Life In The Spider Galaxy

Death Of Life-Wandering

A Theory On The Social In-Between

There must be some sort of cosmic consciousness tapping into me over the last three days. It began a few nights ago when I was dog walking. I used to walk my two scoundrels every night through a large, dark park where I could clearly see the stars if it wasn’t a cloudy night. I hadn’t done this in several months but decided it was a nice moment to begin again. Taking our usual path around a small marsh, it was fairly quiet except for the group in the distance playing soccer tennis, but their excitement was saved for good and terrible points. After a few moments of silence, the stars came out to me. I began to talk to them, talk about them and conjured conversations old civilizations might have had about what lies in the direction of Leo, Libra or Aquarius. I was amazed to think about how much knowledge has been lost to this point and how many people never look at the stars, can’t see them and couldn’t find a constellation if that was all that kept them from death or a life wandering. I felt a bit ashamed but something was listening to me which made the brief self-discovery relieving.

Were you listening? Not to bring up another tale of defecation but while I was going at it, relieving some tension, I opened up a “National Geographic”. I have three different issues in my bathroom, all of which have been there for months now. I don’t buy magazines, as these three were sent to me, so I scour each one over, finding something I hadn’t paid attention to before. This time it was a short story and pictorial on whooper swans. Angels of winter is what an author wrote about these large, pure avians. But that was something new. I eventually reached an article I’d browsed before about the Milky Way and just happened to stop there to observe the vast, telescopic depictions of the massive, materialistic, black-holed galaxy we so elegantly swirl around. There’s talk of other suns forming, yet the planets circling them aren’t developed into planets like ours.

From there, I traveled to a personal philosophy. We’re a matter of chance, a single burst of life out of a chaotic system with complex patterns infinitesimally difficult to understand. But, we’re the only matter of chance to have come around the revolution as human – to our knowledge – or at least to have been surrounded by the most suitable conditions for our nature of living. Though I’ve been of the pluralist school for several years now, resorting to the true psychological school of any and all possibility, the sincere plausibility of both and many overwhelmed my shitty scene. We’re both free and controlled, random and determined, rational and empirical, a matter of chance and a matter of fact. Each side then led to a spectrum of everything in between. And it’s with the in-between where everything matters.

As all short, sweet, recent essays go, I’ve been engulfed by the triumvirate and this is the third part. While I’ve noticed as of late how difficult it’s been to have sweeping, intellectual conversations about many topics, there are still hints of depth’s diversity. I realize as one gets older they tend to retain less and abide by stricter, epistemological guidelines. It’s a matter of learning ceasing and attention for uncertainty lessening, but whatever the case, we stick to a particular angle more than others. I’ve been struggling with that, with staying put. In coming of age I’m thinking this is exactly where I am, how I am and who I’ll be from now on. I’ve tended to see myself as more, or at least encourage more from me. I don’t feel that any more. I’ve even resorted to caring less about how descriptively I speak of me or anyone else I can’t meld with. All of this is besides the point. What does matter is my dream, my last connection to the cosmos. It comes from a dream I had about Tenzin Gyatso, or the 14th Dalai Lama. He was being followed by several tourists in Taiwan, some Taiwanese, some USAn, all very interested in being seen with him. It happened to be his birthday, or what was being translated as the “Death of Life” by a few of his patrons. At first I felt like a tourist, more focused on the man than what the man was doing. What he was doing was spectacular. He was walking the streets of Taiwan, observing everything living and nonhuman he could. He would stop at flowers and notice a small insect. He noticed a group of beetles rolling around in a clear sac left over from their consumption of the dung’s nutrients. He didn’t know they were dung beetles, so I told him. Until then he hadn’t indulged human life, but he paid attention. We bantered back and forth, which I think he appreciated. Then he noticed some tarps covering grass which themselves were shaded by scaffolding of building construction. He walked over to the tarps and began removing them before a few workers came over and hassled him. It was all caught on video yet no one helped him move the tarps, while I was the one recording. After being woken from the dream I had to check if today was indeed his birthday – it isn’t, but it’s two months to the day away. Not exactly cosmic unless I begin a search through mathematics, use equations and x’s, and place meaning to the end result of discovering it’s Avogadro’s constant, the golden ratio, pi or the number in-between. But I’m not describing ratios, particles, planes and cycles, or a psychological perpetuity. I’m speaking of true expressions of symbols, those we live with everyday through the words and images which confuse our notions of experience and thought. I’m minding the loss of wander and searching for it where it can be found.

