Saturday, June 2, 2012
The Strange Ecologists of A Fruitful Rock And The Alchemist
The Unpredictability of Becoming What is Unknowable At Present
Does a seed grow from the soil or does it appear from the consequences of a nearby sun?
In the study of my sanctum ,the tripod can either go here or go there wherever I chose to place it, and wherever I place it, strange flowers grow only to be transmitted to the genome of a library to which I can only access by artful stealth, to ruminate upon the heaps of dust, to wipe it away from the odd volume of a collaborative reality where the alchemy of becoming is a dimly lit corridor, a deeply buried bone who is found with the dog that retrieved it.
Knowledge is a dog, perhaps a domesticated pet to keep us company on these endless sojourns through the fabric of space itself, where the silence as well as the thrumming of a great artistic achievement is being painted by a hive of supplicants.
So says the old Alchemist who stirs the flask in a centripetal dance of water molecules, animated by the sunlight as a beam that penetrates the bones of his dry skull. Muttering to himself, absent in his placement, a chart here, a diagram there is lost in the piles and heaps of days that he cannot count against some clock he cannot envision.
To dare, to will, to keep silence is an old dodge that propels odd conversations with ghosts, phantoms and the dispossessed he calls forth as augers and portents of The Work.
Perhaps an extraterrestrial knows better when it comes to planting them by tampering with the relations between the two as a analogous metaphor in the consequences of dropping a word there, or adding a comma here in a sequenced program. Nothing exists without relationships in of itself, and while they may be more than capable of playing with fire as some misbegotten existential game for sociopaths, they know full well, one would think, that if you break it, you own it. A socio-political tract slipped under the radar of those who have presumed to rule, has a chorus of a million children, who know the precarious balance of positivist fibs always has the same result in the recycling programs of history dictated by biology, whether it is Rome or further back into the Garden of Eden.
"All the King's horses and all the King's men could not put together Humpty Dumpty again."
It occurs to these strange ecologists that the seeding of unpredictable biological diseases by way of multi -leveled plants in the form of a plaque upon the indigenous tribes of Earth makes even a arm's length transactional exchange, a non starter as postulated in the aim of exploration. Even so scant as a footprint in the dust can create a veritable hurricane here on Earth when it comes to our species. The aim of the evangelistic mission to "educate" the Aztecs decimated by erasure of disease, the very seeds of their positivist creeds.
These strange human dreams, they say. Inbred in their isolation, their pretensions of naivete as provincial and upright mobile flowers of sleep go round and round s surely as the ground beneath them rotates against the cycle of the axis of the Sun. Worshiping themselves through totemic proxies, the extraterrestrial ecologist studies them as one would the dances of the inhabitants of a mad hive gathering the resources that constitute their existence in order to extinguish themselves by way of their self harvesting programming.
Wheat that carries itself to the grist mill. The Wheat thinks it's bread, the culmination of what is in reality, a misbegotten sequence carried by them as a narrative of their independent causality.
In sleep, they reconfigure the ground that they stand upon for a future which belongs to the planet, and they, it's sheep have a role to soften the ground for a species to come. Nothing personal mind you, its simply the way such business is conducted as a transactional exchange. Dreams for the labor to till someone else's field, until the task is done when they have erased themselves to make way for an evolution whose circumference is a sphere . A fruitful rock in the maw of Space.
These strange ecologists watch understandably from a great distance is not measured by miles or light years and make notations as if listening to the cacophony of a symphony plated on the apex of a very small needle to make comparisons, make see relations, to learn about such a self sustaining living system as a distinction in the Multiverse.
There is no haste to make, they say, as what they observe has already happened. I close the book to look away at the bird perched upon my window. As our eyes meet, the bird vanishes, leaving no trace except that in my memory that I have seen it. An odd genome indeed to be planted without any repeatable measurement or basis of comparison except as a expression of the day to come. This is a cause for a contemplation not to be shared by the bird itself, he thinks, as he straightens out his ruffled thread worn robe, garbed against the damp rising in his marrow as if to eat him as a snack. Alone in this study he shouts to no one as he is fully conscious of this folly, he says again, "Not Yet!"