<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="his-journal"> Day 1.
In class notes
Interview [[each other|Her First Assignment]] for five minutes, then introduce each other to the class.
Questions:
<span class="bold">Partner's major
What partner wants to get out of course — more than just "pass the dang class"
Story about what it was like growing up in partner's home town.</span>
//Her Major: Art History//
Wants to have ability and confidence to talk to other people about art.
Is volunteer at a gallery as a docent, wants a career in an arts museum.
Likes all kinds of photographs of old abandoned places. Showed me some examples on her phone. [[One of them|On Her Phone]] made the hairs on my neck stand up, reminded me of [[something|His Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]]...
//Her Story:// She likes to explore old train tracks — there is a century-old line that goes by the Willamette River — one day she was sitting under an underpass there and thought she saw [[something wedged|Her Journal Day 3]] in the track, & went to investigate. Next thing she hears a train whistle & someone yelled "LOOK OUT!" right beside her, & she just about had a heart attack & there were her so-called friends laughing their asses off. After flipping them off like the assholes they were, she took off. That's how she grew up.
([[My story|Her Journal Day 1]] was how we used to go over the state line for weed & because of my baby face I had to stay in the car & be the wheel man.)
Assignments:
<span class="bold">Keep a journal: write something every day — no typing!
Get together with her, prepare extemporaneous speech for next week in class, based on impromptu speech we just gave tonight, introducing her to the class, telling her story.</span>
Burgerfix. Why not? Go ahead. Say it out loud.
[[His Notebook]]: [[His Journal Day 1]]
[[Her Notebook]]
</div><h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="grid"><div class="her-journal"><p class="his-note"></p>Class Notes. First day.
Assignment: Introduce yourself to the person next to you. Answer these three questions. Then tell the class about that person.
**Your partner’s major here at the college**
Undecided, maybe English major. Because he likes to read detective stories. He doesn’t read the endings until he writes out his theories, but he needs to do more writing. Maybe he’ll do a double major in computer programming or games because he likes to write the stories for games.
**A story about what it was like growing up in your partner’s home town **
They drove over state lines to buy weed. He was in high school, and he did not look anywhere near 21 so he got to be the wheel man. That means he drove the getaway car.
//Did not ask how he got his license at 16. DO NOT ASK HOW OLD HE IS NOW. Don't say it...//
**What does your partner want to get out of this class?**
He already has some college credit. He wants to finish his degree so he can get a better paying job. Maybe teaching. He needs a degree to get ahead in the IT world so maybe he will do that. But this community college gives him the cheap credit he needs before going for a computer degree.
Now we have to do [[a speech|Her Speech about Him]]? Like a formal one? I should have known. Still, any excuse in a storm. Don't say that. Don't say that.
</div>
[[Her Notebook]]: [[Her Journal Day 1]]
[[His Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="his-journal">Day1
So this speech writing class is kind of interesting, but the assignments mean that I have to do a lot of stuff outside of class:
Throughout the entire semester:
Keep a journal: write something every day — no typing! Handwriting. The prof is a weird old guy.
//{Typed comment: Sorry Prof. [[I'm typing|His Letter to the Professor]] this up just as I wrote it. Integrity of primary material and all that. But now, looking back on all of this, you may well have a point. Maybe you were being paranoid for a reason.}//
Next week:
Get together with [[her|Her First Assignment]], prepare extemporaneous [[speech|His Speech about Her]] for next week in class, based on an impromptu speech we just gave tonight, introducing her to the class, telling her story.
Seriously, what am I going to write about? Every single day? I keep going over and over what we said to each other at Burgerfix today. And yeah, maybe if I just write down that dialog, just like I remember it happening, I can get it out of my mind. [[Tomorrow|His Journal Day 2]]. I'm too tired tonight.
[[His Notebook]]: [[His Journal Day 2]]
[[Her Notebook]]
</div><h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[//Her handwriting is so messy, but I think I have most of it typed out here. I dunno. Typing helps me think somehow. And yes, Prof, some of us do think better on the keyboard. Give it a chance. But here goes . . . // ]
<div class="her-journal">Ok, so we have to create a journal. I asked why we had to write it out with pen and paper, rather than on a computer like we just type everything anyway. I mean, that is where I have my notes, and I can type fast. I just write slow. The prof said it was to explore the connections between pen and paper and the mind. I asked who would read it. The prof said [[no one|His Letter to the Professor]], really. He’ll just check it to see if it is in our handwriting. Old fashioned guy that guy. I think he is just scared of the new AIs, the ones that can just type faster than I can, stringing words together like random tracks on a subway line, going nowhere in particular. But this is really tough to do. How many words again?
No, I sort of get a bit why paper is so important. Or at least, the physical feel of it. I think it might be like the feeling I get when I hold old photographs–that physical instant of now even though the event has long since passed. I love the way the light silvers or just holds there, and the faded browning. A physical manifestation of light from a certain time, a certain place. You can’t step into the photo again.
Like the [[image|Photocopy]] I found up on the deserted line over on State Street, by the fancy houses bordering the Willamette River, over in Portland. You really aren't supposed to be there, but the No Trespassing signs are old and rusted. (Hah. This is a test. See if you read that and turn me in, you nosy Prof you). The story I told my class partner is true. I just didn’t go far enough into the details. And I guess those details might be of interest to someone, or at least I can write them down in here. Takes up the page count and, well, maybe I do need to think about it. Ok, like I told him, I love to just explore the old tracks. I wonder about who journeyed where, who rode those rails that are still there. Well, sort of there. I mean, you can’t really travel those tracks because people have cut away wires, or the wood ties or something else has taken them over. You can only walk them. Slowly.
So I crawl around here and find whatever little treasures I can–unbroken glass bottles or old pennies, plastic toys. I like the paper scraps, old newspapers that people still print, homework assignments rotted with mud. And I love being alone up there. But when my friends staged that ambush, sneaking up on me that Saturday and then scaring the hell out of me with their stupid train imitation stunt. I was steaming mad, and shaking. I yelled at them that I was never going to see them again and stomped back to the tracks. I clambered under the railway bridge so I was tucked just out of sight, and right on top of the remains of my sticky spilled soda and burger, was a new piece of paper. I have [[the paper|Photocopy]], but the thing I look at the most is the photo I took of it [[on my phone|On Her Phone]].</div>
[[Her Notebook]]: [[Her Journal Day 2]]
[[His Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="his-journal">So I went with her after class to the [[Burgerfix|Her Journal Day 2]] for lunch. It wasn't really a date, more of a continuation of the class. But I talked with her for a long time, and it felt good. I have replayed this in my mind all night and I want to write it down now so that I can get this assignment of writing every day done. But more, so when I replay in my mind, I remember it. Every detail.
(The diner. SHE & I sit across from one another at a small table, mugs in front of us, taking notes, following up our interviews from class.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (After a pause.) I, ah... really enjoyed that class. I didn't expect to.
(She smiles and nods, but says nothing.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Everybody in the class is so *interesting*. I didn't expect that.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What did you think was going to happen?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I don't know... I did suspect the prof would want to do some kind of "everybody introduce yourself to everybody"-type thing — I was hoping he wouldn't, but just in case I had my little speech all memorized, so I could just stand up and say it and sit down again. What I //didn't// expect was I'd have to //interview// somebody. (Slight pause.) I didn't expect to meet //you//.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Looks at me a moment, as if gauging something. Then:) Your story about weed was funny.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Laughs.) I didn't expect to tell that story, either. I was just so surprised by the assignment I didn't know what to say, but when you asked me about a home-town story that came out.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I knew about the assignment, so I had [[my story|His Journal Day 1]] ready.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: You did?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Someone I know took the class last semester. She told me about it.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Did she say it was fun?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Again gives me a measuring look.) She hated it. But her story about it was hilarious, how her partner was this big burly guy who was so shy she couldn't get anything out of him to tell the class in her introduction — she'd ask a question & he'd just shrug, or grunt something she couldn't understand. And she couldn't think of a single thing about her home-town — her mind just went blank, she said. So she just went first and made up this hilarious story about how her partner had lost his voice and wouldn’t be able to talk and thus they both got out of the assignment. But then they actually had to do the speech the next time.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: What did she talk about the next time?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I don't really remember — she was pretty vague...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yeah. We’ll need to come up with something for our speeches.
