On the subject of literature and literary....
I'm not so sure what I think about this subject. It does seem like new media works are essentially literary, but can they be categorized with literature under one umbrella term?
We don't term a painting that creates dual metaphors using a new medium as literary, but it is essentially the same, sometimes.
Because there are so many new avenues available in hypermediated literature, I think that there should be some new term. I think that these new media works should get a new name all their own. This medium could be called something like multiliterature or litermedia. I don't have a doctorate degree in anything so my opinion is bound to come off somewhat ignorant.
New media has opened up doors and windows to the literate mind in ways that have never been available before. What the future holds for it is uncertain, but it is going to develop. The great thinkers of our time will make sure of that. I believe that hypermediated literature will eventually remediate to the point that it is only slightly related to what we consider literature. Because of this, we should not hinder ourselves by so closely relating it to literature. We should encourage and develop this as an entirely new opportunity for the mind.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Multimedia Writing Post 4
The video that we watched in class the other day really has me thinking. I'm referring to the video that uses children to talk about the necessity of modern communications technology in the class.
It seems to me that the American perception of education has become overly relaxed. I am speaking primarily about high school education. Children learn from media and their peers that high school is to be the golden years of their youth. Teenagers are encouraged to excel in school, but only as long as it doesn't interfere with proper socialization. They are led to believe that while they are in high school, social networking and development are most important, and education is secondary. These youths are encouraged by their parents to be social and have fun while they can, because after high school there comes the real world.
Education needs to be culturally reinforced as the primary objective for school. This should be inculcated into modern media. If I turn on the television right now, I could probably find four or five shows about high school students (no doubt played by twenty-something year olds) but somehow the important role of education in the lives of these characters is somehow left out completely. I'm not saying that there is anything wrong with proper socialization of enjoying one's youth. I do believe that recreation and socialization are important to the development of our youth; however, it is of the utmost importance that students and parents realize the serious necessity of education to the future of the individual and the country. Education is the key to success and further development in our culture pedagogy is most important.
I think that there maybe some skepticism about using new communication technologies in the classroom, but I really believe that this is because people are afraid that the quality of education received by the modern youth will depreciate. The fact of the matter is that the medium does not change the message. The modern youth’s perception of the world has been metamorphosized by technology, therefore, the technology which so influenced the development of this generation should become the voice of learning.
It seems to me that the American perception of education has become overly relaxed. I am speaking primarily about high school education. Children learn from media and their peers that high school is to be the golden years of their youth. Teenagers are encouraged to excel in school, but only as long as it doesn't interfere with proper socialization. They are led to believe that while they are in high school, social networking and development are most important, and education is secondary. These youths are encouraged by their parents to be social and have fun while they can, because after high school there comes the real world.
Education needs to be culturally reinforced as the primary objective for school. This should be inculcated into modern media. If I turn on the television right now, I could probably find four or five shows about high school students (no doubt played by twenty-something year olds) but somehow the important role of education in the lives of these characters is somehow left out completely. I'm not saying that there is anything wrong with proper socialization of enjoying one's youth. I do believe that recreation and socialization are important to the development of our youth; however, it is of the utmost importance that students and parents realize the serious necessity of education to the future of the individual and the country. Education is the key to success and further development in our culture pedagogy is most important.
I think that there maybe some skepticism about using new communication technologies in the classroom, but I really believe that this is because people are afraid that the quality of education received by the modern youth will depreciate. The fact of the matter is that the medium does not change the message. The modern youth’s perception of the world has been metamorphosized by technology, therefore, the technology which so influenced the development of this generation should become the voice of learning.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Multimedia Writing Post 3
In examining Aarseth's introduction to ergodic literature I suddenly had a realization, an understanding, an epiphany. I don't know exactly what the proper term is but I had it.
