Echoes in the Night

Credit: melodysheep a.k.a. John D. Boswell

In the basement of the Koerner Library at the University of British Columbia, there exists a large collection of microfilms. Among them, reproductions of print publications dating back to the mid-eighteenth century. Perhaps earlier.

The types of materials that would come in handy, say, if you were asked to compile a dialectical montage of the history of Stanley Park. A mix of phantasmagorical edifices and natural forests standing adjacent to an industrial port, a microcosm representing landscapes long-since overrun by urbanization.

Facsimiles that could also assist with the study of archives, say of weekly magazines, in order to craft a narrative of their evolving purpose over time. A beguiling exercise of evaluating many ships of Theseus as they undergo fundamental shifts in response to changing media ecosystems.

Or maybe, if the two assignments above were found to be too cumbersome or tiring, the microfilms could offer an escape. Through a wormhole of irrelevance and fun that would carry you from the afternoon to late evening. For example, from a 1905 editorial considering Martian life forms (floating down canals, as they were at the time) to an in-depth analysis of how affordability of the television may result in humanity’s downfall.

You would emerge from this basement of reverberating historical echoes, scratching your exhausted eyes, and look up into a quiet night. Echoes of another kind – photons radiated ages past across an immeasurable distance – would calmly meet your gaze. Eligible travelers allowed passage via the void.

You would shake your head as you headed to the bus stop, lamenting the noise entrapped within this atmosphere. The micro-imagery only emphasizing the smallness of individual shouts amidst the collective din. How glorious the moments when focused symphonies burst through to reach the stars.

No medium necessary for our gold-encased goodwill to propagate.