Thought it was tomorrow

“What do you think of it then? Huh? You like it?”….”I’d swear I thought it was tomorrow, OK… hold on”… “Those were the days, in the Suburbs”… “I really know how to cook it. Just right.”… “We’re nearly there, put your feet down.”… “Up against that tree.”… “I think we can get this done by Wednesday. ‘Thinks it’s exciting. Pick the right one.”

Sitting on a bench in a park in a suburb. It is late, probably 2AM, enough that there are still a few wandering heads to disrupt the silence. Should the park even be open. It wouldn’t be. It would be closed, or at least hard to get into. They did this up. The lights on the horizon would come together into a yellow haze. No stars. Never any stars.

There would be a good jam. A silent moment. This person is escaping responsibly. This person is looking out over the water. This person is escaping. This person is not usually in this situation. This person has broken off from the group, a new group, who have disrupted expectations. This person is only newly able for this. Of age. Old enough. This person is not dressed for the occasion.

This person decides no clothes are needed where they are going. This person joins the group. Submerged. This person is now wet and cold. This person is happy despite their new situation. This person takes a moment. Between laps of salty cold. This person notices how the moon is hanging lower and larger than usual. This person only hears the lapping water and a jingle in the distance. This person presumes it is the buoys in the wind. This person sees the moon. This person hears the panic. This person is running half dressed into the shadows. This person is laughing as silently as possible between deep breaths.

This person escapes with another to a safer spot.

These people are isolated and alone. These people are happy to be. These people seize the moment. These people are at full speed. This moment is frozen like their toes. This moment is breathless. This moment is a heartbeat hard against ribs. This moment is caught in a throat. This moment stops all other moments. This moment is too slow for sound. This moment is too dense for light. This moment will break two souls in time. This moment will live past that.

And breathe. And smile. And gather your stuff. And walk to the next open room. And eat the next hot thing. And fall asleep on the next soft surface. And have nothing to wake for. And close new light out. And smile. And Wake.

Where next?


A fireball streaks across the sky. Everyone is now involved. And the chase goes on.

Silence from across the channel. Waiting for connection following the tough call and hard edge. Everyone is apologetic. Nobody knows why. At least not yet.

Two lanes across from a cleaners. Lights on, detected through beaded panes, slipping down the glass by way of least resistance. They join in bubbles of warm yellow glow, and every so often the green halos turn yellow, and red. In that moment the door opens and another is released, bags slapping off the corner of the door as they escape before the valve is shut again. Too many bags. An expensive day. The boots and bags hurry left towards the edge of this room. Of this view. And the halos turn green again. And the view is obscured… the beads in focus once more. The only still entity.

Phased Signal

The jam was heavy. The words just sat inside rubbing the edges and creating dimples on the surface. 

Sometimes they would come up to breath in long arcing flows cutting through the light atmosphere before ploughing gently into the surface. Into nothing. 

The runs and configurations masterful and composed. Dancing in a gentle wave, undulating rhythms to and fro. The eye dragged here and that. 

Every so often a loud groan lost in the sound. A reaction to a killer bite or bend. The flicks at a rhythm that is hard to land on purpose. Lost in a barely bopping sea of brains. 

No doubt they dug it. How could you not? But the whispers engage on a subterranean level. Eyes get heavy. The beat gets in you. And the soul is rocked into a deep restfull phase. 

More of this. 

Second Something

The easiest answer is that the piece of light between here and there needs be perceived for the distance to be real. That is the easiest answer. But perhaps the simplest answer is not the easiest and the next next guess is as good as mine. After all that is the total amount of what they are doing until someone with a ton of money or a crazy plan can come along and put the crazy and intelligent into a room together, make it work, come out the other side with an answer. Perhaps it will happen someday, who knows?

And we look further into the future, at possible solutions and options. But if we get there the future is the present and the past. It all becomes relative in a great ball and we probably will see no reason to continue on our current path. We will just want to forget it or leave this existence altogether.

The winning is not the point. It is the journey. And like the religious fanatics who rule on faith and belief, we will be required to suspend our desire for absolute truth and settle for second best.. for the understanding that the absolute truth is not worth it. The answers to everything will not be worth it. But the journey, the completionist’s journey, to understand it all… to explore every corner and depth and peak, to fill out the letters in every encyclopaedia and complete existence as we know it.. that is worth living for and will be why we live. And that is the eternal journey that, by the definition of the universe cannot be completed by man. Even if we know the answer we will not be able to achieve it in our form. We are beyond the answer… no the answer is beyond us. Beyond our dimension.

