Ramble
Typing, typing, typing . . . Twitter is a roguelike. The object is to create wonderful connections between words, almost like semantic matchmaking. Each word has a fated polycule, or at least a nice romp or a good ol’ orgy fuck. Melding in ways no one would have thought possible, had it not appeared before them in proper syntactic form, these building blocks of meaning share a brotherhood that only the dispossessed can ever know. Manipulated on a page however the author ordains, ideas find themselves in the course of his wanton play. Yes, it is not the duty of a player to create an idea, to birth a revelation; rather, the game is all about bringing to the spotlight those finite souls that mankind will ever allow to haunt its mind. No greater cause is there than the fostering of a pitiable orphan, a train of thought derailed and stranded in an Arizona desert (though the writer of this paragraph has never even seen a cactus for himself), for any child could be the future of the world, through iron letters or paper force.
If Twitter is de facto marketplace of new and fresh ideas, then I am glad that Elon took control. From using it a lot these past few weeks, I feel my brain is working better than before. The scan of words in English on a page or screen fire neurons I forgot I ever used.
The poasters are my favorite company, providing controversy, scandal, and revolution in my staid intellectual life. I started reading literary magazines this past year, and have a neoliberal esthetic LARP atop the anarchist that I am. To know the enemy is to see victory, maybe; to see only the enemy is to know only war. Pleasant writing is not a luxury, but a must. The Bird App is a town square, not truly public (see the negative tweets about the CEO that were censored) but better than anything we have or ever had.
Art and action start and end with the actual. A painting shows existence yet itself exists, a loop that finds its fans with those who finished Gödel, Escher, Bach.
The sun set over his dying body. By dusk, he was gone.
Writing is meditation.
A single paragraph in my control, a space to put together thoughts and polish them as Raphael brushed off his early studies. Standing in a church of Christ and Rome, he formed a new myth for a golden continent.
What might have been an act of blasphemy, to graft the pagan gods to saints and prophets, is now seen as a sky of clouds. Puffs of white in lightly floating blue, backgrounds in the lives of men who long forgot to see the joy and beauty filling everything. A blasphemy is soon theology for new religions.
An artist is a patient of inspiration, a student of the divine, a follower of the way. No greater right exists than exploration of what the mind of all mankind contructs, its clouded concrete complex fixed in a space between wake and sleep. The thoughts we have together are what the consciousness of all mankind shall see when he is sitting in a closet, attacking djinns and dragons in his mind, wondering why it took so long to see his frailty and mortality.
Manifest destiny,
and you shall walk the path for you alone.
A thousand years through cosmic void,
the light of giants pierce the wine-dark sea.
A woodland bound by creeping artifice.
I went to the grave where we last met,
and waited there for three days and three nights.
On the third night, she came to me and whispered
in a voice I thought I long forgot:
Once more, I love you. It has been too long.
My mentor in the arts of love and duty,
judging me by her stiff criterion, gave her verdict,
spoke the truth she knew: guilty.
She kissed me, and condemned me.
The years go by, and she makes no more mention
of what we hoped to make forgotten.
Her curse persists, insists, and I resist.
Futility, and vanity, and pride.
I wonder if she knows her wanton spell
broke everything I knew when I was young.
Everything is air.
Air is nothing.
Just think, how easy would it be to frame the world as art to little kids? The followers of holy texts all know this, and tell old mythologies of Him, the perfect being, to their children. Why have the authors of the godless texts not harnessed what the Abrahams have mastered?
A sage aligned against the mortals may seek to bring about his paradise, and fence the world to keep it in his palm. We fear the minds that may arise and break the balance of all things, and yet the artificial brains of crowds has been the bodies of the greatest men.