the curious case of the dog in cybertime

When the internet is further along, how and where it will have extended to and in which areas it will have deposited reckonable vaults of usefulness, having guessed accurately its inclinations will be fortunate.

The internet is an organic archive of shifting sets.

An accelerating snowball that sloughs off the detritus as it progresses, and as it is less responsibly handled the more detritus is promoted as the stuff of authority.

As an access, the digitalization of knowledge codes, is an exponential increase from bibliophilia.

There is no divining rod in cyberspace.  There is no reliable clock.

In cybertime there is no regulator.  As in the physical universe, there is anarchy and entropy.

I wonder how the vast stores of data will come to be regulated.

The inventory of visual attachments to images and identity.

How to define its potential ahead of time?

How to exploit it for ones own gain?

How to connect wishes with wishes? 

utterly fucking beautiful

People’s behaviour.

The eddies people’s behaviours produce when they demand – by projecting a response, inviting affirmation of phenomena – the attention of others. 

Observing pressure diffusal as though skimming over clouds.

For a while, the space between people who are talking, or doing the same activity, or walking in a group without a real destination, fascinated me.  The echoes produced by the tangential interaction of peoples egos, while the focus is on social relationships, makes perceptible the bonds that elasticate cameraderie. 

It is delightful to see a growing thing, not by the eye, but by a quick recognition of solidarity, feeling, in the quality of its form, the transmission of heat. 

That peoples’ motivations are quite separate from one to another,

- occupation; outward semblance of emotional state; cooperative position regarding one another notwithstanding -

this is quite valuable to know, so that I can feel able to balance the goldfish bowl on top of my head and laugh at the absurdity of the moment in combination.  Individual, unknowable motivations, these let the people have dignity, and you can ask for favours and know that their delivery is at the behest of a thinking, responsibility assuming person.  Knowing that the fundamentally uncommunicated is relevant, removes the suggestion to feel swayed by and filled up with the tide contained in the sole goldfish bowl whose tide my tears replenish, and whose evaporation is at the whimsy of others. 

It lets us know so little.  It’s a dumbshow of gestures.  Behaviours are interpreted and misunderstood and reinforced and undermined and equivocated through the context and the opportunity.

Group behaviour.  Approval.  How far to respond to an initiative of someone else.  How strongly to uphold the original intention.

Can I temper my emotions through behaving in concert with or denying certain awareness of equilibriums?

Why would I seek to diminish the significance of an attraction that I avow to myself, in orbits of public access?  It will pass, as all things pass, except, it is true that there are things that are the same as they ever were. 

Things that I fall asleep thinking, “Was I born…..”  such and such a state, or in such and such a description “…?”.

Freedom, light, falling, boys that look like an angel, to be held forever, exhaustion, to be without a body.

Things that I wonder if I am utterly mistaken about, that will one day be proved to me.

Things that I know.

The pulse of brutal, indifferent, glorious devices that’s holding everything with edges together. 

booom slaang

A prow-mounted platform upon a barque, a gramophone on it’s own weight between the horizon and the rudder, a long and undulating sculpture put to work, worked upon by unceasing, accomodating currents that acknowledge the sea and acknowledge the sea.

When the lights come on, the tug at the helm insists that there is somewhere beyond sight that draws us on.  The rudder is alert to the deficit at the conveyors origin, knows the whyfor of being sucked in and we feel the nuances, we brush the virulent air, we inhale beneath the colours, exhale beneath the sounds, we see the blooming fruit of celestial eructations harvested millenia before, and yet so low on the cloud swollen neck of a world so beautiful that myth is the only way we process a kiss that is never a kiss between power and insouciance at the close of a day, this and every day, that you could turn your own neck and touch them with the tip of your tongue and shiver at the coldness, something that looked like crystal marshmallows, it’s luminosity frozen, a petrified incandescence.

The strongest and saddest, straightforward, scintillating impulse to sing the heart winds from the tulip.

I have Vivaldi flute solos, trumpet aerial narrow escapes, duduk stubbornness.

I am on a river.  I am placeless.  I am with the stars at night, and when there is light, I have music.

There are more places, and different places, and unyielding destinations, for which you use tricky manoeuvres, under the sun.