October 22nd, 2002

abstract butterfly


"Nobody passes among the deep quiet of the dark skies. Nobody sees us alone out here among the stars."--Brian Eno

My current intention is to write my November novel about the loneliness inherent in a "first contact" with an alien culture. In my construct, the two cultures will be able to communicate only, and lack the technology to ever meet. I'm sure it's some metaphor for cyberspace. In my notional novel, the communicating "aliens" impart to one another wisdom and folly, new ideas and old fictions. But they never meet--they can never meet due to technological ineptitude. What value attaches to an idea? What value inheres in an exchange of ideas? When we live in the world of words, do we really live at all?
abstract butterfly

squeezing out sparks

"See no illusions
No martyrs and no kings.
No trains to Heaven,
for the Kingdom lies within"
--Bill Nelson

Andre Breton, the "purist" of the surrealist movement, said that the "simplest Surrealist act" consisted of "going into the street, revolver in hand, and shooting into the crowd for as long as you can". I believe that the time has passed for chic celebrations of violence. If there is a spark within us, it is the spark which permits us to put aside the bloody anthills of our evolutionary development, not the spark that paints its blood on our foreheads.