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? 

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. 

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. 

I am lucky.

I’m thankful.

There is peace.

There is uncertainty.

There is beauty.

There is infinite possibility.

The ways to see, and the ways to do, and the ways to give. 

There is always enough time.

The smell of things you can’t eat.  They stop you short.  Like coming up to a brick wall.

The smell of poison, another thing altogether, closes the lungs down, makes you realize you are an organic, biological, needs-propelled being.  The green gray of seaweed and cells, of modern art, of blank survival, and your determination to live, swims over you, as you look for a way up, a scuba diver disoriented out the mouth of a cave in the archipelago of normal.

The sweet smell of pines, fig trees, warm flint, and a monastery under an alpine sky.

The gauziest of humid nets clung to the wind, matting the hair, soft and limp to the sweep of fingers away from damp skin.

The heat is perfect for dreaming you are not here.  And perfect for looking around at things that are here, it brings them closer, banners, leaves, windows, buses, outside tables, to you, like a glue that takes you by the hand as you all turn in the steps of a very wet dance.

the boys are looking for a hole. It’s not me.
the girls are looking for a husband. It’s not me.

Conversation, spark in the eyes, a grin that knows, and something new. Something utterly new.

Not getting it from them, but they’re not getting it from each other.
How can they predetermine their options, and limit their options, and be content with something so parched?
Can smile at life. What am I? I am not. I am the buddha.
O

String a string back: are they doing it in pursuit (smile, smile, smile) of identity, security, rote activity?
Where is the security in going back to home, with halfgrown progeny. To undertaking short courses on floristry, jewellery making, to enquiring of friends the prospects for immigrating in Argentina, New Zealand, the Netherlands?
In subsuming into the dualcomposed domestic career-unit, running the enterprise without overt acknowledgement. and stringent demands. Particular demands, and expectations, and finely-honed, specialist skill-sets that, quite frankly darling love, can be ridiculed from allcomers. And will be. Empty air in lands that are not yours. When the question is repeated, “When are you going home?”
And smiling and absorbing the insults under cover of impeccable manners, diplomacy, and the brazen delivery of them, mockery broadcasted to the onlookers.
Embodying the focus for all illthought out, deeply felt, ventable frustrations of inequality. And of viciousness which we shall not mention, see above.
Displaying the veneration of your partner, tu sartorial marker of attainment, ambition, and reward.
You, proxy for all emissions.
You, receptacle.

Another strand: are they doing it in concord with the release of physical tension? Walking dickhead.
As if the world entire was made for the better enjoyment of their dick?
Who indulges another in this, and why?
No stopping to ask. Must forge ahead. And forge other things as well. The difference might be but in form.
And then, to realize that it is not so.
By displacement of certain indicators that supported this previous article of faith. Now ‘proved’ (smile, smile, smile) to have been erroneous. Pride and potency, why now so dissimilar?
By decreased impotence.
By only advancing age, and by abandonment by formative enablers.
Realization?

To know it was the lucre, the association, the pantheon of myth that all had arranged themselves in dependence with your import.

To be hated by your children for never being there.

To realize.
To ‘retire’ somewhere coastal. To build your own house. To have a companion (are you cynical, feeble, discardful of emotions, responsabilities, or is it that you have attained great wisdom with age and see that exploit and exploited are simply illusions, why, the sum of all actions is the satisfaction of immediate, selfish, inexplicatble, unjustifiable whims, and don’t even try to interject nonsensical “integrity” into the spleen of current rationalisations I am being so considerate as to spell out for you), 16, always 16, without education and with many blood relatives living nearby.
We all help each other.

Keep that knot.
String dissolves in wave and particle.
I’m looking for a conversation.

I look at the grass. I think, Why?
What the fuck? I think.
My dog died. She ate her puppies. Is there a difference in the effect, the change in her existence as it matters to me, from dying or from doing something that my dog doesn’t? There isn’t. You see that.
The grass is green. It spreads from the window. There is sweat on the desk. There is sweat on my arms. Also behind my knees. My t-shirt is damp. Being 40 degrees it just feels heavy. It doesn’t flap like a cool shirt would in the breeze of an airconditioned room.
There is a lot of homework I’m not doing.
There is a lot of life I’m not living the same as. Next door, they are singing. They are burning what accumulated since the last time they burned stuff. They are leaving all the doors open, so the air can circulate. Our doors are open too.
There is no glass in the windows. A tunnel, voiding between entrances, encourages the channeling of temperature differential. The dogs stay outside, on the concrete, or laying against the fence.
Somebody is cooking. Somebody is shopping. Somebody is inside the back of the washing machine. Somebody is getting ready to have a tantrum. Somebody is driving home. Somebody is delivering the finished soda bottles. Somebody is brushing their hair. It is not me.
I go to find.s