Flick the channels to find something worth watching on this very special television...
Some of the images are just plan haunting.
Hotel
An interactive story about a man named Flip, who visits a hotel.This 'story' is seriously fucked up. But the only way to see that is to do it yourself...
InsertSilence
Using images and sounds this site lets you create your own atmospheres.
One minute you think you know how it works...but the next you don't have clue!
Try it...
PostSecret
A friend showed me one of the PostSecret books a few months ago and explained there were 3 more along with a website. It is an ongoing community art project where people mailin their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard.
The strange thing is that some of the postcard make no sense while others make you believe that it is also your secret...you certainly could connect with the person.
The strange thing is that some of the postcard make no sense while others make you believe that it is also your secret...you certainly could connect with the person.
Dark Passage
This is one of the most atmospheric webpages I have ever found. It is made up of a collection of pictures and texts discovering abandoned asylums, houses and urban spaces. Take a read of an extract below then click on the link at the bottom to be enthralled:
We approach an outlying building, planning to enter the Kirkbride structure through the tunnels. An open door invites us inside. Moments later we have dived from the pleasant sunset scenery into a windowless basement, which appears to be a storage room.
It's a grand mess. Shelves with boxes and jars line the walls; toppled stacks of patient records sprawl around cases of medical paraphernalia. A door in the rear appears to lead to the tunnels. But we are captivated by the contents of this room.
When glass crunches beneath my boots, I discover that I'm about to step into a pile of microscope slides. These slides, scattered in a wet, dank mess on the floor, contain samples of human tissues. They are labeled stomach, pituitary, spleen. The room, it turns out, also holds larger slides, which preserve delicate slices of brains.
I bend down and examine the slides with bare fingers. I am picking through the damp mound of broken glass until the realization that these samples were collected during autopsies begins to nag at me. I am catching myself in the act of digging through a wet mess of body tissues from the dead patients of Danvers.
It is a horrible realization. Finding pieces of the dead inside the pitch-black hull of an abandoned asylum: what could epitomize sheer horror more than this? I stop, revolted by my own fingers. But I know that horror is merely what precedes the recognition that you are confronted with naked reality: it is a beginning, not an end.
There is much more to it that I must grope towards. I try to picture the room filled with all the patients whose molecules lie before me.
Impossible to tell how many, or which faded tombstone number in the notoriously neglected Danvers cemetery corresponds to which slide. Even their anonymity is broken up, the final remnants discarded, scattered like the last leaves from a dying tree. This disdain for the patients' identity, it could be argued, might be their greatest violation yet.
But this pile of slides is no longer a conscious act of disrespect. There is a larger organic process at work. When the feeling of horror passes, I recognize a beauty here. Like so many other things in these buildings, these pieces have simply been swept up by a larger force: that of the hospital coming into its own. The hospital has absorbed its patients; the tissues meld together, blending like voices in a requiem.
And I too have absorbed remnants of the people that have passed through my life. Can I distinguish the body parts that line the undercurrent of my unconscious? In the very basement of my psyche, the memories of others have disintegrated similarly and simply gotten lost. I may recognize a face here, a spoken sentence there. But beneath that is a darkness; a pile of forgotten, randomly assembled relics, just as the one I am bent over now.
I will never reach the end of the dark passage inside. But here, at Danvers, I now feel something resonate. I can't quite explain the sensation, except to say that I feel as if I'm suddenly standing on the brink of life.
It's a grand mess. Shelves with boxes and jars line the walls; toppled stacks of patient records sprawl around cases of medical paraphernalia. A door in the rear appears to lead to the tunnels. But we are captivated by the contents of this room.
When glass crunches beneath my boots, I discover that I'm about to step into a pile of microscope slides. These slides, scattered in a wet, dank mess on the floor, contain samples of human tissues. They are labeled stomach, pituitary, spleen. The room, it turns out, also holds larger slides, which preserve delicate slices of brains.
I bend down and examine the slides with bare fingers. I am picking through the damp mound of broken glass until the realization that these samples were collected during autopsies begins to nag at me. I am catching myself in the act of digging through a wet mess of body tissues from the dead patients of Danvers.
It is a horrible realization. Finding pieces of the dead inside the pitch-black hull of an abandoned asylum: what could epitomize sheer horror more than this? I stop, revolted by my own fingers. But I know that horror is merely what precedes the recognition that you are confronted with naked reality: it is a beginning, not an end.
There is much more to it that I must grope towards. I try to picture the room filled with all the patients whose molecules lie before me.
Impossible to tell how many, or which faded tombstone number in the notoriously neglected Danvers cemetery corresponds to which slide. Even their anonymity is broken up, the final remnants discarded, scattered like the last leaves from a dying tree. This disdain for the patients' identity, it could be argued, might be their greatest violation yet.
But this pile of slides is no longer a conscious act of disrespect. There is a larger organic process at work. When the feeling of horror passes, I recognize a beauty here. Like so many other things in these buildings, these pieces have simply been swept up by a larger force: that of the hospital coming into its own. The hospital has absorbed its patients; the tissues meld together, blending like voices in a requiem.
And I too have absorbed remnants of the people that have passed through my life. Can I distinguish the body parts that line the undercurrent of my unconscious? In the very basement of my psyche, the memories of others have disintegrated similarly and simply gotten lost. I may recognize a face here, a spoken sentence there. But beneath that is a darkness; a pile of forgotten, randomly assembled relics, just as the one I am bent over now.
I will never reach the end of the dark passage inside. But here, at Danvers, I now feel something resonate. I can't quite explain the sensation, except to say that I feel as if I'm suddenly standing on the brink of life.
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