[-empyre-] reply to Murat

Tue Nov 29 04:10:07 AEDT 2016

Murat,

Thanks for the illuminating response. I appreciate & am glad to be part of
this somewhat temporary autonomous zone (though not exactly in Bey’s sense,
an adaptation of that sense), & as I mentioned in the email I sent, the
only missing component (in comparison to the “early” days, for me anyway)
is time. With a job, family + research, a lot less time to engage in online
dialog…

reading your *Prehistoric Digital Poetry*. I sensed a great interest in
developing the capabilities of the computer progressively to create a
poetry *unique to the medium* from word to image to movement to sound, and
their combination  --finally creating a poetic form which is both absorbing
and ephemeral and can be read practically in endless ways depending on the
choices the "reader" makes. In that synthesis, the digital poem resembles
very much a computer game where words/letters are one element. Towards the
end of the book, I remember asking myself what differentiates that digital
poem from a game (not a play). I don't think I found a satisfactory answer
in the book.

At first, I though, “he’s right—I wasn’t thinking of that too much, & so I
decided to look back. Near the end of the book when I consider the Web
(which proceeds in chronological order), I begin seeing a shift, describing
Aya Karpiska’ work *the arrival of the beeBox* as gamelike, introducing
Sandy Baldwin’s “New Word Order” (a modification of the video game *Half
Life*, in which words of a Billy Collins poem are destroyed) and my own
(now extinct) piece *Moby Dick *(described as, “part display, part
investigation into the mechanics of the acrostic form, part reading game”).
I also introduce Espen Aarseth’s concept of cybertext, “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 topological
structures of the textual machinery”.

& this is from the first paragraph of the conclusion to *Prehistoric*:

Poetry in its traditional form may never take the shape of a video game
because video games as we know them in popular form (i.e., lots of
rapid-¤re action, to which the player physically responds) are antithetical
to the purposes of a certain style of poem. Poetry in oral and written
forms has developed a history, we must presume, because it appeals to
deeply ingrained human sensibilities with its often metrical presentation
of language that pleases the reader’s emotion, intellect, and imagination.
A large audience might consume a technologically complex digital poem
produced as a video game, but that text is going to be vastly different
from something in the anthologies heretofore published by W. W. Norton.
Given a new set of stimuli—a slower pace of presentation, materials
absorbed as words and artwork—the typical video-game audience might change
its tastes, but I do not see those radically different modes ever
conjoining in titles that reach a high level of popularity in mass culture.
Poets will build poetry-based games, I am sure—perhaps they will allow for
real-time encounters with texts, possibly in multiuser interactive
environments—yet their scale and purposes will differ vastly from what is
available in arcades. These titles would be an educational tool and may
have an in®uence on the circulation of ideas and level of visibility of
conventional poetic works; their production should be encouraged.

I don’t know if you ever saw my follow-up book, *New Directions in Digital
Poetry*? (If not, I can send a pdf)). I present a couple of case studies
about games. The first paragraph of the book speaks fairly directly to your
concern, I think:

*T*he creative task of digital poetry often involves an artist

observing and making connections between separate but poetically

associable entities and then using technological apparatuses

to communicate to an audience through compelling presentations.

Jim Andrews’ online digital poem *Arteroids*, for example, borrows

its stylistic cues from a 1980s video game called *Asteroids*.

For years, I have introduced students to this work, perplexing

them with an assignment unlike anything they have experienced

before: a video game featuring fragmented language proposed

as poetry – or poetry designed as a type of game without

competitive structure. Upon study they begin to understand

how digital poetry functions as something other than poetry

presented on a computer, involving processes beyond those used

by print-based writers, and that poetry made with computers has

unusual qualities – representing something inventive and worthy

of engagement.

Though I wouldn’t describe the book as a providing a deep study of the
topic, I did write a good bit about digpo’s connection to games in the
second book. Here’s another relevant passage, discussing the Electronic
Literature Collections:

Literature conceptually unites with computer games (e.g.

