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Pif Magazine
ISSN: 1094-2726
Published by:
Pif, LLC
PMB 248
4820 Yelm Hwy SE
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Lacey, WA 98503-4903
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| PAST COMMENTARY | MORE COMMENTARY |
Swiveling My Hips through the Interbunk : Page 1, 2, 3
Instead of following a direct storyline, in which cause and effect are made manifest in the usual order, the reader of Sunshine69 navigates through the story’s timeline, which is the last six months of 1969, by clicking on a calendar. A literal chronology of events is also included; the reader locates it by clicking on a link that invites him or her to be "a bird" – to get a kind of synoptic, bird’s-eye view. The reader also gets a kind of rap sheet for each character, and may investigate (among other things) the contents of each character’s pockets (a brilliant bit of characterization with a navigational, hypertextual function and worth a good deal more reflection than I can give it here). The reader follows links to discover various turning points in the story, like Mick’s deal with Lucifer, but for me the story’s greatest appeal lies in how it works, not by a driving plot, but by accretion. As the timeline and the calendar show, history itself – not the Big History of the historians, really, but the little-h history of quotidian accretion, the accumulated detritus of ordinary events – carries the burden of moving the story forward, replacing a mechanism of plot with an ordering that simulates "real time," "lived time," one day at a time. So the reader filters and sorts, organizes and backtracks, and eventually comes away with an understanding of the complexity involved in any project, historical or otherwise, of telling the truth by telling a story.
I want to return to this issue of nostalgia, in particular, its resentment of history and the unfortunate fate that sometimes befalls great and cherished expectations. It’s certainly no coincidence that Sunshine ‘69, a story about the '60s – an epoch that still serves as a receptacle for so much nostalgia – quietly captures the aspirations of its characters, particularly of Murdock, who stands in for Meredith Hunter. Murdock’s wish, while dying, to see his ex-girlfriend one more time reminds the reader of a loss that might, under different circumstances, animate nostalgia. But Arellano transcends that bitterness and resentment, focusing the reader’s attention on the magnitude of the loss itself. This proves a far more honest approach to the fragility and ultimate ethereality of hopes and expectations than the antics of Gass and Birkerts. These critics have taken the easy way out, for it is simpler to resort to jeremiad than to figure out what readers really stand to gain and lose with the advent of these new forms.
I have no doubt that Gass and Birkerts, both respected veterans of the page, have valuable expertise and insight to contribute, but the sad fact is that neither seems willing or able to move beyond their own disappointed hopes – and this, too, is a loss. Hypertext and new media need lucid, articulate criticism, not least because a rigorous descriptive vocabulary might go a long way toward bringing appreciation and knowledge of these forms beyond the narrowly circumscribed world of universities, where much of the most interesting work in these media now takes place. In this regard, it is worth noting that, in Sunshine '69, it is the neurotic Lucifer who gets the last word. Taking the opportunity to set the record straight, he points out that although commentators thought that, at the time of the Altamont murder, the band played "Sympathy for the Devil," in fact, the song was really "Under My Thumb."
To read more about Hypertext, pease visit:
Pilot-Search
Eastgate
Systems
Michael Shumate’s Hyperizons
Tell us what you think. Email talkback@pifmagazine.com
Diane Greco