It seems that after reading and 'knowing' the information that I've studied about the mind as a writing space I had really only gained a vague idea of what that meant. As Dr. Bradley would say, I knew what it was about, but had no clue what it meant. There is a paragraph in Aarseth's introduction which elucidates a central point in hypermediated literature theory (as far as I understand it) in such a way that it unravels a tangled mesh that I had thus far failed to recognize as my own mind. Up to that point in time, I had only managed to connect the mind as a writing space in relation to the hypermediated reading I personally encounter daily (news, myspace, facebook, blogs, wikis etc.). My failure was that I did not recognize the overlap of narrative literature and cyborg theory.
In reading a hypermediated 'narrative', I would not depend upon the original author to calculate my response, or my understanding of the work. Unlike the traditional, linear narrative form I would be a participant the work itself. In this way hypermedia is like the almanac. It may be distributed uniformly, but the piece becomes unique unto its reader. When I read a hypermediated narrative, my personal narration is unbound from the chains of the traditional static page and given navigational freedom. In fact, the reading of that piece would depend on my navigation in such a way that I must meld my mind with the machine in order to create a working narrative.
The substance of the narrative is like liquid mercury. Alone, it will not guide itself into a shape, but when my thoughts interplay with the narrative they work as a mold which illuminates the narrative as a specific, unique work. Alone, neither will produce a final narrative, but together, the mind and the machine will construct a work that is specific to me. I have become the author in this sense because the original author has allowed, neigh, forced me to inculcate my own thought process into the development of this narrative. We share a work which serves genuine purpose for me, the reader, but it's purpose is not uniform since I, being a thoughtful human being, can remediate this narrative thereby creating a new purpose and still preserve the 'original' in my hard drive, a place also known as the mind.
It seems that after reading and 'knowing' the information that I've studied about the mind as a writing space I had really only gained a vague idea of what that meant. As Dr. Bradley would say, I knew what it was about, but had no clue what it meant. There is a paragraph in Aarseth's introduction which elucidates a central point in hypermediated literature theory (as far as I understand it) in such a way that it unravels a tangled mesh that I had thus far failed to recognize as my own mind. Up to that point in time, I had only managed to connect the mind as a writing space in relation to the hypermediated reading I personally encounter daily (news, myspace, facebook, blogs, wikis etc.). My failure was that I did not recognize the overlap of narrative literature and cyborg theory.
The study of cybertexts reveals the misprision of the spaciodynamic metaphors of narrative theory, because ergodic literature incarnates these models in a way linear text narratives do not. This may e hard to understand for the traditional literary critic who cannot perceive the difference between metaphorical structure and logical structure, but it is essential. The cybertext reader is a player, a gambler; the cybertext is a game-world or world-game; it is possible to explore, get lost, and discover secret paths in these texts, not metaphorically, but through the topographical structures of the textual machinery. This is not a difference between games and literature but rather between games and narratives. To claim that there is no difference between games and narratives is to ignore essential qualities of both categories. And yet, as this study tires to show, the difference is not clear cut, and there is significant overlap between the two.
In reading a hypermediated 'narrative', I would not depend upon the original author to calculate my response, or my understanding of the work. Unlike the traditional, linear narrative form I would be a participant the work itself. In this way hypermedia is like the almanac. It may be distributed uniformly, but the piece becomes unique unto its reader. When I read a hypermediated narrative, my personal narration is unbound from the chains of the traditional static page and given navigational freedom. In fact, the reading of that piece would depend on my navigation in such a way that I must meld my mind with the machine in order to create a working narrative.
The substance of the narrative is like liquid mercury. Alone, it will not guide itself into a shape, but when my thoughts interplay with the narrative they work as a mold which illuminates the narrative as a specific, unique work. Alone, neither will produce a final narrative, but together, the mind and the machine will construct a work that is specific to me. I have become the author in this sense because the original author has allowed, neigh, forced me to inculcate my own thought process into the development of this narrative. We share a work which serves genuine purpose for me, the reader, but it's purpose is not uniform since I, being a thoughtful human being, can remediate this narrative thereby creating a new purpose and still preserve the 'original' in my hard drive, a place also known as the mind.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
I also wrote this one time
‘Charades’
"To a life well played."