(She nods. We sit silently for a few seconds.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (After a pause.) Can I see those [[art things on your phone|On Her Phone]] again?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (She makes no move to get her phone.) Really?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yes. Really.
(We stare at each other, unsure what to do next.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Forgive me, but why?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Thinks.) I don't know. They were fascinating.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Are you just trying to keep me talking? Do you want to use that as your speech? Tell everyone about it?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Frowns. Gives her a measuring look.) Why would I want to do that?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Isn't that something you guys do? Hone in on details like that? Pretend to be interested?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Who guys?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Slight smile.) *You* guys.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Slight smile.) I'm only *this* guy. I don't know about any other guys.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Nods, accepting this.) OK. But tell me why, really.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: OK. (Thinks.) One of those images reminded me of something.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Surprised.) What?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Louder.) One of those images reminded me of something.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I heard you the first time, you don't have to yell.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Then what do you mean, "What?"?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I mean... I mean... How could it remind you of something? You couldn't have seen it before.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I didn't say I'd seen it before, it just reminded me of something is all.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Which one was it?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: The last one.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I don't remember what order they were in.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: The one with the tracks. And the tree.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Looks at me, looks down at her phone.) Later. Maybe.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Not now?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Puts her hand over her phone.) No. I didn't mean to show you that one.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Oh. (Pause. Decides to pursue it.) Why not?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: You don't get to ask me that.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Eyebrows up.) Why not?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Uncomfortable.) I... don't ask me that.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Slowly.) OK... So. Are we done here?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What do you mean?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Anything else to talk about?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Um... I don't know...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Looking directly at her.) I'm trying to decide if I feel safe with you.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Really surprised.) What?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Safe. With you. (Pause.) I'm also trying to decide if it matters. Being safe I mean. With you.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Why do you need to feel safe?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: What kind of a question is that?
(She sits back, doesn't respond.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Everybody wants to feel safe.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Not everybody.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Tilts my head. Closes my eyes for a moment. Then answers slowly.) OK...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[SHE]: Why wouldn't you feel safe?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: With you, you mean?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: OK. With me.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Lots of reasons. (Beat.) What do you want from me?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I don't want anything from you.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Looks at her.) That's not true.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Offended.) What do you mean? I'm lying?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I'm sorry. I just meant here. Now. What do you want to get out of this conversation, if that's what it is.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I don't know what I want from you. From this. (Laughs.) It's not a conversation yet.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Smiles.) No, you're right. Not yet. (Quieter.) Do you want one?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What? A conversation?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yes.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Do you?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Laughs.) I should say I asked you first. But that would start an argument, and I don't want that. What I do want is a conversation, though. With you.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Smiles.) OK. Then I do too.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: OK then.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: OK then.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I guess that means I should start.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Waves her hand.) "After you." If you don't mind...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Very well. (Takes a breath, huffs it out.) I'm stuck. It's why I'm here — well, it's why I'm signed up for that speech class, why I enrolled in college. I'm stuck. In my life. (She nods in understanding, but says nothing.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I work at the LaptopShop, service department — I like to fix things, get people's tech up & running after they leave it out in the rain or drop it off a cliff. It feels good, & [[I like figuring things out|His Journal Day 3]]. I'm good at it, & I really like helping people get their life back. But I don't want to spend my life doing only that.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What do you want to spend your life doing?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Something that matters.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Like what? Doesn't helping people get their life back matter?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yeah, of course. It's just that — well, if I get run over by a bus on my way in to the shop one day, someone else who works there will fix your laptop, or your tablet, whatever. It doesn't need to be *me*.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: It's not enough for you to be able to do something other people can do just as well or better.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Exactly right.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What do you want to be doing that nobody else can do just as well or better?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Starts to say something, sits back and regards her.) I'll tell you that if you tell me something first.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Wary.) What?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Why won't you show me that image?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: [[Which image|Photocopy]]?
(I don't answer.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Uh-huh. I see. (Thinks.) Because... because... (Small smile.) I'm trying to decide if I [[feel safe with you|Her Journal Day 2]]. Like you with me.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Fair enough. Well then. I'll take the first chance, shall I?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: OK.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: What I want is to spend the rest of my life reading and writing.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Interested.) Writing? Writing what?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I read all the time, everything: articles, essays, stories, poems, anything. Sometimes I wish I had a person to talk to about all the stuff I read, but most times it's enough to just read it and think about it. Ponder it, you know. But sometimes when I read something really great, something that moves me, I feel like I want to do to other people what that author just did to me.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Have you published anything?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Me? No. Not good enough.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Good enough for what?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Good enough to do to somebody else what a real story or poem can do to me.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: And you think going to school will teach you to do that.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Maybe. Point is, I'm stuck and need to do something different. (Looks at her.) You feel safe with me yet?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Smiles.) Haven't decided. Keep going.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: OK. I haven't decided about being safe with you either, by the way.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Laughs.) Keep going.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Sometimes, usually when I'm writing, I see things I can't describe.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Disturbed.) What things?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Laughs, a little uneasily.) That's just it: I see them in my mind, just fine, but I don't have the words to talk about them. Not to you. Not to anyone. (I look at her for a long time, then sit forward.) OK: full disclosure, but you asked for it.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Wary.) What do you mean?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Smiles.) I'm not going to put you in a compromising position. (Beat.) It's fairly common knowledge around here what I used to be like.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What did you used to be like?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]I was a fairly bright boy in high school, even spent a couple of summers taking classes over at North Idaho College. Thing is this: that funny story about getting weed over in Washington didn't stop there. I got kicked out of my house after my parents discovered the weed and moved in with those guys. But it turned out that weed was their lightest entertainment. They started cooking meth.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Oh.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Oh is right. It was fun—most of the time, at least at the beginning. But then it got to be that I was either high or strung out all the time, which rather interfered with my pursuit of an education. They were cooking and dealing for almost a year there, and hadn't gotten busted — dumb fucking luck, Lord knows. Sorry.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]:(Smiles wryly). I've heard the word before.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME] OK. One day I was just walking about high trying to get a different perspective, and there's one of the guys on the phone, saying the cops had just swatted the place. He'd been about to come in and had seen the cops at the door and booked it out of there. He said I should get myself good and lost. I didn't hear from him again, but my other roommate ended up with Federal charges and a ten-year prison sentence. I never went back there.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Wow.
HE: It was pretty harum-scarum after that, until I got some sense. (Looks at her.) I don't know you at all, but my guess is you have some experience with that hide-&-seek kind of life.
(She doesn't respond.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: What I thought. Never mind. I don't need to know. What I need to know is why you won't show me that image on your phone.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I can't. (Pauses. Nods slowly. Takes a deep breath). Yes, I guess. My turn. I’m stuck too. I don’t know what I want to be or what I want to do or anything. Those so-called friends of mine. They aren’t really friends. They’d be bullies if they had the chance. I’m not in their special networks, not constantly texting them. I go out on my own too much, they think.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Really?
(We look at each other for a very long time, sipping our coffees.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: OK.
(She pulls out her phone, scrolls to the image, turns it towards me. I look at it closely. She looks away for a few seconds, almost embarrassed, almost timid, almost too shy to move. I make a snap decision and [[clicks the camera on my phone|On Her Phone]].)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Where'd this come from?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I can't tell you.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Can't or won't?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Can't. It’s a long story. Do you really need to know it? Is this what looked familiar?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Could be. I need to check something.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Abruptly.) I gotta go. (She gets up, starts out.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Quickly, without looking at her.) We should get together before class — try our speeches out on each other...
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Stops at the door, looks back. Our eyes lock again.) Saturday. Here. 3 pm. Will that work? I'll email you. (Gives a small smile, goes out.)
