makes sense to me. Think of the differences in tactile. surfaces, the electricity of contact. Think of silk on the skin, for example. When we refine a neurological language for that sensation, transpose it to other sense parallels, transmit this language, language as stimulation, into a body..."
"Total hologram," Buell says. "Where the holographic vision has neurological substance. And yet less than the total hologram—because in the total hologram the mind is active, creating the language as well as receiving it. Thus the only sensible psychiatric conclusion is that pleasure is a state of mind."
"Generated
by
a neurophysical signal," the white-haired woman says, throwing up her hands.
"Think of what you're saying," Buell remarks. "Ultimately it violates the whole notion of pleasure as reward, as something achieved. You're saying in part that pleasure has no aim beyond itself, except to be itself in the body."
"I'm not even certain that reward and achievement are related to pleasure," the white-haired woman says sharply, "pure,
disinterested
pleasure, pleasure which makes the orgiastic moment a moment outside of time.... I say that pleasure must have no goal—it simply
is,
without direction or limitation, without reference to a historical net."
"Outside of time?"
"And so, transcendental sense flight. The first model programs for theTube...."
The screen fades and cuts to the image of a dark-haired woman sitting on a sofa in an apartment living room, intent on her half-wall videon, sitting tightly cross-legged, swinging one foot from the knee. Her screen shows the somewhat indistinct image of a young man in blue coveralls staring into the camera, his hands loosely in his lap. The image holds for a full minute. The young man moves only ever so slightly, beginning to smile. A sound from within the apartment.
"Look, Kenneth, the oddest thing...."
She is answered by the shutting of an interior door, the word "What?" then the sentence "I can get what I want across the line—I've got to go, anyway." The sound of a firmly shutting heavy door.
She is half rising after the sound, she says, "Kenneth?" leaves the sofa, then turns quickly as if she has sensed the subtle change in light. The videon screen shows the same mauve background, but now the chair is empty. She stands, flushed.
After a moment the doorbell rings. She sighs, strides to the door.
It is a young man in blue coveralls—the same young man, now he's stretching.
She says, "What do you want?"
He answers slowly, a curl to his lips, "I've been watching you."
"You?" She touches, merely touches, one of the straps of his coveralls; it falls from his shoulder. He begins undressing her—they eventually sink together onto the sofa, arms snaked in thighs, then thighs in thighs. Still shot.
The screen fades again and cuts to tethered women, tethered men, the setting for some kind of game....
Call it videon overload, call it saturation, the long series of programs induces in me a kind of waking sleep, there's a numbness in my forehead, my eyes. Collette tells me that average daily videon time is more than four hours. I suspect the average viewer is better conditioned than I am. Not that the programming isn't spectacular: holographic sunrises of the world, Japanese geishas singing, old footage of bullfights in Madrid, Balinese dancing... these narrative interludes, panels, training, and explanations.
It seems as if I have been on theTube forever. The recliner has become familiar, this cabin, the videon itself, with its vivid colors and holographic capabilities, as ordinary as an idle terminal or the back of my hand. The idea of my being here, the surprise of the trip, are diminished—and yet when I calculate that I am well into my fourth day on the ship, and I try to remember what has happened, it seems I've been here no time at all, that the four days have passed with unaccountable swiftness: time frozen and accelerated at once.
LASVENUS
"Total hologram," Buell says. "Where the holographic vision has neurological substance. And yet less than the total hologram—because in the total hologram the mind is active, creating the language as well as receiving it. Thus the only sensible psychiatric conclusion is that pleasure is a state of mind."
"Generated
by
a neurophysical signal," the white-haired woman says, throwing up her hands.
"Think of what you're saying," Buell remarks. "Ultimately it violates the whole notion of pleasure as reward, as something achieved. You're saying in part that pleasure has no aim beyond itself, except to be itself in the body."
"I'm not even certain that reward and achievement are related to pleasure," the white-haired woman says sharply, "pure,
disinterested
pleasure, pleasure which makes the orgiastic moment a moment outside of time.... I say that pleasure must have no goal—it simply
is,
without direction or limitation, without reference to a historical net."
"Outside of time?"
"And so, transcendental sense flight. The first model programs for theTube...."
The screen fades and cuts to the image of a dark-haired woman sitting on a sofa in an apartment living room, intent on her half-wall videon, sitting tightly cross-legged, swinging one foot from the knee. Her screen shows the somewhat indistinct image of a young man in blue coveralls staring into the camera, his hands loosely in his lap. The image holds for a full minute. The young man moves only ever so slightly, beginning to smile. A sound from within the apartment.
"Look, Kenneth, the oddest thing...."
She is answered by the shutting of an interior door, the word "What?" then the sentence "I can get what I want across the line—I've got to go, anyway." The sound of a firmly shutting heavy door.
She is half rising after the sound, she says, "Kenneth?" leaves the sofa, then turns quickly as if she has sensed the subtle change in light. The videon screen shows the same mauve background, but now the chair is empty. She stands, flushed.
After a moment the doorbell rings. She sighs, strides to the door.
It is a young man in blue coveralls—the same young man, now he's stretching.
She says, "What do you want?"
He answers slowly, a curl to his lips, "I've been watching you."
"You?" She touches, merely touches, one of the straps of his coveralls; it falls from his shoulder. He begins undressing her—they eventually sink together onto the sofa, arms snaked in thighs, then thighs in thighs. Still shot.
The screen fades again and cuts to tethered women, tethered men, the setting for some kind of game....
Call it videon overload, call it saturation, the long series of programs induces in me a kind of waking sleep, there's a numbness in my forehead, my eyes. Collette tells me that average daily videon time is more than four hours. I suspect the average viewer is better conditioned than I am. Not that the programming isn't spectacular: holographic sunrises of the world, Japanese geishas singing, old footage of bullfights in Madrid, Balinese dancing... these narrative interludes, panels, training, and explanations.
It seems as if I have been on theTube forever. The recliner has become familiar, this cabin, the videon itself, with its vivid colors and holographic capabilities, as ordinary as an idle terminal or the back of my hand. The idea of my being here, the surprise of the trip, are diminished—and yet when I calculate that I am well into my fourth day on the ship, and I try to remember what has happened, it seems I've been here no time at all, that the four days have passed with unaccountable swiftness: time frozen and accelerated at once.
LASVENUS
Similar Books