"Cheers!" I happily congratulate myself. With the flick of the wrist I toss back a gin and tonic, my third, I think, or was it my fourth? Well, it makes no difference really; after all, this is a celebration.
"What a dreadfully delightful party," I say to myself.
"Could one have better company on such a dearly special occasion?" I wonder aloud.
"I highly doubt it," I reply seriously.
"Still, it is a shame though," I reflect through a half merry, half wistful smile, "that we are the only ones who can enjoy this parade."
"Indeed it is," I reply gravely.
With beaming eyes and a radiant glow that only a series of well-toasted gin and tonics can give one, I look at the passersby and begin to whistle a little ditty my grandfather taught me.
"Did I say parade? Yes, yes I did. I think I meant Charade."
A light flickers, on, then off for a few seconds, and then on, like the fluttering heart of a young lover or the nearly dead.
"Yes, charade," being now quite convinced that it is a charade.
I suddenly realize that I have yet to toast the charade. "To a charade well played! For what better life is there than the life that never was. Cheers!" and with the flick of the wrist, I toss back my third gin and tonic, or was it my fourth?
"To a life well played."
"Cheers!" I happily congratulate myself. With the flick of the wrist I toss back a gin and tonic, my third, I think, or was it my fourth? Well, it makes no difference really; after all, this is a celebration.
"What a dreadfully delightful party," I say to myself.
"Could one have better company on such a dearly special occasion?" I wonder aloud.
"I highly doubt it," I reply seriously.
"Still, it is a shame though," I reflect through a half merry, half wistful smile, "that we are the only ones who can enjoy this parade."
"Indeed it is," I reply gravely.
With beaming eyes and a radiant glow that only a series of well-toasted gin and tonics can give one, I look at the passersby and begin to whistle a little ditty my grandfather taught me.
"Did I say parade? Yes, yes I did. I think I meant Charade."
A light flickers, on, then off for a few seconds, and then on, like the fluttering heart of a young lover or the nearly dead.
"Yes, charade," being now quite convinced that it is a charade.
I suddenly realize that I have yet to toast the charade. "To a charade well played! For what better life is there than the life that never was. Cheers!" and with the flick of the wrist, I toss back my third gin and tonic, or was it my fourth?
Here's something I wrote one time
Life among the obscenely rich and beautiful is quite lovely. There is an endless gala of parties, gifts, rich food and delightful company, or so I hear.
My life is not so much among the obscenely rich and beautiful as it is 3 blocks from the ghetto and 2 doors down from the obscene.
This is not a story about life, privilege, or even deprivation. The truth is, this isn't an actual story. It is a series of words compiled in such an order so as to sound exactly like a story. It benefits no one except the author, who realizes that it is actually a joke, meant to mislead publishers into actually writing him a check.
My name is Mark, and I live the rotting little town of Hogswallow. It is a wonderfully scenic little town nestled between the sparkling Atlantic and the edge of humanity. Incidentally it smells of 3-day-old soggy bread.
I am 22 years old, yes, thank-you, I am still very young, I realize this, and you, having the beginnings of a receding hairline and crows feet, are also acutely aware of this fact as well, I'm sure.
I'm 22 and I work in a small coffee shop on the corner. It is a wonderfully cliché' little place. Luke-warm coffee, chili and a 30 year old sign which in an enduring act of protest, continues to insist that the shop is open, very rudely I might add, while I am taking my indefinite lunch break.
I "serve" a large number of interesting people with interesting stories. Before I continue, I feel it necessary to clarify that the quotations about the word 'serve' are not to indicate that I find my job demeaning, or the position of servant unbecoming, it simply means that I do not serve my customers, generally, they either leave in a huff, or accept it as it is and help themselves around me.
The interesting part begins here, in this crummy little coffee shop.
It's 6:30 in the evening, and in walks a most beautiful woman with cascading curls of auburn hair and a body that Davinci couldn't master.
In fact, she was so fetching in her tight black dress and high heeled boots, I was nearly tempted out of the comfort of my stool, but, thinking better of it, I chose to stay in place and let her come to me.
