I called out to
the Professor but he did not hear, and as he went to cross the road he seemed
unaware of the double-decker that so nearly winged him. When he stepped onto the pavement I could see
that he was not himself. He looked
distracted, pained.
I placed myself in front of the
Professor and waved; he nearly passed me but I caught his eye just in
time. Turning, he smiled and offered his
hand.
‘Ah, my dear friend, how good to see
you!’ he exclaimed cried; too loud, even, for the bustling high street. The Professor’s voice carried the story of
his life within its layers of acquired accents.
A thin sediment of California covering a thicker French crust that itself
sat upon a core of what? Polish? German?
The Professor’s earliest years were a mystery of wartime migration to
which he had never cared to provide any clear solution, his unusual name
offering little clue. The Hitler Youth
was a whispered secret that had followed him throughout his career.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I replied. ‘I’m glad I caught you actually, because I
was meaning to ask –’
The Professor paused me with a
raised hand. ‘Wait a minute please, I
just have to –’ He fumbled in the pocket
of his winter coat. ‘Ah, that’s it, no
wait a minute… Ah, yes, that’s it!’
‘Yes, well, I’m glad I bumped into
you because –‘
‘You must forgive me,’ interrupted
the Professor. ‘I have this new gadget
in my pocket which I am still getting used to.
It is making me a little disoriented!’
He laughed.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘It is one of these new, what do you
call them, M, 3… E players? No, that is
not right…’
‘MP3 players,’ I corrected.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. I could see now that poking out from under
his scarf was a wire that led to a pair of headphones, lodged in his elderly
ears, hairs escaping out from behind them.
The Professor retrieved the player
from his pocket. Smooth and rounded like
a pebble, its LCD screen declared ‘RANDOM PLAY’ in flashing letters.
‘I never thought that you’d join the
digital revolution,’ I said. It seemed
such a funny thing for an aging academic to want to buy, back then, when the
product had not been long on the market.
But then, I was forgetting the Professor’s specialised area of research.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I need it to
understand the Dome. Oh, excuse
me…’ Harsh-sounding music was again
pouring out of the pebble. He fumbled
with his headphones, getting them entangled with his scarf, while the pebble
went spinning out of his hand, dangling from his coat pocket by the wire and
swinging against his leg.
The Dome. Of course.
The Dome was the theory that had made the Professor’s name back in the
1970s. In his seminal text, The Electric Sky, the Professor proposed
that in our compulsion to create and transmit replicas of ourselves through
technology such as photography, television, telephones and the like, we had
inadvertently created a metaphorical prison around each of us - a dome, on
which our electronic replica ‘selves’ were projected. Just as others could now only see the real
‘us’ but dimly, if at all, through the barrier of our projected
representations, so our comprehension of others and the world around us was
filtered through the images of ourselves we perceived within the Dome. The Dome not only controlled how we were
seen, but also how we saw and, therefore, how we acted.
The theory was derided by many as being an absurd and imprecise fantasy
that had little to offer in regards to any sensible analysis of the world, but
for some, especially younger academics and art students, who saw poetry and
beauty in the theory’s many contradictions, it was compelling. It was, for a time, hugely influential: a key
text of post-modernity, its ripples felt in art, architecture, design and
fashion, film and pop music. The
Professor became something of a celebrity in France, appearing often on talk
shows to discuss how ‘Dome Theory’ could be used to understand the latest
political scandal and entertainment news from Hollywood.
As technology progressed throughout
the Seventies and Eighties, the Professor updated his theory in subsequent
volumes Fax Machine Communion and The Polaroid Soul. And then, save for the chat show appearances,
there was silence. A long-awaited fourth
volume that was rumoured to deal with the communications explosion of the past
decade - particularly the Internet, which was seen by some as the absolute
vindication of the Professor’s ideas – had been scheduled for publication two
years before I first met the man. It had
yet to appear.
This was at least in part due to the
fact that n between the announcement of the publication date and our meeting,
the Professor had run into a spot of bother.
Long ensconced in the Sorbonne, where he had sat out both the Summer of
Love and the riots of ’68 - disapproving of the former because of the hippies’
lack of a coherent Marxist critique of capitalism, and paradoxically also of
the latter due to the rioters’ possession of one – he had by the late 90s
accepted a post at a mega-university on the West Coast of the USA where, in
exchange for the very occasional tutorial for post-grad students, he would be
given the time and resources to research, develop and revamp Dome Theory for
the post-post modern, post-theory and soon-to-be post-Millennial age.
Five years
passed. The Professor published the odd
‘teaser’ article for his new work in journals, but they revealed little, and
its actual content remained unconfirmed.
But then, along with the tentative date of publication, a title, The Electric Sky Has Fallen, was
announced. There was an instant buzz in
the intellectual press. An instant, but
cautious buzz. Was the Professor still
relevant, they asked? Would his new work
define the contemporary moment, or merely be a sad repetition of ideas designed
to analyse a far more technologically primitive world? Commentators could not quite decide as to
whether they should be excited or not.
The
Professor was reportedly nearly ready to submit his finished manuscript to the
publisher. Only some footnotes, the
first time he had ever used them (and perhaps an indication of an
uncharacteristic rigour with which the Professor was rumoured to have
approached this definitive, probably final, volume), had to be checked. And it was his actions in regards to the post-grad
student that was assigned to him in order to help with this task that ensured
the project’s indefinite suspension.
First it was e-mails. Then it was texts. Then it was photo messages of himself. Naked.
Erect. Smiling. Upon being presented with the said image, the
Board of Governors immediately demanded the Professor’s resignation, or else
face dismissal and possible criminal charges.