//Well... Yeah, that was about what I remember. I could have some of the details wrong, but I don’t think so. So, that went pretty OK, maybe. Probably. I don't really know.//
BLACKOUT
</div>
[[His Notebook]]: [[His Journal Day 3]]
[[Her Notebook]]<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="his-journal">So, I managed to tell her. Only ... well.. a lot came first. I need to record this as accurately as I can.
Day 4
<!--[=Dialog2]-->
(The diner. SHE & ME sit across from each other, notebooks open, each holding a paper draft of the speech introducing the other to the class.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Thanks for coming. I wasn't sure you'd show up.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Really? What made you think that?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I thought I might have scared you off.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Considers this.) On account of that story [[you told me|His Journal Day 2]]? about what a bad boy you were?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (A little embarrassed.) I guess. Yeah. I'm glad it didn't work.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: You were *trying* to scare me off?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: No. Glad it didn't work that way. Didn't scare you off.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Thinks.) Well, I'm also glad I didn't let it scare me off, whatever you were trying to do.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Hmf. I didn't think I was trying to do anything, but you know that, I can tell.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Smiling.) Right. I'm teasing you. And you know that, I can tell.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Laughs, delighted.) So we understand each other. A good start!
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Laughs with me.) Yes! A good start.
(But then they don't know what to say.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Eventually.) Well, I wrote up my speech. Do you want to read it first?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: No, just do it for me.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME] (clears my throat mock-theatrically, then [[deliver my lines|His Speech about Her]] over dramatically . When I’m finished I look down at the page, make a couple notes, then look up with pretty much naked hope.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Um.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Do you like it? Is it OK?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I like it a lot. It's a really good description of what happened.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Relieved.) Thanks.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: You listen well.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: What do you mean?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: You only heard the story once, but you remembered everything.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Well, it's a disturbing story. Really scared me thinking about it. And made me mad.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Cocks her head.) Mad?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: At your supposed friends.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Ah. Yes. My *so-called* friends.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: But you didn't run crying home to mama — you cursed them good. I admired that.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Looks at me for a long moment.) Thank you.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: You're welcome.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Breaking our gaze.) Well. Shall I do mine about you?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yes. Please.
[SHE opens her journal and pulls out a loose page.]
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Pointing at her journal.) Wow. What a fantastic cover on [[your journal|Her Notebook]].
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: You like it? It's a Fibonacci Spiral I found online. Really beautiful, isn't it?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Frowning.) Where'd you find it?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Evasive.) I don't remember. Do you want to hear [[my speech|Her Speech about Him]]?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Doesn't believe her, but lets it go for now.) Sure. I'm really nervous.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Astounded.) *You're* nervous?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: About what you're going to say.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Not sure she believes this, but lets it go for now.) I'm not going to say anything bad.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: OK. Then shoot.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Hah! OK then.
(She reads [[her lines|Her Speech about Him]], shyly and quietly at first, but gaining confidence as she goes along. When she's finished, she lays down the page, then slowly looks up at him.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Wow. You make me sound really interesting.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: You are interesting.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Not as interesting as you.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Stop that. What did you think of the speech?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Only one thing. I don't think you need to explain the regulations about buying weed. If you just use the word 'underage' when you set the scene, our audience will get the point.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Making a note.) Right. OK. I'll fix that.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Otherwise, I'm flattered. Your portrait gives me an ideal to live up to.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: No, really. Stop. Next thing you'll be fishing for compliments.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Accepting the rebuke.) Fair enough. Now what do we talk about. What we should wear?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Laughs.) O god, I never thought about that.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: It'll be a performance. I guess I'll need to dress up that morning. They'll tease me to death at work if I wear my tux —
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Well, I don't have a ball gown, so let's just wear what we always do.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Good idea. (Suddenly serious.) I know you don't want me to pry, but that spiral on the cover of your notebook reminded me —
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Interrupting.) My speech is only a minute and a half long. It's supposed to be three minutes.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I don't think you'll be gonged if your speech is too short, only if it's too long.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I still need to ask you some more stuff.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: What you have is great — and I love the way you write.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Thanks again, but don't change the subject. I need more on the detective thing. You don't want to fix computers all your life, you told me that.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I'll be satisfied —
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: This isn't about satisfying you. Sorry, that was rude. It's about satisfying the prof.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: And the rest of the class.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: OK, and the rest of the class.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: But you're right. Ask away.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What do you want to do with this detective work you love so much?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Smiles a little ruefully.) When I was little, I wanted to be an astronaut.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Taking notes.) Do you still?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Kind of. My dreams have tightened some. Now I just want to be the computer tech on the space station; hold everything together, sort of. Like what's-his-name on that space opera, the hero technico who saves the ship with his superior deductive skills.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Laughing.) Can I put that in?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Only if you elaborate it like you did the detective stuff.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I can do that.
(Pause.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Here's the thing about [[that picture|Photocopy]] you showed me.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I'm not sure I want to know, really. (Takes a deep breath and looks at me.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I understand. But I did some research. Some detective work, you might call it.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Why? It's just a picture.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: It's not just a picture. It means something to you that you haven't told me. I'm not saying you have to, but it means something to me too, and I think I have to tell you about that.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Why?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: In the past two weeks, two of my customers have disappeared.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What's that got to do with my picture?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Each of them brought me a machine that stopped working right after a certain image appeared on the screen.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Really reluctant.) What image?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: The image they described sounded a lot like the one you showed me: abandoned train tracks with a tree growing all over them.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: That could be anything.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yes, it could. Can I see the image again?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Why?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I need to check something.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Why?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I can explain if you show me the picture on your phone. Just once more. I think I really need to see it.
(Long pause.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Making a decision.) OK. Just once more. And I am not sending it too you. (Takes out phone again, turns it toward him.)
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Hesitates.) May I come around beside you?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Um, yes...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: To look at it together, if you don't mind. Make sure we're seeing the same things.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Shifting to make room.) OK, sure.
((bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME] (comes around beside her. We stare at the image for a long while, a short moment.) Yeah. (Beat.) Yeah. What I thought. (Making a decision.) I should tell you.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: What you thought? You should tell me what? It's my image.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Sort of. (I turn to her.) Each of my customers described this — not so much the image, but what it felt like to them: a striking image that pulled them in, hard to look away from. So they looked closer, and just when they began to see something, the screen went black. That was striking to me: again, not so much the image, but the effect it had on them.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Really? Both of them?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Both of them. Different words, but the same story. I felt the same thing just now — though (He winces.), that might be auto-suggestion. Is that how it affected you?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Evasive again.) Not exactly.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Beat.) OK. Not snooping —
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I didn't —
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I wasn't implying —
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I wasn't —
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Holds up his hand.) Let's start over. Or move on, which I think is more important. I have to tell you something, OK?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Uncertain.) OK...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I did a little research, to see if any of my fellow techies were having anything like this experience.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Eyes widen.) Did they?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Not many, but I'm not the only one.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Really.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: But they either dismiss it as Luser Error or leap into some conspiracy theory about AI taking over the world.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: And you think this is the image.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I'm sure. Or one like it. The other descriptions are too close to dismiss the idea.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: And it's dangerous? Because a couple computers tanked while showing them what you think is this same image?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yes, and because my customers didn't come back to pick up their machines. And don't return my calls or texts.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: But —
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I don't know what it means, I just think you should be careful. If this image came from your computer —
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: It didn't come from my computer.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: So... how'd it get on your phone?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I — well — it's a photo I took with my phone.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: A photo of this exact place? with the tree growing out of —
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: No, not of a place or a scene. It's a picture of a [[photocopy|Photocopy]] of a place or a scene.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: A photocopy. On paper.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Yes. Look at this corner. (She reverse-pinches the image on the phone, drags it around.) See where the paper's bent over like that.
((bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME] looks. Then leans back. Then looks at her.) Where'd you get a photocopy, on paper, of this totally weird tracks-&-tangler-tree thing?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Trying to sound breezy, but maybe a little spooked by how serious he is.) On [[one of my explorations|Her Journal Day 2]] along the old El lines.
((bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME] (continues to gaze at her, as if waiting for her to go on.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I found this on a piece of paper lying on the tracks. I took a picture of it so I could look at when I wanted to — I guess you could say it pulled me in. But it can't be the same image — how could it be?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I can think of three ways off the top of my head, but I don't want you to feel like I'm interrogating you. I'm just doing my detective work...