I didn't know it at the time, but that women was Gina something or other, I'm terrible with last names.
Anyway, that women, unbeknownst to young and innocent me sitting there on the stool, was a professional temptress. With her soft ivory skin and delicate pink lips, Gina got everything she wanted.
Upon entering the diner that October evening, Gina had already decided what she wanted and how she wanted it, (a bit of a habit with her). After taking a seat at one of the faded booths, she glanced sharply at me. I knew then that she wanted me. So with every bit of macho-ness that I could muster, I swaggered over to her table, and in my best attempt at a cool James Dean nonchalance, I asked her exactly what she hoped I would ask her.
"Would you like to hear about our specials today?"
"No," she replied caustically, but I could tell that she really meant, 'yes, please give it to me.' So I did, I gave it to her. "Today's special is the corned beef with green bean surprise, and your choice of wheat or white bread."
She glared at me for a moment, pretending to be insulted, and replied, "I'll just have a coffee, thank-you."
"Yes ma’m. I'll have that right out to you," I lied, and resumed my post of comfort next to the register.
As I leafed through a year old copy of AARP I could feel her staring intently at my backside, and suddenly I was very aware that I had a backside. Momentarily I wondered how it must look and hoped that she enjoyed the view.
"Sir..."
"Sir..."
"Hey!" Yelled the temptress, "what's your problem? I'm waiting for my coffee!"
"Oh yes," I replied, feeling a blush of embarrassment creeping to my cheeks. "I'm sorry. The mugs are on the blue cart and coffee is over there next to the radio."
Well the beautiful customer stared at first in disbelief, and I feeling very generous replied with a, if I do say so myself, adorable smirk. I suppose that she thought I was getting fresh because she walked over to the coffee maker, grabbed the coffee pot, walked ever so seductively over to me and poured its contents in my lap.
I at once felt a rush of discomfort and relief. Discomfort because a beautiful women had just poured coffee all over my lap in front of my one tipping customer, and relief came with the realization that I had never plugged in the machine, so it was yesterday's, thankfully, cold coffee.
"Now, fix me a cup of coffee," ordered the temptress.
That was the last straw. I was going to show her who gave the orders around here. I was just about to take her right there in the diner, but noticing her well-developed biceps, I thought it best to be the gentleman and walk away from that particular fight.
So, I did as any red-blooded man would do. I made a fresh pot of coffee and served it to the woman.
"Why don't you join me?" she asked as I poured her coffee.
I just stared in shock, like a deer caught in the headlights. Of course I could think of a number of good reasons why I shouldn't have joined her, but then that just ruins all the fun of experience.
Pulling up my sopping wet britches, I took a seat opposite of her. "I'm Mark, and you are?" I enquired. "I'm Gina, Gina Something or other." she replied.
"It's very nice to meet you," I said.
"Indeed," she replied.
"Now look, I don't have a lot of time, so here it is. You stink at your job, and I think that it's because you're unhappy."
"My," I said, pretending to be taken aback, "what an astute observation. Don't tell me you're a detective?"
"No, you smart ass. But I am someone who can help you make a lot more money than you're making now and help you attain true inner happiness."
“It's so hot when she calls me names” I thought. "Oh really, and how's that?" I asked.
"Reliction," she replied
"Excuse me?" I asked, having the vague feeling that I had read about it in a sex ed pamphlet.
"Reliction, is a movement that has helped tens of people to realize that true enlightenment doesn't come from God, it comes from fictional characters placed in well written stories, which are created by the spiritual compass of the author."
At this point, I was pretty sure that Gina was not planning on using me to satisfy her most secret bad-boy fantasies, so I was ready to bail.
"Listen, it's been nice talking to you doll, but I've got to get going."
"Wait," she looked so desperate with her pleading soft blue eyes, that I did, I waited. "I know that you think I'm crazy, but I really need someone to help me sell this or I'm going to get canned." she said and pushed a paperback book entitled, 'God is an Alien.' toward me.
