"Silence is the language of god, all else is poor translation."
At this instant, patchwork patterns are being sewn, kaleidoscope paths plotted, complex algo-rhythms are being played out.
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.
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...