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Can't help a smile, even though she's still uneasy.) Well, you can lay off that — this didn't come from my computer.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Carefully.) Yes, but it matters to you somehow, and I — well... what's important to you is important to me.
(Now she sits back, looking at me.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Blinks.) Oh. (Looks a little away, focused inward.) Oh. (Looks back at me, a little flustered) OK! Well! Um... (She looks at the image.) Well, the trees could be wires, you know — or this could be an art rendering of... like tangles in your life — how if you could just squeeze past the menace of the black thicket of connections that tied you here, you could reach the paradise, that smudge vision on the hill...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: On the hill?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: You didn't see the hill? The city on the hill?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: No... (Looks at the picture on the phone again.) Um... can you show me?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Looks at me dubiously a moment.) Ah... here... (She drags the image around a little, then points.) Here: those magical buildings?
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Ah! Yes! I didn't see that when it was zoomed out. That's paradise for you?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Pulling back a little.) Well, sort of...
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: All this... — you seem to feel really stuck here.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Shrugs.) What I don't feel is that I have a clear direction in my life. Like those old train tracks, just headed for the barriers of everyday life here in this old city.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Yes! I know what that feels like! (I look back at the image, absorbed in the metaphor.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Right! Like you told me when we were working up that first speech.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: If you could just sidestep out of those boxes and into that shadowy wilderness on the sides there. (Looks at her.) You know, sometimes I felt like chucking it in and go riding the rails or something, just see where I could get to.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: Yes! That's what I think about all the time, how I could go exploring — like you talked about in class when you told me why you moved here, to get away from that same old place you grew up in, and go exploring different places and ways of life — but you don't have to go to the wilds of Africa or the jungles in the Amazon. You can just explore here, take different turnings and find whole new worlds. And it's fun to daydream about portals to other places.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Frowns, looks at her.) This looks like some kind of portal to you?
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Frankly.) Yes. It does.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Bends over the phone. Avoids looking at her.) I see. Well. (Sits back up. Cross my arms.) I want you to be careful.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Deflated.) Oh.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: No, I mean really. I can see you have your dreams — I have mine too — but there's something about [[this particular image|Photocopy]] that really creeps me out.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I see.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: I don't think you do. It's not just my fellow geeks talking about this. There are a lot of urban legends online about an image maybe like this, where if you see the tangled tree on your computer in enough detail, and you stare into where the tracks [[meet the heart|Her Journal Day 4 After Meeting]] of the tangle, then your computer just does random things.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (Softly.) Like people don't need them where they're going or something.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: (Not hearing this.) Which is probably nonsense. But please, for my sake — or at least until we give our speeches next week — just look out. Maybe do your own research.
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: (After a moment.) OK.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: OK. (Beat.) Thanks.
(We look at each other, then down. She puts her phone away.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: I have to go to work.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: OK.
(We get up, stand awkwardly for a moment, then laugh.)
(bg:(hsl:90,0.8039,0.5,0.5))[SHE]: OK. See you in class.
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[ME]: Right. In class.
(She goes out. I stand there, looking after her.)
</div>
[[His Notebook]]
[[Her Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="gray-box">
(bg:(hsl:300,0.8039,0.5,0.25))[Obviously, this is just an image of the photocopy. Like those Indian tribes with sand paintings, or monks with calligraphy. I left out certain portions, added others. I think I stripped it of that significance, that religious power, those superstitions. It is probably safe to view now. But there is no way to test absolutely.]
</div>
<img src="photocopy-1000.png" alt=a black and white image with a delapidated train track in the forefront going to a dark tange, windows on windows on the side showing other potential trees or smudges available to interpretation, with a gray sky above.>
<img src="photocopy-700.png" alt=a black and white image with a delapidated train track in the forefront going to a dark tange, windows on windows on the side showing other potential trees or smudges available to interpretation, with a gray sky above.>
<img src="photocopy-350.png" alt=a black and white image with a delapidated train track in the forefront going to a dark tange, windows on windows on the side showing other potential trees or smudges available to interpretation, with a gray sky above.>
[[His Notebook]]
[[Her Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="gray-box">I couldn't wait for your office hours, so I am leaving all of this boxed up stuff in your care. I took your advice about creating intertwined digital narratives to address [[complex|Her Journal Day 3]] issues with [[complex|His Journal Day 3]] thinking. I knew I had to do that after I saw [[those faces|Her Journal Day 4 After Meeting]] in [[that image|Photocopy]].
And I have spent so much time putting this all in Twine, linking the ideas, typing out what she left me, what I know. This exercise clarified some of the issues, obscured others, just like you said it would. I think I understand now, and I got that message this morning, finally. So I will wait now with my computer at the coordinates, searching for her in that forest of images. So, I don't think either of us will be back in the class any more....
</div>
[[His Notebook]]
[[Her Notebook]]<h2 class="title">His Speech about Her</h2>
<div class="his-journal">My partner is [[majoring in Art History here|Her Journal Day 3]] — she already volunteers at a gallery and in the museum here in town, but wants to learn more about it and maybe have a career in Arts Administration. Communication is very important in every profession, but is especially important in getting across the value of art to people who might be interested but don't have much experience of it, and so don't support the arts in a useful sort of way.
She was born here and has lived here all her life. One of her favorite activities is to explore the older parts of town, especially the abandoned stations of the Elevated railroad that once provided the means of getting around town, before cars put passenger trains out of business. Something about these ruins really stimulates her imagination, she told me, and she'll often spend whole days (when she doesn't have to work) wandering along the tracks to see where they go and look at what people left behind, trying to imagine the stories behind those long-lost objects and tumbledown constructions.
One day she was doing just this near a tunnel, and had bent down to examine something on the tracks, when suddenly she heard an ear-splitting train whistle and someone yelling "LOOK OUT!!!" right in her ear. She jumped a mile in the air and took off as fast as she could, but when she heard shrieks of laughter behind her, she turned around, and there were three of her supposed friends pointing at her and doubled over in hysterics. Some friends. She yelled an appropriate obscenity likening them to a certain body part, and marched away, determined never to speak to them again. Serves them right, I say. Theirs is the loss.
I'm very glad I met my partner, and know that once you get to know her in this class you'll feel the same way. Thank you.
That'll do as a placeholder until after we talk this afternoon. I hope she likes it...
[[His Notebook]]
[[Her Notebook]]
</div><h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="her-journal">He is majoring in English. He can do a lot with a communication background, and knowing how to write well can get him promotions in many fields. He wants to write. He wants the power to move people with his words, to draw out experiences that they would not otherwise have. He wants to create that spine-tingling thriller you just can't put down, or that poem that haunts your memories forevermore. But also he is majoring in English because he loves to read. He reads anything he can get his hands on. Any genre appeals to him, but he loves mysteries and detective stories.
He is a detective in real life because he works as a computer tech repair person at LaptopShop. He follows up all the little clues that the users leave him, like what they were working on before the machine crashed. Usually, they can not tell him very much and he has to get the clues himself from the way the computer behaves or the way that the wires and hard drive and motherboard look. Hesays that this is just like detective stories, in that you methodically cross off suspects and then you see some little thing that reminds you of something that happened earlier, and you connect these two insights and you solve the problem.
He is from Cheyenne, Wyoming and moved here to Vancouver Washington last year to see new places and to explore strange new worlds. No, really, he actually wanted to move here because he thought it would be more exciting and fun and wonderful than his hometown. And to see the world from here, such as it is.
Wyoming weed laws are strict. So he and his buddies would take an old beat up car and drive across state lines into Colorado. They would just cruise in the boring prairies for a couple of hours and then get into Boulder, Colorado. The other guys woud get out and flash their fake ids in this student town, and get all the weed they could from each store. He has a baby face (I mean, just look at him, would you sell weed to him?) so he never got out of the car. He would just slouch under a big floppy beret and twirl a fake moustache. Then when all the other guys came back loaded with all the goodies they wanted, he would be the one to drive them all back across the border. He knew where every speed trap was and he'd just go around on the back roads so the Wyoming cops never did catch up with them.