"I work for a publishing company called 'Word Rite' and my boss is a Relictionologist."
"O.k., well, this is weird. What do you want from me?"
"I need a regular guy with no motivation and even less personality to be my advertisement. I need you to be my proof that Relictionology is real."
"Lady, are you off your rocker? You can't be serious." I said flabbergasted.
"Oh, I can see how you might get confused. Of course I know that this isn't a real religion. Reliction was cooked up by a 73-year-old publishing executive named Collin Lears during an exceptionally wild acid trip. But, this has the potential to bring in billions of dollars to the industry, and most of that would be going to the founding publisher." Looking me up and down, she continued, "here's my card. Think it over tonight, and give me a call tomorrow if you're interested."
As she was walking to the grungy glass door to leave, I said, "I just have one question. How much does this pay?" I had to ask, fool that I was I had to ask.
"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month." she said
"Hold on, let me get my coat." I replied.
My life is not so much among the obscenely rich and beautiful as it is 3 blocks from the ghetto and 2 doors down from the obscene.
This is not a story about life, privilege, or even deprivation. The truth is, this isn't an actual story. It is a series of words compiled in such an order so as to sound exactly like a story. It benefits no one except the author, who realizes that it is actually a joke, meant to mislead publishers into actually writing him a check.
My name is Mark, and I live the rotting little town of Hogswallow. It is a wonderfully scenic little town nestled between the sparkling Atlantic and the edge of humanity. Incidentally it smells of 3-day-old soggy bread.
I am 22 years old, yes, thank-you, I am still very young, I realize this, and you, having the beginnings of a receding hairline and crows feet, are also acutely aware of this fact as well, I'm sure.
I'm 22 and I work in a small coffee shop on the corner. It is a wonderfully cliché' little place. Luke-warm coffee, chili and a 30 year old sign which in an enduring act of protest, continues to insist that the shop is open, very rudely I might add, while I am taking my indefinite lunch break.
I "serve" a large number of interesting people with interesting stories. Before I continue, I feel it necessary to clarify that the quotations about the word 'serve' are not to indicate that I find my job demeaning, or the position of servant unbecoming, it simply means that I do not serve my customers, generally, they either leave in a huff, or accept it as it is and help themselves around me.
The interesting part begins here, in this crummy little coffee shop.
It's 6:30 in the evening, and in walks a most beautiful woman with cascading curls of auburn hair and a body that Davinci couldn't master.
In fact, she was so fetching in her tight black dress and high heeled boots, I was nearly tempted out of the comfort of my stool, but, thinking better of it, I chose to stay in place and let her come to me.
I didn't know it at the time, but that women was Gina something or other, I'm terrible with last names.
Anyway, that women, unbeknownst to young and innocent me sitting there on the stool, was a professional temptress. With her soft ivory skin and delicate pink lips, Gina got everything she wanted.
Upon entering the diner that October evening, Gina had already decided what she wanted and how she wanted it, (a bit of a habit with her). After taking a seat at one of the faded booths, she glanced sharply at me. I knew then that she wanted me. So with every bit of macho-ness that I could muster, I swaggered over to her table, and in my best attempt at a cool James Dean nonchalance, I asked her exactly what she hoped I would ask her.
"Would you like to hear about our specials today?"
"No," she replied caustically, but I could tell that she really meant, 'yes, please give it to me.' So I did, I gave it to her. "Today's special is the corned beef with green bean surprise, and your choice of wheat or white bread."
She glared at me for a moment, pretending to be insulted, and replied, "I'll just have a coffee, thank-you."
"Yes ma’m. I'll have that right out to you," I lied, and resumed my post of comfort next to the register.
As I leafed through a year old copy of AARP I could feel her staring intently at my backside, and suddenly I was very aware that I had a backside. Momentarily I wondered how it must look and hoped that she enjoyed the view.
"Sir..."
"Sir..."
"Hey!" Yelled the temptress, "what's your problem? I'm waiting for my coffee!"
"Oh yes," I replied, feeling a blush of embarrassment creeping to my cheeks. "I'm sorry. The mugs are on the blue cart and coffee is over there next to the radio."