As far back as I care to go and as recent as a few minutes ago I wasn’t aware of just how colossal the proximal space of me is. There’s some much to be sensed and become aware of within an arm’s reach or a mile’s walk. The in-between lies there, the social microcosm fully-developed and adapted for a human’s discovery. In the process of civilizing and domesticating material, and contriving and destroying nature, we’re generating single bursts of life unknown. Random, purposeful examples right here. Time has been such an essence, such a relative experience for many and an absolute for me, I’ve forgotten to give it up. I see numbers and colons scattered throughout my living space and never forgo a chance to glance. I didn’t conjure this to end in a decimation of time and a glorification of space, but it has been just enough time for me forget the need to remember. It’s the death of life and the advent of living. The loss of wander and the search for in-between. It’s the love of where and the hate of when. I’m old and need some friends.

Fickle Or Parallel?

Does it matter where heart resides anymore?

Hipster Infotania, A Disease of DisThermionics

The Flow Of The Current Is Dead

Decay. Some thing alive, producing waste, consuming taste, eradicating style. It can be seen on every screen, handheld and wall-length. The larger the projection, the more grotesque the faces. By the end of any day, a viewer’s eyes itch with disease – infotainia. Too much information, entertainment and mania for the brain and it’s one unique sense indulging in all the visual trash.

Expressionalism? What is it? A fairy princess of pretend Hipsterville said it once while chatting on art for a photoblog video about ego. There’s a generation in need of decimation, in need of ridicule and jest for it’s disgusting reproduction of statementless fashion, music, art and thought. Dionysian flair can’t be reiterated in such a superficially, obstructed materialism rapidly disintegrating into the steel and plastics it was built upon, and this is just a description of adult film star habitus in the 21st.

Scene! One who has never been a scenester in any or all generations can’t perceive the lack of consciousness it takes to dissociate one’s personality from one’s image. Putting the clothing on, carrying the gear, topping it with accessory – there’s no justification for why it matters to anything other than sex. Are we only looking for sex? Boy on girl, girls on boy, boys on girl, girl on girl, boy on girl on girl on boy with trannies pulling up the rear. Or should I say putting in the rear? MSM, homey!

MUtAtiOn.The feel is ingratiating because the visuals are mutated. We long for mutation of self and body, starting with body while hiding self. The best audio-visual platform to put it into psychological terms is found in David Cronenberg’s Crash and Deftones’ “Passenger”, both about vehicular transport, both about the unification of object with flesh. One by purposeful accident and the other as a bystander. Metal crushing into bones, blood and tissue, pulverizing a perfectly good mind now contained in the darkness of redressed droll.

Oxidation…Given a set amount of years, metal will begin to rust, diminishing in quality, changing in luster from shiny gray to dull red if not continually used or polished. The diminishment is like going from the glorious age of 60 to the 6 foot underground after eating dust. It’s like the spotlight in your 20’s burning out to the steady pace of social decline in your 30’s and 40’s. The body has been pushed beyond repair and the mind recruits the self once again, yet the you who loved you doesn’t come to the table to sign up. Where have we gone?

Abs_en_ce. We’ve either died or given up. In some cases, one leads to the other or the other way around. When the group tabulating taste has died, the scene changes, it evolves. There’s no one left to keep it in place, hence we’ve given up on it. But giving up is the first step toward death. If one has given in, given up, checked out and shown they can’t or won’t victimize their circumstance by continuing headstrong, the solitary option is death. Whatever influence to be had on the scene is extinct. There’s no more electricity conducted from the stylized mind of one to the body and presentation of another. The cathode is dead. The anode is alive. One without the other presents a problem of propagation. The flow of the current is dead.

Howl No More, Death Distorted

Leapt and slept from the view up down to the chasmic floor…

Vertical Vortical Basilica Branches

We’re building spires in space no brains need travel beyond!

Multiple Selves Transitioning!

I point to one and the rest keep moving!