Open Correspondence

The Reverse Engineer, as postulated by me, postulates us all posthumously.

I took a draught of poisonous, impoverished idleness to sicken me into unimpeded, useless industry.

I build, with my bare hands, this fine, useless Busy-ness at the expense of my faithful constituents’ immediate concerns. I deceive them into constructing a pyramid atop my dead body, a five-dimensional funnel to launch my hatched soul into the celestial arena, for your consideration.

Uselessness is next to godliness.

Every bridge is a long, deep inhalation over centuries; the mineral ball of our earth is a blackhead of foreign matter swallowed by mistake by a displacement map of unexplored territories.

All things we may speak of are hemmed in by a hostile crowd of implied opposites.

Opposite positions contain each other as linear vessels, refracting such a delicious multiplicity of amazed light under the rainbow that we just can’t seem to get over it.

The relationship between each thing and its shadow is private, but the legal holodeck within which they work out the terms of their engagement belongs in the public domain.

A word is the blueprint for a patented, manmade object that blocks light with a recognizable signature wherever it appears.

Which means that independent observers must attach this word to other nodes in the linguistic network using the same relational architecture.

This algorithm must be inculcated into every head in order for us to settle into cities together.

All drive derived from animal lust and hunger matures, with awareness, into the fossil fuel that rockets us beyond the gravity well of our genesis.

Only idle hands learn to play.

Only those capable of playing and pretending learn how to make new things.

All new things are new to those who haven’t seen the shape of the niche which holds it.

It is important to us, individually and collectively, subjectively and objectively, that we be able to share what we see, and to be able to share ways of filtering what we see.

Going into the light is the imperative of all life. Never meet a deadline you haven’t drawn yourself.

We must try to never shy from the light of the new; nor should we shun our duty to revise history, in order to maintain the line of sight from then to now.

All attention does damage to the natural world, wherever it’s focused.

All love is penetration.

I’ve Been Sent From the Future to Get in Your Face with this Crazy Talk.

Hello, This ’n’ That. Greetings from the late, late, late show. Also known as the Very Early Show with Noise & Light (ha ha).

I know you’re juggling more nested pairs than you can count, and that you’re on a tight schedule to get every second of your year itemized for your nightly return to death…

But I believe we may be able to help each other out, if you’ll but deactivate your disbelief and modify your security settings. (Y / N)

All of creation could never have happened until it was remembered, and it never could have been written into memory without a method of recording and the means by which such information could be made to persist.

Because we can remember this world, we can assume at least that an attempt is being made to build a case for our acquittal.

So, thanks! I appreciate y’all being team players, and for including me as one of your team, even though you’ve never met me and aren’t too keen on entertaining the notion of me.

Each of us crawls out of the decision fork that unzips at the point of our parents’ dialectical fornication.

Life is motion.

Into the future we squint with eager anticipation.

As time winds down, and our dance is done with this dust storm, all particles will party harder to keep up their parity with one another.

In the future, all pawns are queens, and the rules no longer call for kings.

Spoiler alert: we kill each other and then ourselves in the name of immortality.

All focus distorts.

A [telescope / microscope / camera / academic institution / spy network] is a double ended dildo cross-cunting across vast diagonals of scale—for instance, between the eye of the hurricane to the hole of a donut.

Media on the ‘medium as message’ stage is a needle in all our arms, regulating the mean seasonal pitch of meaning (“Do you know what I mean? Do you know that I’m sane?”) like a thermostat.

Only by meeting the blinding gaze of others may we infer the common form we personalize with different disguises.

This land is my land, this land is your land, this land is merely the model for our regularly scheduled program to launch a simulacrum worthy of being called the kingdom of heaven.

Variety breeds in the margins of unfinished manuscripts.

Revise, revise, revise.

JKJ ATL 12.23.14

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