Finally I sleep, the kind of comfort you have when the curve
of your body meets with the flat hard bed and your body conquers it, pushes
in against the flatness and is held by it.
Slipping into dream, I feel no comfort.
I enter into a dreamy kind of pain. Measurements are being taken from deep
inside.
What shapes are my cells and what are their temperatures? Squeeze
one and see how it grows. Put electricity in and read the data as it comes
out. How thick are the walls, what kind of paintings do the insides respond
to? Is the jelly clear or yellowish tinted?
After the tests, my body is encased in a tight-fitting, perfectly conforming
rubber suit and I am put into a tight rubber car and the car is dropped
into grooves that flow along a vast rubber freeway. On my way to Detroit,
squirming along the fleshy path, my car fitting harmoniously in sync with
millions of other rubbery vehicles.
I awaken, relieved to find myself curved against the bed's flatness.
Sweaty-glad. Glad to be free of the claustrophbia of perfect
quantification.
Give me an ill-fitting scratchy wool suit.
Our work can be seen as science fiction
of the present. We think about technologies that already exist, but give
their implications to non-technologists in an attempt to see their effects
on the unconscious psyche, on the archetypal human struggle. To portray
this stuggle, we manipulate the conventions of narrative. Storytelling becomes
a strategy by which essential moods and feelings can transfer from character
to viewer. This identification with character causes a feel first, think
later reaction. The reaction, once felt , can not be retracted and must
enter the playing field with other , so called real events.