But then again.. the things we live for, the things we strive to create and form and compress into formats that harmonise with how we experience the dimensions we inhabit. These are things that do not strive to reveal but to co-exist with the things around us. We are creating an amount of insignificant stuff. Stuff that is barely significant on a world scale, on a human scale. Within our universe it is lost completely. Not even anything. It is pointless. And within the universes of universes it isn’t.

So why do we do it? Why do I do this? Why now are we so disconnected from the thought patterns and practices that scientifically describe ourselves within this new scope? This unfathomably humongous scope. Why are we so content to let it be and not touch it? I want a philosophy for that. A philosophy that puts us not just in the context of the world… but one that puts us in the context of the Universe. One that demands we land on a rock on Mars or Titan or Pluto or beyond. One that helps us to consider the world beyond our time and space. One beyond the Kuiper Belt. One that gives us a sense of self within the stars, in a space beyond dimensions. That helps us to exists in a scope that outlasts our individual lives and describes our life as a race in one whole within a Universe that is destined to forget us. That philosophy is one that is needed for this generation and the next. A philosophy that rationalises our lives to a point that we are happy to exist for a great purpose, that we are happy to sacrifice our comforts now to protect the next generation and the next. One that makes that understandable and sustainable. One that stops temporary actions and short term gains like war and disproportionate wealth… one that makes wealth irrelevant altogether.

A unifying philosophy that puts each and every one of us in our place and forces us to step back and contemplate our existence in a new scope. A scope that we now understand more fully. That of the tiniest, insignificant blip on the underside of a spec in the corner of a shoebox that sits in the basement of the universe.

Nobody knows we’re here.

Listen to the Dead Ones

So easy to hear them once they say goodbye. Sitting on shelves shouting at you from behind the plastic for years. A legacy unheard, all effort and no reward. As if by magic they break the seal at the last possible moment, their effect unleashed, and the world realises. For a fleeting moment they exist entwined. And they float away from one another, two pieces in space. One returns to our world, the other to nothingness. And just the noise remains. Clattering on our souls in the four dimensions that we consume.

The masses make of it what they can. In an effort to do what they can to put it right. As if it will fix things. And those that did listen. The minorities. They tut and exclaim at the regretful many. A great is lost, they say. A great it was.

And we all look into the nothingness as the shapes inevitably recede into noise. To black. To white. Until the shapes that we recognised only remain in the burned out nerves of our eyes. A fading face.

And it is so easy to hear it now that it is gone. So easy to appreciate what we had. But we did appreciate it as best we could. It’s just now we understand how.

Green Jackets

Working the preemptive and the direct rout. Get louder. Get in the middle of the scum. Everyone ignore. Everyone look down. Pumped full of something warm and destructive. 

Eyes wild with the opportunity. Let loose on the country. On the people. He is one of them, a product of it all. Full of beans. Full of that evil stuff. Loving this moment in a hell, the few and fleeting moments he will love. Engaging the moment. Suckingnit in through the eyeballs in the light and the green jacket. A rich, fowl stench. In the arms. Though the eyes by way of a big mouth. 

Tearing up the core. Laying waste to the passers by. Full of that shit stuff no lore. Hating every drop on his face. Hating every footstep in another direction. Bent double in a corner. No beat in this. No life to love. The majority of it is this. In a puddle. Waiting to be consumed until the next and the next and the next and the last. 

The lights flicker regular as we pull off into the night. Lights flickering on another’s horizon moving with consistency. It is unchanged. And yet he is in a corner. 

Oh BlackĀ 

Listening to the cleanest, compressed funk, and the air is finally dry and cold. First time since. No burn out on the first turn, maintain, grow, build and persist. The rhythms kick in regular as if they never had stopped. 

The people and their habbits. Predicting. Optimising. Or not despite the evidence. 

Hiss and go. The next push into the black. And sweet licks wet the way. A new rhythm perhaps, even if similar as before. Keep it regular. Keep it neat. Just more next time. 

Oh black. No burnout. Not at the first bend. Build into it.