Well the beautiful customer stared at first in disbelief, and I feeling very generous replied with a, if I do say so myself, adorable smirk. I suppose that she thought I was getting fresh because she walked over to the coffee maker, grabbed the coffee pot, walked ever so seductively over to me and poured its contents in my lap.
I at once felt a rush of discomfort and relief. Discomfort because a beautiful women had just poured coffee all over my lap in front of my one tipping customer, and relief came with the realization that I had never plugged in the machine, so it was yesterday's, thankfully, cold coffee.
"Now, fix me a cup of coffee," ordered the temptress.
That was the last straw. I was going to show her who gave the orders around here. I was just about to take her right there in the diner, but noticing her well-developed biceps, I thought it best to be the gentleman and walk away from that particular fight.
So, I did as any red-blooded man would do. I made a fresh pot of coffee and served it to the woman.
"Why don't you join me?" she asked as I poured her coffee.
I just stared in shock, like a deer caught in the headlights. Of course I could think of a number of good reasons why I shouldn't have joined her, but then that just ruins all the fun of experience.
Pulling up my sopping wet britches, I took a seat opposite of her. "I'm Mark, and you are?" I enquired. "I'm Gina, Gina Something or other." she replied.
"It's very nice to meet you," I said.
"Indeed," she replied.
"Now look, I don't have a lot of time, so here it is. You stink at your job, and I think that it's because you're unhappy."
"My," I said, pretending to be taken aback, "what an astute observation. Don't tell me you're a detective?"
"No, you smart ass. But I am someone who can help you make a lot more money than you're making now and help you attain true inner happiness."
“It's so hot when she calls me names” I thought. "Oh really, and how's that?" I asked.
"Reliction," she replied
"Excuse me?" I asked, having the vague feeling that I had read about it in a sex ed pamphlet.
"Reliction, is a movement that has helped tens of people to realize that true enlightenment doesn't come from God, it comes from fictional characters placed in well written stories, which are created by the spiritual compass of the author."
At this point, I was pretty sure that Gina was not planning on using me to satisfy her most secret bad-boy fantasies, so I was ready to bail.
"Listen, it's been nice talking to you doll, but I've got to get going."
"Wait," she looked so desperate with her pleading soft blue eyes, that I did, I waited. "I know that you think I'm crazy, but I really need someone to help me sell this or I'm going to get canned." she said and pushed a paperback book entitled, 'God is an Alien.' toward me.
"I work for a publishing company called 'Word Rite' and my boss is a Relictionologist."
"O.k., well, this is weird. What do you want from me?"
"I need a regular guy with no motivation and even less personality to be my advertisement. I need you to be my proof that Relictionology is real."
"Lady, are you off your rocker? You can't be serious." I said flabbergasted.
"Oh, I can see how you might get confused. Of course I know that this isn't a real religion. Reliction was cooked up by a 73-year-old publishing executive named Collin Lears during an exceptionally wild acid trip. But, this has the potential to bring in billions of dollars to the industry, and most of that would be going to the founding publisher." Looking me up and down, she continued, "here's my card. Think it over tonight, and give me a call tomorrow if you're interested."
As she was walking to the grungy glass door to leave, I said, "I just have one question. How much does this pay?" I had to ask, fool that I was I had to ask.
"One hundred and fifty thousand dollars a month." she said
"Hold on, let me get my coat." I replied.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Multimedia Writing Post 2
My better instinct tells me that I should spread out my blog subjects so that I can get all eight of the required posts done faster, but I really need to get this out. I'm really enjoying Multimedia media/writing or whatever you want to call it, but some of the texts we cover definitely require some ranting. First off, I want to briefly cover something that I read by Bolter on the remediation of text through the use of graphical presentation. I could not agree more with him! In contrasting the visual presentation of information and media in the 'late age of print' with that of historically textual presentation I agree that there has been a heavy handed remediation toward graphical representation. I've noticed that a lot of industries seem to have shifted from the textual and (I believe) therefore intellectual engagement of the consumer or reader to a sort of seductive allure with graphical allusion which engages the reader in some kind of an associative nostalgia.
