In Search of Adele H

Adele wishes to extend a deep curtsey for all who journeyed with...

Fri, 19 Mar 2010 11:35:00 -0400

Adele wishes to extend a deep curtsey for all who journeyed with her in cyberspace, either wholly or in part. In many ways she was already part of her future, our present, much more so than she belonged in her present, our past. She appreciated this chance to reanimate, to reexamine, and to reenact, as painful as it was at almost every step. He’s Just Not That Into You was less a comedy than a tragedy, in her century; in that, at least, we have made considerable progress. But how to journey from gravity to light? Portals are often shimmeringly transparent, and virtually inaccessible. Last time, she paused indefinitely on the threshold. But this time, she has taken the first few tentative steps into new territory. True, it was as a virtual character, a fictional overlay, a cyber-entity; but we’re all out here together, in some very virtual sense—and you know that by that I mean, very real.

Now that this particular experiment is over I will be documenting her journey, which has been #slowtwitter and chronological, in a manner more simultaneous and lateral. In other words, out of time and into space. When that transfer is complete I will let you know. Feel free to follow me, if you are not already, at @otolythe; and I, as well as Adele, thank you most graciously for following me here.

— Peggy Nelson, the author

Eyes Off.

Fri, 19 Mar 2010 10:14:28 -0400

Eyes Off.

You are free.

Thu, 18 Mar 2010 08:35:12 -0400

You are free.

In fairy tales, didn’t you wish to be the virtuous prince,...

Wed, 17 Mar 2010 15:08:36 -0400

In fairy tales, didn’t you wish to be the virtuous prince, slaying dragons and discovering treasure? Or the beautiful princess, living happily ever after? But in the real fairy tale, the one you write every day called life, you’re not a prince, or a princess. Or even the comic relief.

You are … the author.

DOOR #2. The exit. You’re immediately out, locked out. ...

Tue, 16 Mar 2010 09:42:00 -0400

DOOR #2. The exit. You’re immediately out, locked out. The street is empty, the lights are blown. The winds howl, then dissipate: the ones that were tearing you apart but also holding you up.

Sanctuary!

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 08:56:00 -0500

Sanctuary!

"A great artist is a great man in a great child."

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 14:02:08 -0500

“A great artist is a great man in a great child.”

- Victor Hugo

endless fascinating patterns … New Math, written and...

Thu, 25 Feb 2010 17:16:32 -0500

endless fascinating patterns … New Math, written and performed by Tom Lehrer

The only problem with code is that you get caught. I lived a...

Wed, 24 Feb 2010 12:07:00 -0500

The only problem with code is that you get caught. I lived a secret life with ink, and paper. You use pixels, and patterns described by numbers. It is fascinating, the endless associations of algorithms, the paisleys of probability. But then the patterns don’t fit and—well, you realize that elegance and simplicity, quantifiable complexity, are aesthetic concerns, that quantity itself is a quality of imagination. It seems like life. But it’s really just managing multiple threads.

DOOR #1. The entrance. But you’re already inside. You...

Sun, 21 Feb 2010 18:41:00 -0500

DOOR #1. The entrance. But you’re already inside. You go in again. To find yourself back at the entrance. You go in again. Space has folded. You whirl around, a furious atom, faster and faster and smaller and faster until your mind short-circuits and collapses in on itself, still searching, always searching, for patterns that will never match.

Wrong choice. You lose.

Shall we play a game?

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 16:58:07 -0500

Shall we play a game?

"It was a black night, [the water] swayed with heaving blackness, shaken over with spilled dribbles..."

Mon, 01 Feb 2010 10:10:04 -0500

“It was a black night, [the water] swayed with heaving blackness, shaken over with spilled dribbles of light. She leaned over the rail, and looking down thought: this is the sea; it is deeper than one imagines, and fuller of memories. At that moment the sea seemed to heave like the serpent of chaos that has lived for ever.”

- D. H. Lawrence, The Sun, 1928

Act III, Eyes III: Barbados

Tue, 26 Jan 2010 11:16:20 -0500

Act III, Eyes III: Barbados

The Wizard … escaped.

Thu, 21 Jan 2010 09:35:11 -0500

The Wizard … escaped.

"Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all..."

Fri, 15 Jan 2010 12:32:25 -0500

“Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.”

- - Victor Hugo

[Hutton’s Vireo]

I would show him the money.

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 08:59:11 -0500

I would show him the money.

The Margery Box, from Doyle & Houdini | Spirits &...

Tue, 12 Jan 2010 12:53:14 -0500

The Margery Box, from Doyle & Houdini | Spirits & Skeptics, a digital slideshow by Matthew Battles and Joe Alterio.

The magic of science.

Tue, 08 Dec 2009 15:14:47 -0500

The magic of science.

I had a beautifully brilliant, awful idea.

Wed, 02 Dec 2009 09:47:58 -0500

I had a beautifully brilliant, awful idea.

Memento Mori

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 10:07:00 -0500

I know you’re wondering. I did know. I suppose it would have been better for me to completely disengage, to obey the one-way street signs and rush toward the future. But the future wasn’t there yet; we did not have here, your shuddering singularity, the endless now.

Most of the time I preferred the virtual to the real, by which I mean of course language to images. Images have such power, yet are dangerously flat. You pass by a mirror and are caught by your reflection, the sum of your decisions cascading in reverse. I did look, occasionally. I had to. But as much as possible I looked at letters instead, their referents and gestures softer, more forgiving. I would lose myself circling through possible worlds, refining and restoring all future, perfect selves, matching each to each.

But it didn’t match. Each morning would bring with it the harsh outlines and endless shadows of northern light, all my possible worlds collapsed by the event horizon of the real, with me racked along its edge, stretched inexorably past time itself.