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Neil Hilborn
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Phone Phreaking
Phone phreaking is the act of stealing a phone call.
It goes like this：
In 1968 John draper built his first blue box, out of parts so simple they may as well of been magic.
He stepped into the California sun shine, found to pay phones one next to the other and he launched his voice around the world to the spot next to him and he answered hello.
And in the 5 seconds before the sound returned to his ears, His voice unhitched its self from his throat.
He opened his mouth and all that came out was static and the pacific.
My girlfriend moved to California and now my cell phone is starting to replace her.
When it rings, I feel like she's touching me.
I can feel it vibrating in my pocket even when I know it's off.
Still standing at the payphone john draper tried to speak he was choking on nothing.
His voice was locked somewhere out there.
He sent it away and it did not want to come back.
I'm driving to her and somewhere in the middle of America my car breaks down.
My cell phone dies in my hand this country is closing around me there are so many stars.
I call out her name, but it's swallowed by all that distance.
In 1971 AT&
T had john draper arrested.
The police released him without charge.
How do you jail a man just for speaking?
There are no words for the theft of time and distance.
When we call each other half away across the country we are paying for the allusion that space does not exist.
We are paying to pretend that one day, if we reach hard enough we will touch each other.
That night john draper heard his voice laughing at him, it was in the walls.
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It was in the phone lines.
He took a pick axe and started digging with every swing all he could hear was '
HELLO.
HELLO.
HELLO.'
When she calls me her laugh crackling over the mid-west.
I feel further from her than when we are not speaking.
I reach and touch nothing.
I hear phone lines in the wind they are calling my name.
John draper had the same dream every night.
An endless field of robots with his voice.
His voice watching him sleep.
His voice digging his own grave.
His voice building walls and roof out of wire.
I haven't seen her in so long.
To me, she is only a ghost in a machine.
She is only a memory.
Like a broken flash light.
Or summer.
For her I send away the best parts of me.
I have not, come back.
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