I'm going to have to take a break before I get on the next subject of this post, Donna Haraway's "Cyborg Manifesto" which by the way gave me nightmares.
After thinking it over for a few days (I'm slow like that lol) I can honestly say that Haraway has some valid points in her essay. However, I still haven’t got a clue as to what she was talking about through most of what I read, and I know it's not just in my head when I say that I definitely picked up on some hostility toward the masculine gender. That aside, I can definitely see why she believes that we are all cyborgs. While writing my memoir it became apparent to me that things like my cell phone and online profiles are an extension of myself.
I'm going to have to take a break before I get on the next subject of this post, Donna Haraway's "Cyborg Manifesto" which by the way gave me nightmares.
After thinking it over for a few days (I'm slow like that lol) I can honestly say that Haraway has some valid points in her essay. However, I still haven’t got a clue as to what she was talking about through most of what I read, and I know it's not just in my head when I say that I definitely picked up on some hostility toward the masculine gender. That aside, I can definitely see why she believes that we are all cyborgs. While writing my memoir it became apparent to me that things like my cell phone and online profiles are an extension of myself.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Multimedia Writing Post 1
The rapidly evolving venues of communication and literary publication cannot be said to spring at the modern reader, no, in fact they seem to creep into our daily lives quietly and subtly. After reading the first chapter of Bolter's "Writing Space" it dawned on me that over the past few years, namely since starting my college career, I had thoughtlessly adopted a multifarious collection of writing formats into my every day life. It really didn't take a lot of consideration to substantiate for myself that Bolter's theory of the future of writing is less science fiction and more pragmatist than I might have thought.
Although communicating through multimedia (email, text, IM, social networks, etc) is second nature to me now, in retrospect, I can see that it wasn't always so. It's not necessarily my own new individual writing space which first came to mind when I realized just how involved I am in this, the "late age of print". It was the voice of the reputable writer, the voice for which I frequently spend hours browsing on the Internet. The world of journalism and communication has taken to the digital age swiftly and effectively. It occurred to me that I spend little time watching the news on TV or even reading it in a newspaper. I now turn to the Internet to get my news. Whether on the computer or on my mobile Internet I constantly check on the latest news feeds. With continued discussion and reading of Bolter, I realized the truth of one of his declarations; that media birthed in the "age of print" is purely static.
It's true that technology does not directly influence or mold our society; our society reacts and redefines cultural and communicative standards and boundaries based on its use and reaction of technology.
In reflection, utilize hypermedia because it offers me options. In reading a newspaper or even watching television, I'm hindered by the static pages and programming. With hypermedia I can define and alter the way in which I receive my information. I choose how the news speaks to me as a reader and a viewer. In a sense, I become the author because I dictate the writing space for myself.
Although communicating through multimedia (email, text, IM, social networks, etc) is second nature to me now, in retrospect, I can see that it wasn't always so. It's not necessarily my own new individual writing space which first came to mind when I realized just how involved I am in this, the "late age of print". It was the voice of the reputable writer, the voice for which I frequently spend hours browsing on the Internet. The world of journalism and communication has taken to the digital age swiftly and effectively. It occurred to me that I spend little time watching the news on TV or even reading it in a newspaper. I now turn to the Internet to get my news. Whether on the computer or on my mobile Internet I constantly check on the latest news feeds. With continued discussion and reading of Bolter, I realized the truth of one of his declarations; that media birthed in the "age of print" is purely static.
It's true that technology does not directly influence or mold our society; our society reacts and redefines cultural and communicative standards and boundaries based on its use and reaction of technology.
In reflection, utilize hypermedia because it offers me options. In reading a newspaper or even watching television, I'm hindered by the static pages and programming. With hypermedia I can define and alter the way in which I receive my information. I choose how the news speaks to me as a reader and a viewer. In a sense, I become the author because I dictate the writing space for myself.
