such silence, not even bird sounds.
gossamer across my face as I walk past trees and bushes.
a distant car horn.
a woman standing and a man sitting on the ground. he is telephoning.
a young man with his shirt off exercising in the sunlight. He was rotating his foot and now he is loosly swinging his arms.
I am sitting on a seat beneath a young ash tree looking at two old oaks.
I've been busy this morning copying out Ovid's description of the cave of Sleep, into daffodil 11. I feel quite sleepy now.
a bird is startled behind me but I do not turn to look.
everything is very dry today though the long grass is almost as wet as it was yesterday. when I came in I had to change my shoes and socks...
for this is the world of everyone
an emerging social fiction
and now you can relax
supported by the imaginary rock foundation
for it is yours
no full stop
and in our thoughts and acts we undo the alienating architecture, both physical and digital, we even undo the Renaissance, we rewrite the history of Man the master of everything, God also, the kings and queens and bishops, and the institutions made to protect them, are gone though we try to rediscover their sense of public service and care for everyone. we relate with love and frankness free of fear. The trees are no longer trees for reality is nameless and thoughts are supernatural, or subnatural on occasions.
but in this world, no longer protected by professionals, we still fear and fight the mechanical world we created as specialists, blind to everything else... yes we fight our former selves, we/they are the enemy, unfallen and unrisen - the people of moral flatland. that is both our weakness and our strength.
the writer looks up from the handheld and sees two aircraft in the stratosphere, vapour trails crossing, but the aircraft themselves are automatically separated in time and distance. the new world, if accepted, of simplicity in complexity and nondestructive freedom. the devil is replaced by a trusted robot, the god by a selfless lover, or any other perceptions that can become the operative fictions of our time... BANG!
homepage© 2002 john chris jones
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