The far-away things are back in my head again - the long walk up the hill to a hidden community, a dream of permanent twilight and plenty but separated from all that we know during the day. I walk alone though I know I can return at any moment, turning round and threading my way back through the maze of half-completed buildings, the follies of misguided regeneration programmes. They block off the roads as if some VIP was due but we know they just do it to annoy us. It's all conspiracy and lies, something designed to stop us getting back home. Some people have stopped by the side of the road; they have found the most beautiful backdrop and it has inspired them to play music, to turn random harmonics into something extraordinary and seemingly not of this planet. Behind them some star - not The Sun - sets while behind me facing them, another rises but the interplanetary dust turns the harsh light of all that fusion to a dusty orange glow that flattens the day and makes all time seem the same. Those light-minutes filter out all the radiation and leave us happy and safe, free of illness and depression, but stuck high above the plains where all the poison has sunk. This is the order of heaven, the benign dictatorship of paradise, run by a committee of gods, brought forth from the minds of all who share the consciousness of theology. There is no dissent - hell, purgatory, limbo or heaven; they are all the same, a filtered compression of all our images of what we want the world to be. No one stands up to be counted or to complain. There is a continuous gentle murmur, the rumbling of people thinking about things and never revealing the conclusions. The music stops, for no one wants to sing and music like this needs the human voice to be complete, not that anyone here can understand this - they just know that something is missing. There are no accidents, no one dies here but still there is pain, the pain of compromise and acceptance of differences. There is no anger or hate, and everyone exists at some median between the extremes of mood.Tuesday, September 29, 2009
The Dream of Espresso and the Gorgon
The far-away things are back in my head again - the long walk up the hill to a hidden community, a dream of permanent twilight and plenty but separated from all that we know during the day. I walk alone though I know I can return at any moment, turning round and threading my way back through the maze of half-completed buildings, the follies of misguided regeneration programmes. They block off the roads as if some VIP was due but we know they just do it to annoy us. It's all conspiracy and lies, something designed to stop us getting back home. Some people have stopped by the side of the road; they have found the most beautiful backdrop and it has inspired them to play music, to turn random harmonics into something extraordinary and seemingly not of this planet. Behind them some star - not The Sun - sets while behind me facing them, another rises but the interplanetary dust turns the harsh light of all that fusion to a dusty orange glow that flattens the day and makes all time seem the same. Those light-minutes filter out all the radiation and leave us happy and safe, free of illness and depression, but stuck high above the plains where all the poison has sunk. This is the order of heaven, the benign dictatorship of paradise, run by a committee of gods, brought forth from the minds of all who share the consciousness of theology. There is no dissent - hell, purgatory, limbo or heaven; they are all the same, a filtered compression of all our images of what we want the world to be. No one stands up to be counted or to complain. There is a continuous gentle murmur, the rumbling of people thinking about things and never revealing the conclusions. The music stops, for no one wants to sing and music like this needs the human voice to be complete, not that anyone here can understand this - they just know that something is missing. There are no accidents, no one dies here but still there is pain, the pain of compromise and acceptance of differences. There is no anger or hate, and everyone exists at some median between the extremes of mood.
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