We are confetti...

"Silence is the language of god, all else is poor translation." 
Rothfuss. P.

At this instant, patchwork patterns are being sewn, kaleidoscope paths plotted, complex algo-rhythms are being played out.

Perception.
This is another territory on a map.

What do you see?

A triumph, a carnival, a wedding, a party....?

In my eyes, from my vantage-point, these giffed fragments floating through this page are you my friends, your words, your images, this artefact.

This is another of our coded lines of flight.

Forgive me for not naming you particle by particle.
You are yourselves unwittingly multi-colouring these volatile pieces, right now, as I speak.

What do you hear?

A terrifying explosion? Church bells? A marching band? Hearts beating...?

Hanging on for dear life.
I am constantly retracing those steps, looking at new landscapes from different perspectives, attempting to give myself meaning, to understand intention in these acts. I sort, I trace, I gather stuff, I converse with passersby and pick up detritus of what they leave behind. In these multiverses, I am well-versed, I am well whether-worn.

Life is a beach.
I appear walking, or is it springing on a beach of ribbed sand. (Blackpool beach probably... it inevitably is.)

The strong wind, and the percussion of the waves is making it difficult to have any intelligible conversation. I have no means of knowing whether your are with me.

In my momentum, I don't have time to leap and simultaneously capture a picture of my/our/your bounds.

We are tracked, we are tagged #rhizo14 
Armed with Hawskey(e)vision we will be able to make the dance patterns of our virtual trajectories magically appear. We may even be able to spot that river-estuary-leap we made before the tide drowned our traces under a sea of nonsense.

Don't you remember, I may have said to you on the beach, "Doesn't that stream ahead look like the Hudson estuary?"

You might be non-plussed by this imaginary dialogue, as you have no satellite view of the Hudson in your mind or you didn't follow me this far on the beach.

Hunting for pirate's treasure.
Let's dig here a while. I know it is cold, we don't have spades and the tide is turning. No matter.  (If only you knew that on this Blackpool beach, there really is a Bucanneer's bounty just under your feet, you wouldn't think the idea so absurd.)

"Dig damn you. We will be rich."  
Reluctantly you deal with the minute possibility that there really is treasure hidden in between these dots...

This is a map of mights. 
There be science in this fiction. Reconcile yourselves to the disintegration of subobjectivity and let it scatter in the world wide wind.

You are confetti...

Dreams-drawn.

Engraved on a corner of scrap, the drawing takes form.

Escaping from dutiful participation, I am engrossed in crude line, simple colour, unplanned sketch.

This art is still alive to me.

Resistant to academic form, I make do with child-informed imagery.  It has a keen edge.


I brandish it now. 

It remains stubbornly ignorant of rigour, it appears quite oblivious to science. From, a sunlit window-sill, a dull page opens up distant horizons to us....alone.

I am there again, revisiting a forgotten encampment. There is warmth, there is fire, there are a thousand stories to be heard.

She was always there for me. 

How can one explain that however far one goes from oneself one always returns to one's imperturbable essence, one's dreams...

Wherever my path shall lead, I am, as ever, prepared for uncertain journey. I will need little luggage.

Left with the memory of some beaten up biro, a last pencil stub, and a sunlit window-sill; I will be free.

Dreams-drawn will know no bounds.

Story bound.

Not noise bound, their stories were miscellaneously entangled. Their personal footnotes were hidden and unimportant.

I sat down and ordered a beer. Nobody was there, the barman appeared a personable dummy: 'The Nobarman.' He put the money in the till and continued to dry pint glasses, absently.  I gave myself up to observation and looked around at the familiar layout of the room.

Everything had changed. No matter, my memories were enrolled to reconjure the minutest wisp of Old Holborn.

Behind the jukebox would be the cigarette dispenser where Dave would buy his Lucky Strikes. My memory bent down and caressed the carpet. There was surely still an embarrassing stain where his drink had been spilt in an angry fight.

To the corner, there was a gap, that nobody who hadn't been part of the story would have remarked. 

Rocky, who had spent his feathered existence biting children's fingers had vanished. His cage was nowhere to be seen.  No matter, Rocky, invisible, on holiday, or dead as a proverbial Norwegian Blue, was alive in a story which ignored present 'reality'.

Daily Mirror drossed out their pleasantly anonymous MP's, enjoying their centre-spread of infamy; offering, for a very reasonable fee, their light-hearted entertainment for a weekend.  They were a reliable shield to existential questioning.

Gazing too intently at marble makes the best of us anxious. 

Does anyone really care if they eat Yorkshire Pudding on Sunday? Hell my friends, pudding trivia saves our souls.

Reverie, revealed broad strands of conversation, unfolded determined and learned argument.  All for nothing, nothing had its present importance. Other yarns built to crescendos of hilarity, unravelling inevitably to that pitiful confession after last orders.  It was mine with my pint to embroider...

Hours, or was it years had passed. These 'friends' had become subjects, malleable, disposable or available on call.

As I sipped the bitter, I opened and closed the door to random stories with child-like abandon. Now I hear you, now I don't.

Chronology, I remarked, had been shown up for what it was: an imposter.

With the last dregs, I was reluctant to leave the table, should I lose for ever my ability to reach out to them, absent that they were.

I raised my glass triumphantly to our dumb connection.

"To Present Friends."