Gary Lewis Outdoors
Email:gary@garylewisoutdoors.com
Name:Gary Lewis
Phone:541.317.0116
Story:
A CMS Incubus in the Age of Attention By Gary Lewis It was November, cold and wet east of the mountains. Gray dawn followed black night. Wind blew sleet like gunsmoke. It was the first day of elk season. An idea blew into the canyons of my brain and clung there like an autumn storm. Forgotten were the elk that drifted like vapor through the trees. Forgotten was the tag in my pocket. A web concept began to take shape. My content could morph and pay me a second time, a third time, a fourth time. My web site could be the engine of change as well as the library from which acquired knowledge would reach new customers. I had been transported in my mind to the land of Internet Possibility. Back home, I clicked up my web site, typed in my admin user name and password. I knew the image my site could present to virtual customers, but the space was limited by a box imagined by an ancient software developer. Like a ladder of possibilities, a web site management menu lay before me, an invitation to a world of departments, categories, sub-categories, links, gallery and a store. At every step, the ladder creaked. Though my intention had been to climb, each rung took me deeper into a basement cobwebbed by semi-colons and brackets and parentheticals. A voice from long ago drifted through my subconscious about how easy it would be to change my content. Later, the same voice reassured about the traffic that would follow. Yet later, the same voice told me my front page would remain static, my look would never change, unless we tore down the house and built it again. Content. It is the quarry that calls to the hunter of information. Perhaps we have moved from the Information Age to the Age of Attention. With my current architecture, my web store is a tower constructed in a basement. In the world of Virtuality, hunters and fishermen – my people – sit over keyboards as they plan future expeditions. Keystrokes and mouse clicks knock upon my door, but silence reigns in my basement store. # # #
A CMS Incubus in the Age of Attention By Gary Lewis It was November, cold and wet east of the mountains. Gray dawn followed black night. Wind blew sleet like gunsmoke. It was the first day of elk season. An idea blew into the canyons of my brain and clung there like an autumn storm. Forgotten were the elk that drifted like vapor through the trees. Forgotten was the tag in my pocket. A web concept began to take shape. My content could morph and pay me a second time, a third time, a fourth time. My web site could be the engine of change as well as the library from which acquired knowledge would reach new customers. I had been transported in my mind to the land of Internet Possibility. Back home, I clicked up my web site, typed in my admin user name and password. I knew the image my site could present to virtual customers, but the space was limited by a box imagined by an ancient software developer. Like a ladder of possibilities, a web site management menu lay before me, an invitation to a world of departments, categories, sub-categories, links, gallery and a store. At every step, the ladder creaked. Though my intention had been to climb, each rung took me deeper into a basement cobwebbed by semi-colons and brackets and parentheticals. A voice from long ago drifted through my subconscious about how easy it would be to change my content. Later, the same voice reassured about the traffic that would follow. Yet later, the same voice told me my front page would remain static, my look would never change, unless we tore down the house and built it again. Content. It is the quarry that calls to the hunter of information. Perhaps we have moved from the Information Age to the Age of Attention. With my current architecture, my web store is a tower constructed in a basement. In the world of Virtuality, hunters and fishermen – my people – sit over keyboards as they plan future expeditions. Keystrokes and mouse clicks knock upon my door, but silence reigns in my basement store. # # #
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