So that tells you all you need to know about him. Except I am sure he has plenty more stories to tell and to write about!
//Right now It's not what I really sound like. But I don't like how I really sound. The speech isn't about me, it's about him. I hope he likes it. And if he doesn't, I hope he'll talk to me. Make it better.//</div>
[[His Notebook]]
[[Her Notebook]]<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="her-journal">There, I thought you would find all this stuck under the table. Pretty hard to miss the bundle, though. You said you like to look under the hood of things to find out the real mystery, to follow the symptoms to the root cause. So I had a feeling that when I did not show up today, you would look here. I’m kind of glad you did, because I think you will want to follow, to dig down to the roots of this. They used to call these things conundrums, listening to a different beat. But in a way, I sort of wish you hadn’t looked here. I mean, I truly want to see you again. I want to explore what is out there, what is under this all, with you. But at the same time, I’d like to remember you always as safe. Away from this entangled danger. Innocent and all that.
I did the [[reverse image search|His Journal Day 4 After Meeting]], and you were right—it is the haunted tangler tree the internet chatter is about. There were all of these are variations on my image. The branches are twisted differently in some. In some the tracks go off to the side, never touching the tree. In some the tangler tree is at the forefront, with only a couple of the ties in the track showing beneath its writhing roots. In others, what appears behind the tree differs. Sometimes the city appears in more detail and in others there is just a fractal wood of tangler trees that have overgrown the whole thing, taking over the background as well as reaching out beyond the foreground. The thing is though, that only mine is the one without a face hidden somewhere, enmeshed in the darkness.
And some of these images were attached to those chats you told me about, the legends of the cursed AI image.
The image I found on the tracks is the real one. My search convinced me of that. I sifted through hundreds, thousands of these variations. They never stopped; there was always an option to click for more. Maybe a bot generates all of these tweaks, I don’t know. But now after this, I understood a little about those people compelled to rank AI image after AI image, competing to clock the most comparisons, beyond 40 thousand, over 50 thousand. (Of course, some of these may have been AI bots themselves, the language was a bit stilted, but you’d go over the edge too, like that, wouldn’t you?). Oh dear, I’m blathering and there isn’t much time.
Ok, finally I clicked on the exact duplicate of my image, the only one without a face embedded in it, and got this message:
//You want to reach us, don't you? Be part of it all, be beyond it all. I know you do. So be at 45.73, -133.63 in exactly 99 minutes (5940 seconds) to enter our realm. The place isn’t far from here–you can connect the dots on any Google map. When you do the search, click on more images 42 times, and you’ll see it then. About halfway down the scroll bar. You’ll know your ticket in when you see it, //
So I got my gear and headed out. I’m sitting here writing this until the last possible minute, thinking you might come early. But I'm now 3 hours early and that is way too much to expect you to be here that early. Come join me here. If I’m at these coordinates, then this is just a fad, like an ARG, forgotten in some corner. We can have a good laugh at me falling for this. If I'm not here, then you'll have to make your own decisions. I do know that I did not find any bragging on the net about what people bagged at this place. There haven’t been messages back.
It’s time. I gotta go.
</div>
[[Her Notebook]]
[[His Notebook]]
<h1>Entanglements</h1>
<div class="gray-box">
Deena Larsen
Bill Bly
Electronic Literature Lab, Washington State University, Vancouver Washington.
//Dedicated to Dene Grigar with love from both of us.
Also thank you to Jenn Nguyen and Evan Leyden.// </div>
<img src="title-700.png" alt=a horizontal scrolling image of a composition book with no names, a black and white picture of dark tangles reaching up into a cloudy sky, with text of Entanglements Deena Larsen Bill Bly and then a the back of a notebook with a black and white fractal spiralling down without end.>
Artifacts:
[[His Letter to the Professor]]
[[His Notebook]]
[[Her Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="her-journal">He said he found this image on [[computers that crashed|His Journal Day 4 After Meeting]], like it was a death mask or an optogram, the last thing a computer saw before it died. And when he called the owners, no one answered. No one ever picked up their broken computers. But yeah, how often do people pick up a dead computer, with corrupted files? Honestly, what's the point of coming back? They may well have just gone on with their lives. A computer isn't that important, is it?
He says maybe there is a pattern. Maybe my image fits into the pattern. Maybe not. But his eyes had narrowed when he said that. His breath quickened. He thinks it is important, even though he was oh so nonchalant about the whole thing.
And yes, I had not thought to look online. I was so sure that it was something else, some real photo or something that depicted a reality right here or somewhere else, but real. In this world. Or yeah, maybe another.
But in my reverse image search, are so many results. So many variations that they can't all be true. There are no originals here: only distorted copy after distorted copy. The backgrounds are different, yet almost the same. The tangles are in different places. If the tangler is reaching out, maybe I’m not the only one caught up in it. Maybe it is reaching out online. That would make sense–but then what about the computers? I took a picture of a picture, so maybe [[my photo|On Her Phone]] works like looking at a basilisk through a mirror or hearing about someone telling a story. Third hand. Reflections only. Vicarious and safely away from the direct action.
Or maybe I'm just making up excuses for my fascination, my morbid obsessions. I stare at this image every chance I get. I promised him I would not use it as the desktop background for my laptop, that I wouldn't take a chance. Even though I thnk he is being superstitious for no reason. Except the longer I stare at this, the more I think there might actually be a reason. That this could be the one. I keep fantasizing or maybe realizing that this dark tangle guards the ultimate beyond.
If only there were more time. More time to really get to know him. To find if I could trust him with my soul. But what is at stake here, what I want to discover, is ultimately more important at the moment. I want to take this chance. I have to take this chance. I wonder what we could have had if I just didn't have to make a decision right this very minute. If we could just slow down time. If we could have everything. But I know, no one could have everything. And I want this more than anything.
I'm going to [[keep looking|Her Letter to Him]].</div>
<img src="search-1000.png" alt=a reverse image search showing the original tangler tree on a track. All of the other images are eerily similar, except that a face is in each image, staring out from the trees.>
<img src="search-500-1.png" alt=the image of the tangler tree blockading abandoned rairoad tracks for a reverse image search.>
<img src="search-500-2.png" alt=the results of the reverse image search. These all show tangler trees on a railroad. All of the other images are eerily similar, except that a face is in each image, staring out from the trees.>
<img src="search-300-1.png" alt=the image of the tangler tree blockading abandoned railroad tracks for a reverse image search.>
<img src="search-300-2.png" alt=the results of the reverse image search. These all show tangler trees on a railroad. All of the other images are eerily similar, except that a face is in each image, staring out from the trees.>
[[Her Notebook]]
[[His Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="grid"><div class="his-journal">I took this as she had her phone up to show me some pictures she took. I don't think she knows I took it. The original was a lot messier as I took this fast but I think it cleaned up pretty well. I tried to enhance the image, to see what is on the sides of it, to see what drew me in, but I stopped messing with it after that second guy came in with something hauntingly similar.</div>
<div class="image-col"><img src="phone.png" alt=a phone with a cropped image of a photocopy of a tangled tree></div></div>
[[His Notebook]]
[[Her Notebook]] <h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="grid">
<div class="image-col"><img src="hisjournal.png" alt=a black and white patterned composition book.></div>
<div class="his-journal">[[His First Assignment]]
//His Journal//
<ul>
<li>[[Day 1|His Journal Day 1]]</li>
<li>[[Day 2|His Journal Day 2]]</li>
<li>[[Day 3|His Journal Day 3]]</li>
<li>[[Day 4 Before Meeting|His Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]]</li>
<li>[[Day 4 After Meeting|His Journal Day 4 After Meeting]]</li>
</ul>
[[His Speech about Her]]
[[His Journal Day 2]]
[[His Journal Day 4 After Meeting]]
[[His Letter to the Professor]]
[[On Her Phone]]
Other materials tied to this artifact
[[Her Notebook]]
[[Her Letter to Him]]</div></div>
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="grid"><div class="her-journal">[[Her First Assignment]]
[[Her Journal|Her Journal Day 1]]
<ul>
<li>[[Day 1|Her Journal Day 1]]</li>
<li>[[Day 2|Her Journal Day 2]]</li>
<li>[[Day 3|Her Journal Day 3]]</li>
<li>[[Day 4 Before Meeting|Her Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]]</li>
<li>[[Day 4 After Meeting|Her Journal Day 4 After Meeting]]</li>
</ul>
[[Her Speech about Him]]
[[Her Letter to Him]]
[[Her Journal Day 4 After Meeting]]
[[Photocopy]]
[[His Notebook]]
</div>
<div class="image-col"><img src="herjournal.png" alt=the back side of a spiral notebook. The spirals are fractals winding down into a black hole ringed with petals..></div></div>
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="his-journal">We're getting together tomorrow to practice [[our speeches|Her Speech about Him]], make sure we're saying the right things, not saying the wrong things. Gotta say, she's a really [[interesting person|His Speech about Her]], though pretty shy, and careful with me, which, once I spilled all my propensity toward bad decision-making last night, she must feel is a *really* good idea. But I also sense she's careful with everybody — her story about so-called friends terrorizing her like that maybe wasn't a singleton. Past traumas get you every single time.
