Friday, February 18, 2011
In the last two posts I transited from the ongoing creation of our global memory as a superimposition of edited benchmarks that create behavioral patterns as we reject what has not been lithographed by the whole, and yet we do not know beyond the fragmentary, what the language of a dreaming universe is. Then transiting further into the surrealism that underpins the prosaic, I ruminated on the unknown language of the paranormal and how we, by default, attempt to transpose our own methodologies onto one which may bear no resemblance to how we ourselves communicate conceptual models of reality. Yet, the paranormal, the other side, the mirroring universe, whatever we wish to call That in the dance of self and non self is certainly, if anything, a provocation to the imps and gnomes who reside in square boxes under the glare of the corona of a star. The loom of living systems and our estrangement from it. In search of immortality, of certainty, of perfection as an absolute..all these strange things arise under the sun, while the sun itself contains all possibilities. Think on that for a moment.
A dimensionality only limited by the containers that store, transmute and radiate an exchange created by a burning ball of thermonuclear fuel with gaseous tongues ... in fractals of arrangements in a singularity of creatures woven like threads from decayed vegetative matter that radiates beyond the possible, beyond our triangulations and recombinant conceptual maths. Truly a technology of the universe that has a myriad of agendas to provoke, to destroy to uplift the ash into bipedal elves....riding their bicycles over the cliff..certainly a strangeness surrounds us as we pause at an ATM. We who pass through this exchange, truly lack a name, but then again, here upon the Earth, all the world's a stage.
Perhaps every note in this composition may be a universe, and every universe a play upon another the songs of an alien tongue that we mistake for our own in a sleight of hand we have played upon ourselves as a self glorifying totem of what we misinterpret continually, off key, discordant..a music of chaos arranging itself and ourselves as notes...these thoughts range within me me as I observe them from without...these glowing orbs, large and small, from biophotons to those that encircle the ruins of an abode, perhaps as T.S Elliott wrote, "dust in the air suspended, marks the place, a story ended.." only to transit in a space that does not perish between the words as a necessity, not a abstraction..space itself may be a solid that we cannot grasp...that continually composes a language we cannot speak..yes, all these things within an invisible sun this morning calls forth dark matters from the other side of a mirroring universe..the music of orbs seen and yet unseen..this was with me this morning at sunrise, as I watched my neighbors till and hoe without a request to do so, as if they had some choice, some possession of the logics that bear no rationality to our own.
A living composition worthy of a Gauguin. Painting without a brush, singing without a tongue..as if That had a mind of it's own. A sentience being born as we already have a post editorial existence as living pixels that cannot be separated from the whole in this imaginary imprinting itself into a waking dream in search of comparisons. That in search of it's own nature through ourselves as mediums, artists as co-creators of That we are unable to ascertain to the other side of this sun, as it's shadow play of dreams seeking life.
Perhaps mimicry is the greatest form of flattery.