Dos: Chapter 7

 


 

She can’t let it go. Maybe she was real to Brandon only insofar as she is virtual, untouchable, 10,100 kilometers away. Wanting to turn the poison of her overthinking into the useful and productive blog post, she turned to to Baudrillard, and read: 

“Two metaphors have dominated figurations of internet: the ‘information superhighway’ and ‘cyberspace.’ Both these metaphors create an image of internet as a virtual world, one in which motion and direction become possible. These developments in the metaphorical presentation of the internet parallel Jean Baudrillard's discussion of an emerging ‘hyperreality’: a world of simulation in which ‘the real’ becomes less significant than its model. A Baudrillardian reading of internet presents the internet as a ‘hypertelic’ mode of communication. As internet develops, ‘sites’ of virtual reality become more compelling and thereby more ‘real,’ exposing the overall conceptual model of Internet as a comprehensive and comprehendible world and a substitute for the real world. But Baudrillard also provides room for a reversal of this reading in which internet becomes a challenge to these closed systems. Ultimately, the seductive qualities of the technology can also lead to the creation of a ‘space’ for drift, experimentation, and play.” 

She stared at the words again: “… a virtual world, on in which motion and direction become possible.” If she were to be pedantic, (as she was this morning) she would claim that Baudrillard got it wrong: in her case, motion and direction was rendered impossible by Brandon’s ultimate desire of keeping her while keeping her at bay. He did, after all, describe himself thus: “I am cement. Stir me hard enough and I become solid.”

He had gone to the pub after their training that day, for they had earned a civilian break for that day and that day only. He said he would read further her chapters, and write something of his own. He didn’t finish the chapter to his novel before he left for training, despite the promise that he would.

She waited for his text that he was in the pub, with his mates. Four hours later, still no text. She was getting worried, and then getting more worried that she was worried. She did not want to seem clingy, for he had, in his evocative writing and personification thereof, forbade her to show any insecurity or weakness.

In the very attempt at strength did she finally cave in: she called him.

 


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