglomeration of houses with one main street where the few shops and restaurants were placed. It was probably more accurately labeled a "village," but the locals were resentful of such a name. They believed it made them sound small, not just the town, but the people themselves. And so everyone called it a town, and corrected any visitors passing through.
He entered the town from the side road off of which his house was located. He walked down the rows of buildings, looking in shop windows on either side, wondering where he might be able to purchase a suitable stick. He saw no prospects, and so kept walking down the road, until he reached the home of a friend.
Friedrich was prone to somewhat erratic behavior. He might go off wandering somewhere all of a sudden, his only explanation being that he had things to do (or that something must be done, in some cases it was not clear whether it was he that had to do anything or if it was just that someone had to, and no one realized this but him). He had grown a large beard that was just beginning to turn gray from his usual dark brown, and expanded outwards in all directions from his face. His behavior had created friction with the other residents of the town, and this friction left him with an open mind. He and Gustav had become good friends.
"Gustav!" Friedrich held on to the vowels of his friend's name, hoping this would serve as evidence of his excitement. "Friedrich, I have a problem. I need a stick."
"For your heads?"
"Yes! How did you know?"
"Of course! Allie and I have been saying you need at least one stick in that room for months now! You're running out of room, you know," he said, shaking his index finger up in the air, close to his own face, like a grandfather trying to teach a lesson. He brought Gustav in.
Friedrich lived in a very large house. He had a second floor and a basement. The air was thick, on almost every visit Gustav made, with a variety of smells. He could tell that some of it was tobacco smoke, and some must be from scented candles and he could usually see at least one stick of incense, but there were still usually two or three indiscernible smells.
Downstairs there was laughter, loud music, and clinking glasses. Friedrich was often host to revelry, Gustav understood. He was an author, and apparently fairly popular in some of the more cultured circles of foreign countries. He traveled often, to London, Paris, New York... He would send Gustav postcards or letters with pictures of himself with some famous artist or musician or filmmaker of whom Gustav had no knowledge (unless Friedrich had made an effort to introduce Gustav to their work at some point). Earlier in his career his life had been quieter. This was when the wandering was more common, and his friction with the locals had begun. Lately he had kept largely to himself for the most part, speaking almost only to Gustav.
His friends would come in from the larger neighboring town. Theirs was almost a legitimate city. They had many roads and buildings. Gustav found employment there in an office building. He sometimes wished he lived there, but often cursed the noise and strangeness of the town and its people. And this was nothing compared to the actual, legitimate city which was some distance past that place. On occasion, friends would visit Friedrich from the city, but their visits always involved complaints about the lack of public transportation and suggestions that he move. Gustav did not like the city people, and would only visit the city if he had no choice.
"Well," Friedrich began, "you won't be finding a suitable stick in this small village--"
"Town," Gustav corrected.
"...yes. No, we will have to be making a trip into town."
"Into the town just a while down the road, you mean? I wouldn't like to have to go all the way to the city..."
"I know, I know you don't like the city. Don't worry. I have friends here from town. We can go down and collect someone to accompany us."
Tuesday, July 5, 2005
Friedrich
A passing hand gave the signal and the race was off. Friedrich thought it was incumbent that he continue his family's tradition. Purchasing a ticket he prepared himself for the trainride to the coast where he would meditate for as long as possible before he passed out from starvation and be found by passers by. He would not bring any clothes or even the most basic of toiletries. He will go without a bar of soap to wash his hands. Hopefully the excursion would result in sinfullness no longer overpowering his mind, and his lifestyle would change not dramatically, but slightly for the better.
He paced in the gentle suburban imagery he found near the train station. He passed children in hoola hoops and skipping rope singing songs and engaging in mirth. He saw small animals and envied them. Friedrich hated his name. But he would not change it. He identified himself with the name Friedrich and felt any other name would not suit him. Friedrich hated his job but he would not resign his position. It was his place in life and in existence and to move from one place of employment to another would involve effort and thought and taking things into consideration which he preferred to leave untouched to gather dust. Friedrich hated the town in which he lived, but to go somewhere else, it would be too similar. The town, he knew was not to blame, nor was his schooling, his parents, his name, or his place of employment. But, luckily for Friedrich, he was was a fatalist and this allowed him to divert blame from himself and place it squarely on the shoulders of the fates whome he hated with a passion, and hoped they would one day get theirs.
Friedrich did poorly at his job at the Center for Suicide Rehabilitation.
When the time came he went to the station to board. On the train he shared a booth with three other people. Across from him was Hilda. She had dark hair of moderate length (its exact length was indiscernable however one could it tell that it could not possible extend beyond her shoulders) which she kept up around her ears like a housemaid would, disorganized and with follicles popping out of order here and there. Hilda was a contortionist and sat with her legs bent up and her feet behind her head, with her arms coming through the space between her ribs and her legs, claiming to find it more comfortable. She was eating small pretzels out of a bag, but no one brought up the strangeness of the sight. In fact, it never even occured to them. Timothy juggled like annoying monkey. He insisted on it. He was seated beside Friedrich. Next to Hilda and across from Timothy was Samuel. He wore a black bowler hat, grey business suit and had a small, white, well-maintained goatee. He was also wearing small circular glasses. Samuel sat quietly staring ahead (though seemingly not at Timothy, almost through him) with his umbrella tightly rolled up with the point at the end sitting on the floor and his hands firmly gripped atop its handle.
