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The Convergence and the Exchange

Since my sophomore year in high school, when I turned my back on learning to program on my Apple IIe and Commodore 64, the spontaneous and impetuous analog artist, and the strict, logical, order-driven, digital programmer, have been at odds.

In October of 2001, one night before bed, I created a mockup of an interface for my website constructed of thin gray lines forming a pattern of rectangles and circles on a black background. I populated some of the shapes with touches of color, a photograph, text, links, and a logo. In my eyes it was beautiful, but in the eyes of internet technology, it was a logistics nightmare. So, late into the night, I went to bed angry, frustrated, and exhausted with my life and the design, and at an unknown hour, I began to dream.

The dream seems almost silly to me now, but why then was I thrashing and kicking the air so violently that I bounced off the mattress? And why then did I yell so loud when Bethany touched my shoulder that it was the sound of my own voice and not Bethany’s touch that startled me into waking?

There was practically nothing to the dream with the exception of a projection of myself into the midst of an abysmal, bottomless, and enveloping darkness. Projected with me were three Nazis wearing slick, shining, black leather trench coats, gloves, boots, and military hats of high ranking officers - only the red and white of the Nazi swastika armbands and the luminous pallid tone of their chiseled faces stood out from the dark hue of their attire. Two grabbed around the chest from behind and wrenched my left arm up and behind my back, as the other Nazi wrapped his upper body around my right arm like a python and forcibly straightened the arm out if front of me. And once they had me, their bodies hardened and their grips became like forged iron.

In the iron grip of the Nazis, and being thrust towards the design in the arms of these 20th century devils, the interface I created before bed appeared in a triplicate and triangular formation. But now, the touches of color, the photo, the text, the links, and the logo were stripped away, leaving only the black fill and the thin gray outlines of rectangles and circles. And now the interface was more than just a wire frame, it was a conduit from a source of immense energy, and carried an intense load of power. A power that I knew would inevitably consume me, but I would fight until the bitter end. And I knew if I touched any of the large circles, the power would enter me.

I fought with my legs kicking, pushing, and lunging to resist the slow, methodical, forward momentum of the Nazis moving my outstretched arm into the interfaces, but it was like trying to stop the momentum of a rolling locomotive. The interfaces began to move around each other the way images do in a kaleidoscope. My hand opened and I could feel the electric reverberations engulf the spaces between my fingers. I drew in one last breath of resistance, arched my back, locked my body; Bethany touched my shoulder to wake me, my hand and the digital interface connected, I yelled a powerful yell in my dream, out loud, and opened my eyes. I screamed!

Gone were the days of my manual typewriter. Gone were the days of my reel-to-reel 4-track recorder. Gone were the days of making photocopied books. Gone were the days in the red light and in the fumes of stop bath in my black and white photography darkroom. Gone were the days of writing letters and sending tapes to my friends. I don’t know why it mattered (or matters), but when I touched that interface, I realized they all, like myself, had become digital. And I felt in exchange, something intimate leaving me, but something powerful entering in exchange.

END
© 2006 Christian Cloud Abraham

Posted on January 14, 2006 in
Emotion: Subjection, Type: Dream