February 2009 Archives

Listen - let the words take you, paint a picture. Snatch a moment in time and frame it with a story. A way to be repeated, handed down, recalled and celebrated. Saved and shared. Embeddable content, the story moves across space like a virus. Replicating, mutating, making itself heard, known. And you in your chair, at your desk, in your home, in your bed, by the simple act of listening, reading, are now part of the story. Are you ready? Then let's begin.

'Cardenio. We're called Cardenio.'
'Cardenio?'
'Do you recognise the name?'
'I want to say that that's the name of a play, but I don't think I've ever read it or seen it'
'That's because no-one has. At least no-one who is alive'
'Can't you, just for once, give me a straight fucking answer...'
'Cardenio is the name of a play. A lost play. A play that vanished almost 400 years ago'
'Why did you name yourselves after that?'
'Because that's what we do. We find things - lost things. Lost books, paintings, stories, artefacts. We restore that which has been lost. Or stolen. Or hidden from the sight of the human race'
'Hidden?'

The Fall of Christianity by Dr. Joanne

Listen: you hear a drum loop. Not too fast. Not too slow. It loops, around and around, swirling and diving, always reconnecting perfectly to the same point. A guitar echoing in symmetry. Then the bass. It comes in waves. Now watch: a pair of hips, gently swaying in time, slide into focus. Moving in melody, her arms orchestrate the sound and rhythm. Her. Then the snare kicks in. Purple and blue, red and black, she moves the rhythm. Like it was written for her. Like she wrote it. Like she is writing it now, at this very instant, her movements creating the notes as she moves.

(image by southerntabitha, used under a Creative Commons license)

A car appeared from nowhere, zooming past, belching out smoke, skittering on up the road which was appearing before it. Buildings were reconstructing themselves, streets materialising, cars popping into empty spaces and shimmering as though they were elements in a photo coming into focus.
'What the hell is happening?'

'Solitude is my grand romance' by Dr. Joanne

'I need to tell you a story' she says.
'I'm sorry - have we met before?' he asks.
'Yes, you could say that. Can I come in?'
'Uhm. I suppose you... sorry, where did we meet?'
'Not where - when' she says, fixing him with something between a stare and a smile.
'Oh' he says. 'Fuck. It's you then is it?'
'Yep' she says. 'It is'
'You're late' he says. 'And you have a ring on your wedding finger'
'Yeah. Ehm. Sorry about that. It took a while to find your house.'
'Right'
'Anyway, what makes you so sure it's a wedding ring?'
He pauses. 'How long do we have?'
'A few days'
'Think it'll be enough?'
'Let's find out shall we?'