wiered 2 desire
Invisible knots were releasing packages of heat and
humidity colonizing the atmosphere with heaviness looming like a venomous wave
of paralyzing burden. The visible white nodes were roaming slowly, barely
moving through that moist haze. Each movement steals a shade of whiteness and
breathes into the fluffy drifters a darker nuance of grey. The contrast between
them and the bright blue background is decreasing, as the steely flakes imbue
into it a kiss of grey.
Fine slates of chill were thinning the oversaturated,
congested airy passages. Somewhere, far away, a gigantic monolith detached
itself from the mountain whose peak was a small hill in the valleys of clouds.
It started its way down the steep mountain slope. It started rolling. It was
the sound of cohorts of thousands rams galloping in a wild tornado of their
vehement stampede conquest of wide open spaces.
A strobelightlike wink spilled a dazzling hiss
across the scenery. An instant of electrifying luminous jolt devoured all it
cast photons on. Everything was like a psychedelic x ray image. Exposing the
hidden, revealing the shadows slouching in the torpor of their dripping
reflections. No fauna was caught in that cosmic spotlight. Only, a split second
after the photons temporarily receded, withdrawing into the flash cave--poised
in the quiet of inactivity--the sound spread like a myriad of galaxies in a
fervent conversation. It was thunder. The clouds vomited a river of dry tears
whose phantom presence still veils the barks.
--if nature gifted you with a scientific gene, you
most certainly possess the potential to calculate the world and its quirky
meanderings. You may be able to fact based suppose what the bends you cannot
see look like. You can assume with some precision how weird unfoldings will
present themselves at the moments that will have looked from history at the
chronological chunk ahead of them. You can even say that you can predict stuff.
Appropriately taking advantage of that capacity, more often than not, would
mean enabling the likely beneficial prospect and/or preventing the harmful
threat from instantiation. But, you can also fantasize.
--there was a time in history when humanity conjured
up a social system and devised a revolution to smash its corrosive impact on
fellow travelers. Only, it turned out that there had never been a society that
they feared (perhaps elsewhere). They falsely grounded their future anxieties
in the then present, thereby screwing up the time axes and…well, pretty much
themselves.
--if you are a born dreamer, your passion is larger
than the constraints the everyday imposes on your oneirscape. Your nights are
fiery processing of the impressions gathered during the day. Your days are
surfing on a wave of imagination as high as a mountain. You cherish your joy,
and you fear having it uprooted from the alternating cycles of swimming in
moonlight and bathing in sunny glow. You imagine the anchor of your ecstasy
being removed from the epicenter of your volcanic being. You are determined not
to let it. You act accordingly.
--there are fellow travelers who are like those
revolutionaries: their imagining seems like a prediction to them, and they act
promptly to sever the undesirable outcome of the desired situation that
they—alas!—tricked themselves into believing to be the actual one. By so doing,
they screw up the euphoria, crack the excitement, sabotage the entertainment, and…well,
bewilder themselves.
It’s called a
leap of asynchronicity & dislocation, but NOT (a)synchronous dislocation.
To calculate is
not to fantasize is not to imagine is not to dream is not to act. Words mean.
Actions speak. Desire rules. Language wieres.
--if you are an artist by birth, and know calculus,
you may have recollections of the moments while you, as a wee hoodlum, were
looking at the moon for hours on end until it opened its sleepy eyes and flashed
you a gaze hosting the reflection of the river. Later, you’d create a painting
of that quirky encounter. You’d paint an upward moving billow of the riverbed
vomit. When it reached the optimal heights in the atmosphere, it started
descending, all the while leaving behind itself
tracks of dew. You created a picture of the moon in your own image. It
frowned, yawned, and…winked. You thought it was good. Later, you designed a
digital version of the dream the image had:
Every morning, it went to the mountain brook and
washed its face with fresh water. At noon, it bathed its face in sunshower. It
started to melt. You liked it and went on to design the memory of the moon in the
mirror that bounced back the reflection on its face. The memory emerged like a
small river snaking down the mountain chest. You calculated the speed needed to
get to the level in the atmosphere where oneir-fractals condensed and generated
images in no time. You captured that
moment, summoned up visual energies, and stored it in your own gallery space. In
the evening, it slept there. You thought it was good.
When you came of age, you had an idea. You didn’t
say “Eureka” because you learned that was outdated, and the modern meaning of
the word had to do with the name of the place in a strange land where live
people who cry moonlight when they laugh. You thought it was cool and went on
to design a robot. It was good. It served you tea. You dusted it. It never
thirsted. You liked it.
One day, you saw a man passing by your window. You
smelled his thought and sat up aghast: he thought that robots dreamed; he
thought that robots drank rivervomit and that their thirst smelled of human
reflection. You started vomiting stars and the window pane was soon encrusted
with crystallized dew of the dry tears whose phantom presence still veils the
barks. You slump against the feather cloud. Sinking into its rainy smell, you
continue to phantasmagorize hard. you like it.
Like phunk!
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