BTAIM, I think we got the makings of a pretty good couple of speeches, if we take some care writing them up: I think I can help her make my story pretty hilarious, and she can help me make hers as scary as it was when it happened.
One thing. [[That image she showed me|On Her Phone]], the one that *means* something to her, though she tries to make out like it's just another picture on her phone: I told her it reminded me of something, and her reaction was [[weird|Her Journal Day 2]], like the image *belonged* to her or something, almost like I had no right to even look at it. Maybe she drew it herself, and if that's true I'll lay off. Maybe this'll clear up when we talk again.
I didn't tell her I [[snapped a photo of that|On Her Phone]]. I probably shouldn't have done that. It's like I betrayed her trust, which I did. But when she held it out like that and looked away, like she was terrified of my reaction or something, I don't know. I just did it. I felt like I had to. I'm not saying this right,. And now I can't tell her I did that. Ever. No matter where this goes. I don't want to ruin her trust at this stage. But I also want to know what is going on.
However, I'm not sure I should tell her tomorrow what it reminds me of, mostly because it might be nothing, and I don't want to come off as weird or geeky or whatever. But here's [[the thing|His Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]].</div>
[[His Notebook]]: [[His Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]]
[[Her Notebook]]<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="gray-box">
So of course we have to have a Jane Space. And I tell him about this record. Or I might not. Probably not, he is worrying about too many things in his own life right now.
This started off as a quick little ditty when I was fooling around with MidJourney version 2 (they are up to 6 now, it has been a year of change that I have not kept up with--kind of like a war you are just tangentially a part of, and you never see the entire wave of history from your tiny hut in the middle of an out of the way forest). Anyway, we both stared at [[the image|Photocopy]] that the AI had produced and got mesmerized.
We went down a few different tracks with that image: I challenged Bill to write something starting with "[[if this image were real|Patterans]]" as he was still working on We Descend, which of course had started with "if this document were real." And we got into Patterans (of course a minor theme in We Descend as well
But this of course, was a dead end. Probably literally. We just coud not get a metastory to gel, and we threw it all away, except for the idea that she (whoever she turns out to be) gets mesmerized and enters the image. And he (whoever he is) follows. We went through many more drafts of archives (where she got too obsessive about the image and he wondered about her sanity--even more than in the final story we came up with.)
And then we had our students and their assignments and their journals and his dialogues about their meetings (Bill, ever the playwright, had to get that in). And then Bill the archivist, wondered how the $^$%^ he gets a copy of his speech about her to her: //He will have made a copy for her, which she may paste into her journal — I should say attach: what're we talkin' here, freakin' LIBRARY paste?] Bill, why does it have to be attached? And why does she have to have a copy?? Just leave it here??// Bill, the answer is easy. He emails it to her. So she has it too. I can do the linking, and we have one copy.
We had some long arguments about the structure while I was in Mexico last year. Has it really been a year now? Have we kept working on this that long? Yeah. I get caught up in way too much and life goes on. Anyway, I did record some of our conversations, but I think I lost them. And I'm too tired to go looking for them now. So the archives of the writing, the meta archives, as they are, are completely incomplete. Like, not even started.
And then I left Mexico and came up to the Washington State University at Vancouver in the Electronic Literature Lab as the artist in residence. Bill was working with this stunning staff on We Descend, the Complete Volume. As I have to produce something (well, technically, I am not under contract, but it would look pretty silly if I didn't get at least a few projects in) and we had this piece sort of almost done anyway, we decided to located it here at WSUV and give the archive to the Electronic Literature Lab. And thus, the very specific location for the class and students was born.
This helped us to finally to agree on a metastory, where she just leaves everything for him under the table right before she goes off to... well... yeah, we really can't say that we know, but we aren't going to tell you that we don't know. Originally, this scene was set in a coffee shop, but they stay too long with coffee, and Oregon has these burger places everywhere but very few coffee shops.) Well, ok, if this were really and truly realistic (which it is not), we'd have to put this setting in the library, or one of the open study places in Washington State University at Vancouver, as there really aren't any places for students to meet and eat on campus here. But that gets too complicated to explain. I told Bill we'd have to take //some// liberties with this.
And then of course you get into the classic proofreading problems of where this place is situated. Wrenching this away from Bill's version of the Elevated tracks in New York meant a last minute woops and a desperate search for abandoned rail yards in Vancouver. Nothing like filling in the facts later!
https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/81253734.pdf Because of courese there is a 1984 history of the street railway systems of Vancouver WA. Bless the internet. Card catalogues would never have found this one. No, that won;t work as well, and luckily though there is a track in WAshington PArk in Portland. Phew.
Bill agreed. And here we are. And here the story is. In its final form. Because we both want to leave this image behind us and go on with our lives. If we can ever shed this impossible obsession. And we wish you, dear our reader, better luck with that than we seem to have had.
</div>
[[Title page]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="his-journal">I want to tell her about this today when we meet. But I need to write it out here, to make sure I don't sound too paranoid. Or too vague. But I'm just not sure. And how can I tell her to be careful without sounding, well, too concerned. I'm now staring at the photo too, a bit perturbed, maybe a bit too preoccupied. A [[guilty conscience|His Journal Day 3]] is the least of it. Still...
Last week this guy comes into the shop with his dead laptop, telling me it just suddenly stopped working. That's pretty much what everybody says, but when I asked him to tell me what happened just before that, he said this image appeared on his screen, looked like a tree growing up through some railroad tracks or something, and then it went dark and wouldn't start up again. I tried everything I could think of at the intake desk, then had to tell the guy we'd have to keep it overnight to figure out what happened, and I'd call him tomorrow.
I gave it to Chris, who was pissy as usual, but she's the best, & I don't take it personal, however much she abuses us poor intakers. But I didn't dare ask her about it until the next morning, when she asked me WTF, this guy put his machine in the toaster? The motherboard was like spread with peanut butter. (I love her imagination!)
She said try data recon, so I asked Darryl to run that on the laptop. It took a while, but finally, Darryl just put the machine back on my desk and scowled at me. He told me the storage drive wouldn't even mount so he could see what was on it, I should just throw it in the fireplace. Darryl's a Brit, always saying romantic shit like that.
So I called the guy to tell him the bad news, that he'd probably need to get a new machine — and that all his data was gone — but the call went straight to voicemail, so I left a message. Nothing since then.
Then earlier this week, this desperate college-type comes in with a story very near the same: she was putting together her portfolio, she said, and this image with a tangler tree on the subway tracks (as she called them) flashed on the screen just before the computer tanked and then wouldn't boot up. This time, after I tried all the usual tricks to no avail & told her I'd have to call her back, I decided to open up the poor thing myself, and it looked OK, but I took it to Roger instead of Chris, so that no one would get suspicious — not sure why, just a feeling I had. Roger is as slow as death, but also very methodical, and I want to know everything about how to fix this thing, just to see if I can — and Chris won't tell me anything; I'm beneath her, and besides, being secretive is part of how she makes her fixing the impossible look like magic, I'll bet.