Friedrich was miserable.
He was terribly uncomfortable and dreading the moment conversation would begin. He knew Timothy would do it. He would start talking and when that happened it would not stop. He had to be killed. He took out his pistol and began polishing it trying not to arouse suspicion. Hilda raised her eyes from her bag of pretzels (she was not done with them yet...?) and eyed the gun with a look of either irritation or only vague interest the same exact way one might if he or she were eating pretzels or a similar snack food while sitting waiting for a bus to arrive and a god damn pidgeon were getting too close to one's feet almost beggin for food it did not deserve when both the person and the pidgeon knew there should be a great distance between them to keep the pidgeon from being a nuisance. Samuel did not move at all. Timothy turned his head slightly to his left to inquire what Friedrich had there and possible introduce himself to make new friends but only got so far as "What ya got -- ?" before Friedrich fired the pistol in Timothy's face. Samuel blinked. Hilda paused and then widened her eyes as if to say "oh well wasn't that absolutely necessary" in a sarcastic tone, but was not killed. This time. She also set aside her pretzels as if she had suddenly lost her appetite. It was more likely, however, that she had simply just realized then that she had eaten so many of those god damn pretzels that she hadn't been hungry for the past twenty minutes than that it had anything to do with the gun shot. Samuel took out a handkerchief. Time flew by silently. No train personel asked what had happened to Timothy. He still had the obnoxiously welcoming friendly smile on his face.
Friedrich finally reached his beach and settled down to meditate. He realized he had no idea what he was doing. Without a dictionary nearby to look up the term "meditate" he decided instead that he would take a nap. And that would suffice. His life seemed to change and he was marginally and he was happy, but in reality, it remained exactly the same.
He paced in the gentle suburban imagery he found near the train station. He passed children in hoola hoops and skipping rope singing songs and engaging in mirth. He saw small animals and envied them. Friedrich hated his name. But he would not change it. He identified himself with the name Friedrich and felt any other name would not suit him. Friedrich hated his job but he would not resign his position. It was his place in life and in existence and to move from one place of employment to another would involve effort and thought and taking things into consideration which he preferred to leave untouched to gather dust. Friedrich hated the town in which he lived, but to go somewhere else, it would be too similar. The town, he knew was not to blame, nor was his schooling, his parents, his name, or his place of employment. But, luckily for Friedrich, he was was a fatalist and this allowed him to divert blame from himself and place it squarely on the shoulders of the fates whome he hated with a passion, and hoped they would one day get theirs.
Friedrich did poorly at his job at the Center for Suicide Rehabilitation.
When the time came he went to the station to board. On the train he shared a booth with three other people. Across from him was Hilda. She had dark hair of moderate length (its exact length was indiscernable however one could it tell that it could not possible extend beyond her shoulders) which she kept up around her ears like a housemaid would, disorganized and with follicles popping out of order here and there. Hilda was a contortionist and sat with her legs bent up and her feet behind her head, with her arms coming through the space between her ribs and her legs, claiming to find it more comfortable. She was eating small pretzels out of a bag, but no one brought up the strangeness of the sight. In fact, it never even occured to them. Timothy juggled like annoying monkey. He insisted on it. He was seated beside Friedrich. Next to Hilda and across from Timothy was Samuel. He wore a black bowler hat, grey business suit and had a small, white, well-maintained goatee. He was also wearing small circular glasses. Samuel sat quietly staring ahead (though seemingly not at Timothy, almost through him) with his umbrella tightly rolled up with the point at the end sitting on the floor and his hands firmly gripped atop its handle.
Friedrich was miserable.
He was terribly uncomfortable and dreading the moment conversation would begin. He knew Timothy would do it. He would start talking and when that happened it would not stop. He had to be killed. He took out his pistol and began polishing it trying not to arouse suspicion. Hilda raised her eyes from her bag of pretzels (she was not done with them yet...?) and eyed the gun with a look of either irritation or only vague interest the same exact way one might if he or she were eating pretzels or a similar snack food while sitting waiting for a bus to arrive and a god damn pidgeon were getting too close to one's feet almost beggin for food it did not deserve when both the person and the pidgeon knew there should be a great distance between them to keep the pidgeon from being a nuisance. Samuel did not move at all. Timothy turned his head slightly to his left to inquire what Friedrich had there and possible introduce himself to make new friends but only got so far as "What ya got -- ?" before Friedrich fired the pistol in Timothy's face. Samuel blinked. Hilda paused and then widened her eyes as if to say "oh well wasn't that absolutely necessary" in a sarcastic tone, but was not killed. This time. She also set aside her pretzels as if she had suddenly lost her appetite. It was more likely, however, that she had simply just realized then that she had eaten so many of those god damn pretzels that she hadn't been hungry for the past twenty minutes than that it had anything to do with the gun shot. Samuel took out a handkerchief. Time flew by silently. No train personel asked what had happened to Timothy. He still had the obnoxiously welcoming friendly smile on his face.
Friedrich finally reached his beach and settled down to meditate. He realized he had no idea what he was doing. Without a dictionary nearby to look up the term "meditate" he decided instead that he would take a nap. And that would suffice. His life seemed to change and he was marginally and he was happy, but in reality, it remained exactly the same.
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