The Professor refused to go, and attempted to use Dome Theory to escape
penalisation, claiming that as the research assistant had only been distressed
by electronic representations of himself, then it was these, and not he – who,
in any case, thanks to the images’ influence, was no longer fully in control of
his actions - that was at fault.
So he ended up here, in this small
town with its little university that was once a polytechnic. There was little intellectual companionship
for him in these parts: just me and a few others. His students did not appreciate or often even
know who he was, and his fellow members of staff did not respect him. Indeed, for some, he was the father figure
that they had slain in their own intellectual journey while writing their
doctoral theses. The Professor would
have been better off retiring, and in fact his post at the university was
essentially honorary. Nevertheless, it
meant that the book, his last great book, would finally come out, as the first
publication of the university’s new press.
I would see him often in the high
street, on the way to the university or the bookshop where we, the town’s self-proclaimed
intellectual elite, would spend many an afternoon, creasing the spines of books
we would one day surely buy. And there,
on that winter day, the Professor fiddled with the MP3 pebble in his gloved
hand and finally managed to stop suspiciously modern-sounding music pumping out
of it.
‘So what have
MP3 players got to do with the Dome?’ I asked him.
‘Everything, my friend,
everything! They are the latest form of
invasion on each of our individual identities from the Dome itself. No longer content to dictate to us through
our means of self-representation, the Dome now controls us through our leisure
devices, such as this MP, ah....’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Here, let me show you.’ The Professor thrust the pebble into my
hand. ‘You see what it says here:
“RANDOM PLAY”. Now, when these players
were first put on the market, they were surely intended so that a person
controlled entirely what music they wished to listen to while mobile, yes? You would put the music in your computer,
pick one piece off of one CD, two or three off another. And then you could decide in what order
precisely you wanted to hear them. But
look what happened. Nobody had the time
to programme an order for all those hours of music. Instead, they asked their computer to select a
whole load of pieces at random from a big list of all the music they liked or
might like if they ever had time to listen to it. And that is not all. The Dome must have worked some of its little
evil magic in the design stages, because these devices have this button,
“RANDOM PLAY”. The pieces of music that
have already been selected at random by the computer are thereby further
randomised, and instead of having complete control as intended, the listener
gives it up not once, but twice: first to the computer, and then to this
device.
‘We have become slaves, but not to a
greater will, but to no will at all. We are in the thrall of pure random
sequences, generated by computer programmes. Cause and effect is over. Meaning
has ended. It is the Dome, in a
new form: the Net! Not just the
Internet, although that is part of it, of course. But why did we not realise, that when you
find yourself under a net, you are not linked, but trapped! And this wider Net
that was once the Dome has trapped us: controlling our taste, our moods -
everything that makes us ‘us’! Enslaving us
to a purely arbitrary existence! The new world order is random order. We will
all be caught in the Shuffle. No more
choice, no more discernment, no more morality.
No more right and no more wrong.
And it all begins with this
little pebble…’
‘But surely it is the listener’s
choice to give up control,’ I interjected.
‘Nobody is made to do that. I
doubt many people even use them like that.
Nobody even has to own one.’
‘Oh, they do,’ said the Professor,
proceeding to neatly ignore my first point, as was his way, ‘it is a biological
imperative. For what young person will
find a mate and pass on their genes if they are seen now with an old-fashioned
CD player strapped to them? The Dome is
clever. It knows that when it comes to
sex all free will is an illusion.’
Although I thought that the
Professor’s argument was certainly interesting, it struck me as being as
intellectually dubious as his earlier writings.
The rumours of the sharpening of his methodology were clearly
unfounded. Not only that, I found myself
troubled by the thought of looking for conspiracy theories in an MP3 player now
that the world had experienced events such as 9/11 and Iraq. No doubt if I had thought to ask him, the Professor
would have told me how he saw them to be connected. Yet, in a way, that seemed worse. Ideas that felt radical and subversive when
conceived in a Cold War thaw now left a sour taste in the mouth. The forces of evil had revealed themselves to
be real people, operating through armies, governments, terrorist cells and
multinationals. To pretend that evil was
an invisible current that flowed through the design process of MP3 players was
quaint, silly - decadent, even.
He went on talking, there on the
high street on that day, in the cold. He
explained how multi-channel digital televisions meant that nobody now ever
watched the programme they had intended to watch when they sat down, and the
internet was a complex but failsafe system for hiding all information from
whoever was looking for it. How global
warming was subconsciously willed into existence by the patrons of tanning
salons. I never did get round to asking
him about the thing I had wanted to when I stopped him.
‘Well, my friend,’ he said, finally,
‘now I must leave you. There are many,
many things I must think about. I have
decided my book is not nearly finished, and maybe it will never be, if the Dome
keeps up its mischief at this rate!
Adieu, my friend.’
He clasped my shoulder in farewell
and turned. As he went I could hear that
his pebble was playing him the very newest form of urban music, very
loudly. How did he get hold of any and
why? I knew he liked chamber music,
mostly. My only thought was that he must
have found some way of selecting it at random from all possible music, no doubt
involving a system of his own devising, and the assistance of a female
post-graduate student.
In The Polaroid Soul, the Professor stated:
‘The only form of defence against the Dome is surrender. Only by submitting ourselves to its every
whim, only by riding its newest wave, can we comprehend its evil. And only then can we begin to harbour the
hope of breaking free.’
The idea has elegance, even if in
today’s political climate it seems a little naïve, even dangerous. Despite this, I like to say it to myself
sometimes, when I think of the Professor.
For he is no more. He died: killed
by the Dome, or was it the Net, as he planned his counter-attack. Stepping out onto the road, music blaring in his
ears, I saw him, and I called out, but could not make myself heard, as the
double-decker bus returned on its route, and did not stop as he disappeared
under its wheels.
No comments:
Post a Comment