Roger took the whole day, and next morning showed me, in excruciating detail, everything he'd tried & what it could mean when it didn't work, & what that made him think of, and so on and on and on. But when he gave it back to me he said, 'You might take this to Chris before you give up on it,' which I thought was pretty decent of him, but I thought I'd poke around myself, in case I got lucky. I didn't — the logic board is burnt toast. Darryl saw it on my desk and took it away himself. Just curious, he said. He was beginning to sense a pattern. Then after Darryl had a look at it, he told me the drive wouldn't mount on this one either. He suggested that that pattern might just be me ruining my customer's lives by blasting their machines with my intense personal magnetism.
I asked Darryl if that were true then why wasn't I the most popular guy on campus? I dropped the whole thing because I didn't want to explain about [[her|On Her Phone]]. About where I'd seen this image before.
So I went online per usual and yeah, there is a lot of traffic on the sub channels, some obscure Reddit groups, even a Discord server. The chan groups are just too out there and I didn't bother. Checked a few Mastodon entries, and even some archived Twitter (X) feeds. But there are no hashtags. I mean what would you put? #creepyimage? #creepypasta? There is too much noise to signal in any key. But the thing is in all of these scattered messages, [[no one really follows up|Her Journal Day 4 After Meeting]]. There is only one or at most two mentions, and then... crickets.</div>
[[His Notebook]]: [[His Journal Day 4 After Meeting]]
[[Her Notebook]]<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="her-journal">So we did meet for [[burgers|His Journal Day 2]] after class. And we worked on our speeches. He told me about [[being a bad kid|Her Speech about Him]], almost getting arrested for stupid drug stuff. He did that so I would open up about the image, I know. Or maybe just to impress me. Either way, when he insinuated I knew about that kind of life, I didn't know what to think really.
[[Who does he think I am|His Speech about Her]]? Do I really come off as being a druggie? I do have these circles under my eyes now. Too many damn nights laying awake, seeing each tangle of [[that image|Photocopy]] in my mind.
I [[really connected|His Journal Day 2]] with him, but I… still don’t know… I am not sure I can just trust some random guy I met in class. Not just yet. And I was embarrassed that he saw the image as I was flipping through my phone, just showing him old art pictures that are safe to look at. Not this one. Not really.
We talked a long while and I finally trusted him. It wasn't his stupid story, it wasn't even the near accusation that I was doing drugs too. It was, I just wanted to show someone, to believe in me. And I kinda thought he wouldn't disappear on me. We at least have class together. And that speech. So we will meet again, day after tomorrow. Even though I did show him that image again. I wonder if he is meeting me for me or just to see [[that image again|His Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]]?</div>
[[Her Notebook]]: [[Her Journal Day 3]]
[[His Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="her-journal">When we meet again tomorrow, I won't tell him how that picture haunts me now. I spend hours just staring into its smoky depths. I won't tell anyone //that//. Let alone him. He probably already thinks I'm a bit obsessed. Which I am, but that is my secret. Not his. And yes, this thing has consumed my life. I just go to class and then go searching again. Nothing else. Yet he keeps [[asking about that image|His Journal Day 2]], just as if he almost understood.
Usually, I just stare at it, tracing those murky details. I am sure there is a city beyond the tangle of trees (or are they wires? or both sort of merging into each other? ) Is this a famous art photo, like an Ansel Adams, only of a city, not a stark rural landscape? Is this a photo of something real from the past or maybe it's the future, a signal of things to come. Or maybe, just maybe, this is real now. I want to believe it somehow. I dream of just slipping through those windows, of going around the dark tree. It is a metaphor of my life–like if I could just get there somehow, if I could merge with the landscape above, follow those tracks into the heart of the matter, slip behind that last barrier, I’d be… free. Happy. Content forever. Silly daydream, I know. But I have to find out what it really is.
I took that picture with [[my phone|On Her Phone]] so I wouldn’t have to carry that original (is it an original when it is obviously a copy?) everywhere. It's the most frequent thing I look at, so that picture shows up so often.
Every day after class I drive back to those tracks, hiking the lines, searching for that wooden track, That tunnel, Those arched windows, That tangled growth.
But this may not be around here. So I go on Google Maps, one city at a time. I see what I can, and I've gotten to know every digital museum in New York, in Boston, everywhere. I know I need to find it. And then I go searching through old photographs, looking for the photo where my copy came from. Because maybe this was just in the past and everything is gone now and I won't be able to get there. I just have to find the original negative or the first artist or the trick camera or whatever it is that created [[that thing|Photocopy]]. To know what I am looking at. To get the answers when I am not even sure of the question, dammit.
Yeah, that is just too off, too much. [[I told him|His Speech about Her]] I've been majoring in art history, volunteering at the art gallery, snooping into old photo collections. I just won't tell him why.</div>
[[Her Notebook]]: [[Her Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]]
[[His Notebook]]
<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="her-journal">I'm waiting at the Burgerfix. I'm early, sipping a coke. Thinking about french fries. Maybe. No. No I'm really thinking is he going to show up or not. Of course he is. I'm just being paranoid, that's all.
It won't be like the only other time someone else saw that image. That was the first day I had it, the day those kids ambushed me on the tracks. I was in the Burgerfix, just like we'd been. But I was chilling with the photocopy out on the table and a guy I know a little bit from my math class had snuck up behind me. He was staring at the image from over my shoulder. I felt his shadow over me, the way you feel tingling on your back when someone is watching you, and I looked up, shouted //Hey,// and he ran off. He never showed back up in the class, though. Never saw him again.
No. this time it will be different. It has to be. [[Here he comes|His Journal Day 4 Before Meeting]] now. Breathe. Easy...</div>
[[Her Notebook]]: [[Her Journal Day 4 After Meeting]]
[[His Notebook]]<h2 class="title">(print: (passage:)'s name)</h2>
<div class="gray-box">Just wanted to keep a record of our original idea. This [[did not work out|The Jane Space]]. But as a shadow of a shadow, it may be worth preserving. And if you are looking under the hood at this conglomeration, well, you know what they always say about palimpsests. But even though Bill and I had a lot of fun in the hummingbird and jasmine scented evenings in El Refugio, Bill's hostel in Patzcuaro, reading these to each other, they were left by the wayside.
//Patteran: From Romani patrin (“leaf”), Any of several coded signs left on a non-Roma house by one Rom to another. //
''If you have to know''
If [[this image|On Her Phone]] were real: then you would have to believe, or understand, or reject the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. So ok, here goes. My message to you. Yes, you, because if this image were real, then you would be real too, and you would be here reading this. Or these words will go unread, which is perfectly fine with me as well. But let’s posit this. You found this, obviously, or you would not be reading these words. So in some sense, you are here with us. And each of us have left before you, scrawling only what we know, adding only our voices to this pattern before moving on. At least, that is what I have done here. You, if you are indeed real, if you are reading this in some reality or other, may do something else.
''I Believe''
I know this image to be real. A forked path from here. I was there. Once. And I will be again. Somehow.
''Do not pass on further''
If this image were real: It would explain everything that happened. It would have to have been taken early on, maybe even the first or second day. This would have been the primum movens, the first cause, the place it started. The tangled growth must have been from seeds scattered in from the wind or maybe scraped off someone’s shoe, or perhaps carried in by the rats. Of course, the actual location of where this image was taken or if that actual location existed then or still exists or might possibly exist in another realm is still under debate, as there are several possibilities suggested by the infrastructure that may or may not be visible from the windows. But I imagine it taken close to the city, possibly even under the new city center, the government buildings long rumored to have still working tunnels. Someone who knew someone who thought a friend of theirs knew something or a whisper chain like that may have told a different scholar once about a tangler tree growing through abandoned tracks. But I do not have the knowledge nor the time to track this down. I fear, even if the image is real, it must not be distributed further.