Andrews, Ch. 3). A high level of interactivity employed by authors

in the collection indicates that a greater number of works aspire to

position viewers as players on a field rather than spectators in the

grandstand – a disconcerting (yet potentially captivating) condition for

those untrained to negotiate participatory works.

Thinking this now, I’d say that some digital poems resemble games in
varying ways, yes. I teach a few in this context, but mainly titles that
can be clearly identified, or are labeled, as games. I don’t really see the
sense of play in poetry to be similar to computer games, but I know what
you mean! There is a lot of research on the topic… I’m sure Katherine
Hayles discusses it in her book *Electronic Literature *(though offhand I
can’t recall what she says), & Nick Montfort has written about Literary
Games too (see
http://poemsthatgo.com/gallery/fall2003/print_article_games.htm)

Failure for me is a residue that remains in the poem after it is
"finished." It is integral to the kind of poetry or poetics I write.
Failure or success of communication, obtaining or failing to obtain rights
are different. I know for you the ephemeral quality of internet sites or
changing computer software are major issues. They are what make digital
poetry (or any digital art) temporary, subject to time. Perhaps that is the
failure that haunts digital works. I don't know. You tell me.

I understand there are different types of failure, and am sure that there
are ways that computer forms that function perfectly well can be seen as
failures! For me that might mean selecting a text that isn’t effective as
another might be (like any poet), or having an animation run too slowly,
though usually after something’s completed I don’t really think about it
too much unless I get compelling feedback (& in that case I very well might
go back and make changes).

Digital works disappear for various reasons all the time. Some of my
all-time favorite works and tools are no longer accessible—so, yes, this is
a type of failure! As seemingly unfortunate as that is, we have to accept
it as part of the conditions of production. I definitely write about this
aspect of the genre in *New Directions*. Unlike the first book, I didn’t
intend for that book to be a documentary study—but as soon as works I’d
written about disappeared, it became that!

If I understand correctly, the basic creative part of a digital work occurs
in the programming of the software where the visionary or poetic impulse
comes into play. If the original idea changes, the program has to be
altered "on the fly";  or, I assume, sometimes the idea is bent by the
exigencies of the program. If so, how does the idea of perfection come into
play? In what sense is the code always perfect?  How do you know?

I used to do all kinds of experiments with Flash, just to see what the
program would withstand. As with any program, the constraints become
evident pretty quickly. When writing code like javascript, the authoring
program (which for me is Adobe Dreamweaver) makes it clear if the code is
written to spec—red flags go up if it isn’t. Usually, with WYSIWYG
programs, it is easy to do a preview & have a sense of how a design will
appear. The idea of perfection is in the eye of the beholder!

How do you determine the triggered on screen or audible events are random?
Do you mean it feels random to the viewer/listener?

Essentially, yes. For instance, with some of the MIDI work, I have a
database full of words or phrases, and when a note on the guitar is struck,
one of the many words or phrases is selected. No particular order is
imposed, & things like this can be programmed not to repeat. Thus the
experience will be different every time. There are a lot of pieces of e-lit
like this. Even if the overall structure of the work is fixed/functioning,
what happens within it isn’t.

"... Plus, programs like javascript enable impromptu, interactive database
stylings that may not be improvised on-the-spot but project a sense of
spontaneity and uniqueness..."

We are I think touching a very crucial issue. "A sense of spontaneity and
uniqueness" is an effect, basically a rhetorical trope. It can be
premeditated, created through hard labor or through a code. "Improvisation"
is an act. Something is either improvised or not. For instance, in his
performances, Taylor is improvising, not creating a sense of it. Doesn't
the difference matter?

With regard to Cecil, there are usually ornate structures or outlines that
he & his groups work with. These are not written out like Mozart, but
certainly exist (as diagrams on paper, as you may have seen at the Whitney
exhibit?). If I’m working with a writing program (an algorithm that makes
poetry), or whatever, I can improvise in that I can enter spontaneous,
unpremeditated input, & the machine will do what it has been told to do
with it (maybe containing random elements, maybe not).

I’m sure I didn’t cover everything, but that’s what I have for now, OK, cf
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