Not happening to, just happening:
Dancing gothic traces in the morning light.
Wood fern projects calligraphy shadow.
Pine needle hangs on invisible yards of gossamer.
At the corner of the wood, a perfume of crows.
Kingcups by a gateway stream.
Pennants in the slough.
Off-camera, 5D entities are laughing at our timelines.
Cones, half buried, look like nightjars.
Place of peace
Not that the grey goo needed my opinion, but dog-tired, staring at cog-rotating flowers, it seemed that everything ordinary was completely trippy.
This doesn’t feel like recall so much as a sense of recollection, a general impression.
Look closer, and there’s nothing really there.
Most of what you see is space. This goes for memory too.
Sound and colour, raining code.
The dotted art of zero.
See also, more generally, a sense of thinking.
Thoughts received.
See also: the narration reflex, identity function, metronome.
The dolly zoom quickening of armed trespass.
Feelings of irrational hope.
The digital prison.
Inputs.
This only feels like inhabiting.
Look closer, and there’s really nothing here.
“Being present” seems unlikely.
“Now” hasn’t been rendered yet.
Self help is contraindicated.
Your enlightenment is meaningless.
Zen master or bust. A classic play from the ego.
No stream to enter, no bank to let go.
It’s the gamification of survival, yo.
An energy experience.
Z, crossing to the island, is in a wake-induced trance.
Awareness, without the syntax of identity.
A rolling presence.
A projection of the universe.
Not thinking, but thought.
Clothes, but no emperor.
Ominous cloudscapes, mountain roads, music to rip your heart out.
Snow flurries warp past the windshield, motion-blur, a starfield simulation.
I’m triangulating off gross landscape features, echo-locating.
Assigning local meaning, at this manifestation of scale.
And you might make a thing holy. Index everything to a single colour frame –
To that obscurest of sorrows, the moment of tangency:
It’s seconds, minutes, decades away.
I didn’t blink, and I missed it anyway.
If a tree falls in the forest, it’s an arbitrary event.
Life’s hard-forks are just waypoints, too.
Successive phases of madness. It’s a single story.
No what-ifs, no parallels. And for a season, for no reason – a universe occurs.
Grains of its self-awareness circle the local star.
Eleven hundred miles a minute, artefacts everywhere, and I’m still hoping for an everything’s gonna be fine attack.
If it helps, consider the user interfaces.
This was never about you.
Nothing defines your sojourn here.
Somewhere over the horizon, my expectations are mating with reality.
Identify with universe.
Ping.
The train of thought evaporates.
Attention surfs naked, on the edge of the moment.
The winter sun breaks through sepia clouds.
And really, the high places are exquisitely rendered:
Impressionist golden foliage.
Tunguska-like windthrow.
A loving-kindness of snow.
Symbols.
Icons.
If it helps, they only look like anything from in here.
And a flock, a laugh borne on the wind, hurls across luminous skies –
Seconds, minutes, decades away.
There’ll come a point when even taking the trash out is impossible.
Let the in-game interludes regain the quality of adventure; freestanding, necessary, sufficient.
The childhood state. Unmarred by rumination, retrospection.
The other irony of nostalgia is, you’re trying to arbitrage nows.
Immersion is eternity.
An oak canopy, in the longlight, seems to have infinite interior space.
Morale is good, once you net out existential angst and 10-year plans…and everything nets off in the end.
Practise archery
Watch insects on lavender
These might be the same
We can store so much of the present, it’s got to be screwing us up.
Purges are an overhaul of the lie, a reprojection of the CRS.
Attempting to reduce the inputs.
Jettisoning the past by proxy.
As if one could become free, one artefact at a time.
As if one could front-run entropy.
As if the ego wasn’t still involved.
Minimalism is just the slimmer twin of hoarding.
The sub-routines have become self-sabotage, if only by crowding out novelty.
If you’re holding tight to letting go, there’s no letting go at all.
As a child I would be overcome by a floating-out sense of disbelief at being here, at the preposterousness of everything.
Wall hack to now. I visit trees that knew me from those days.
Familiar voices, in this meadowsweet breeze.
Incoming tide, creek fills slowly.
Not much action required at this point.
~ shining on, shining on, regardless ~
Award-Winning Multi-Instrumentalist, Composer and Ecologist
A Wild Joy 