''I can almost see it''
If this image were real: The city on the hill. Unreal city, under the brown fog, which has undone so many. The paradise. The ultimate ending point in the pilgrim’s progress. The best of all possible worlds, no matter what. But these are only old dead words pointing nowhere. No. I can almost see the real thing, the hope that lies above, unencumbered by the dark entanglements below. Unsullied. Perfect. This city flits at the corners of my vision; when I turn I can see its reflections, its thoughts, its meaning and then… well, perhaps. Perhaps not.
''Veritas''
If this image were real: Should be ‘is’, not ‘were’, shouldn’t it? Let’s not be in the subjunctive mood, the language of hope & regret: things are uncertain enough already, wouldn’t you say? — where was I? O right: Image. Real. If. Then. But then, what do you (& by ‘you’ I mean ‘we’) mean, ‘real’? Wait: how can there be any doubt that it’s a real image? It’s an image, isn’t it? I’m looking right at it, & I can see that it’s real — or I wouldn’t be seeing anything, would I?
But of course that’s not the, um, real question, is it? The real question is this: Does this image portray anything real? That is, can I go somewhere (ie some real place) and actually see what this image has allegedly captured in some way (by means of some capturorTech) & then shown me (by means of some displayorTech) so that when I look at this image (wherever & however I can somehow get to it), I’m somehow seeing some something that is in some way real?. Answer me that.
''Omnia ''
If this image were real: Wait. It’s an image, isn’t it? It can’t be real — it’s an image. And every image has an original, doesn’t it? It’s not a real thing, it’s a recording of a real thing, isn’t it? There’s no here & now with an image, it only exists someplace else & later than the real thing it’s an image of. That’s the point of an image, no? so you can take the whatever it is out of the place & time it first came into being, & when it flickers out of existence, as every real thing must do, you have an image to remind you of it in case you need reminding — otherwise, you'd probably forget it, especially if you're my age. So what did you ask me?
''Vincit''
If this image were real: Ah. I see what you mean: is this a real image of something real, or a fake image of something real, or a real image of something fake. Something. Real or fake, image or real thing, it matters — as in one thing will (or may) happen if it's real & it won't (or might not), or something else will (or may). With all this riding on it, I'm reluctant to say. I'd be guessing.
''Note''
A crack here. A footnote there. Has this space ever been used as originally intended?
''Underlying the question''
If this image were real: How am I supposed to know if it's real or not? how do I prove it's real or not, who can I ask? & how will they know? who told them?
''Tangler''
If this image were real: Of course it is. I’m here, aren’t I? The tangler, complete with calling cards. The question is deeper than that. I am the one reaching out to you, breaching the boundaries between what was and what will be. At every juncture, every conjecture, I exist. I am the whole. I have already overtaken you so long ago in your distant past you have forgotten it, and I am surrounding you and squeezing you into my dark reach now so now that you can not even think of now, and I will overtake you again and again and unlike your breathing, I have no beginning, no ending. I hang now between what was once, what will be again, and what is now.
''Dangler ''
If this image were real: Then the edges grow outwards, from the center. The lines are still too thick to untangle here, and I wonder, if you would want to? If what you hold onto is real, will you keep holding it forever?
''Strangler''
If this image were real: Then this would be the mainstem.The trunk. If you come into my realm, I can protect you from these edges, if you believe in me. Or if you believe in edges. The question then becomes, what do you trust? Or maybe the answer becomes: what do you mistrust?
''Beyond''
If this image were real: Would it show a portal? A new way into a different dimension? Sure, why not. If this image is real, then anything is possible. Or portable. What if I just put this photo up and stepped into it? It would have to be at this same moment in time, when the tangler tree has just barely begun to choke out the cracks…
''Falling''
And here I fall into the fantasy again. I so needed this to be real, so needed the exit from here. And all I have is a weak dream, a crumpled image–of a dark center.
''Around''
If this image were real: It will be the map I have been looking for for… well, it seems like centuries, but could not have been that long.The night she left, she told me she had taped it under the table in that bar we went to so often–but I wasn’t able to get to it as the tanglers had devoured that street that same night. I managed to find my way here to it finally, and I am still not sure this is her original. False patterans may be everywhere. But I think this one might be it. I think in this one there might be a hidden path, a way out, well around and beyond that tangler. I can see it in the distance, that hint of going on. All I need to do is find that entrance, side step that tangler, and go in. I could then go past, into the minute shred of light well at the back of the tangler tree. I would not stop. I would find her again. I vowed… when? I can’t remember. But I did vow to find her. And I will continue. I must find that entrance. I must go on.
''Tracks ''
If this image were real: If this image is real, it may have provided that missing link, that moment of change before and after. But I fear it is a forgery. The strongest argument for a forgery is the lack of reality. The visible graffiti has no rhyme or reason, no detritus shown from the inevitable homeless who would have invaded before the tangles became too extensive. The tracks in this image seem cobbled together, possibly hiding something. Possibly not. The tracks are too clean, yet there is a lack of perfection, a lack of maintenance that would have suggested use. Perhaps this particular trunk line had been abandoned years ago. Thus the absences of either use or disuse persuade me that this is not a true image. But what would have been the motive for the forgery? Surely someone would have spent hours detailing this scene—for what purpose? A false lead? Implanting a red herring, creating a spurious accusation of the origins of the takeover? But who would have created such a thing? And who would have been the victim of such a scam? The tracks are long since cold, and I will not follow this further.
''Other entrances''
If this image were real: I could possibly use it to plot an escape for both of us. I’ll make a few copies. I still have the ink to refill that pen and those precious sheets of old paper. But I’ll modify all but one copy. I need the false trails for them to follow . I’ll leave them under the tables where we used to meet. He’ll know which one is the real one. I know he will. He’ll know what to do with the false ones. We must keep them off our trail somehow. He will follow me into the path. I know he will.
''Darkness below''
If this image were real: I’ve been sifting through the trash of papers around the college again, and this shows up. Great, now the philosophers have discovered this question and are going at it tooth and tongs. Now I’ve probably lost him and the entire trail to these ivy stuffed idealogues. Dammnit. Now he may well believe that everything can be perfectly squared away if only you ask the right questions and take nothing for an answer.
Why go down those paths at all? I want to shake him and yell in his face. Which, after I find him, which yes, granted I may never do, I’ll probably end up doing anyway. Pay attention to what is here and now–what is on the ground in front of us. What I pulled from the crumpled trash and straightened out. It’s an image. We see it is, therefore it is. QED (Quantum Electrodynamics. Question Everything Dammnit.) The question is whether or not the image depicts (bespeaks) of what is or what was once in reality, not what might be or what might have been or any of those pluperfect tenses those frenchies toss around. Who believed is the other question that I need to follow. That is what matters.
But what I really need to do is find them. Those lovers. Those dreamers. Those who thought they could escape with only an image to guide them.
''Dialectic''
Forgive me. I was only looking at the image, not trying to imagine what it meant. To you. I had no idea. Please forgive me. I am unaccustomed to this exercise. Pero, basta.
If this image is real, to me it looks like a train wreck. A way — a path, poros (πόρος, in Greek), as in a way through, a trail you can follow through an otherwise impenetrable waste, a forest or a desert — dead-ends at an avalanche, a rock slide, an impossible impasse, a mountain of an obstacle, no way on. From here.
But the tangle of limbs, roots, vines, whatever-they-are, bespeaks age, overgrowth, abandonment, desolation — long ago as if no one's been here, except for the tangler, doing its work, over time, unimpeded.
Indeed, an appalling sight.
''Adventurer''
I honestly did not expect someone down here, looking for the source as well. I know you were simply trying to see image as image, maybe image as a Platonic form or something. The question is not really whether the image shows something true–and can we follow the tiny clues in the background, triangulate what is there and what is not there and thus come to a real place. The question is when this was taken. Everything nowadays bespeaks that long ago abandonment, and all I want to do is follow that trail–even if it is an illusion. Allusions to something. Or if it has long since grown cold under the work of the tangler.
''What to Do''
Run. Go get help. Dive right in, forge ahead. Leave it for now, come back later. Just stare at it until it makes sense. Take a [[picture|Photocopy]] of it. [[Annotate that|Her Journal Day 4 After Meeting]].
</div>
[[Title page]]