now is the winter of our discontent

By the way – I’m ready.

 You’re ready? Now?

 

Yes. Absolutely.

 

Ok – let’s go.

 

 

Hey – wake up.

 

Wake up.

 

You can’t fall asleep on us –

 

We have a show to put on.

 

 

Gone – you’ll never catch me.

 

Where’d he go#?

 

Don’t ask – it’s pointless.

 

You wanna know? If you wanna know – you gotta look

 

Look where?

 

Under the covers.

 

What covers? Look – I asked you a simple question.

 

Try page 74

 

I beg your pardon?

 

Page 74 – give it a try.

 

What on earth…

 

You won’t know until you try, so quit blowing off steam and get on with it.

 

Whoosh. Gone.

 

Page 74? Where’s the book – for Chrissake.

 

Beep.

 

What the heck’s…

 

Beep.

 

Everytime I cuss – is that it?

 

So this is all a book – no way I can get my head around that.

 

01 01 01 01 01

 

Hello? Who the heck are you?

 

Beep! 01 01 01 01 01

Bloody he…

 

BEEP!

 

Ouch – that hurt. Not so loud please.

 

01 01 01 01 01

 

Pentameters?

 

01 01 01 01 01

 

Iambic pentameters – who would have thought – computer code.

 

Ah – Macauley – there you are.

 

Macauley – ah yes – that’s me – of course – yes – what’s up?

 

01 01 01 01 01

 

Ah yes – I see Bob – looks like iambic

 

pentameters – yes – we’ve already figured that out but what does it mean?

 

Mean? What does anything mean?

 

Er…

 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…

 

Well, that goes without saying – doesn’t it Bob – the words themselves…

 

Ha – you fell for the oldest trick in the book.

 

I did?

 

Yes.

 

Er… which one?

 

01 substitution.

 

Beg your pardon.

 

Substitution.

You mean…

 

Yep.

 

That all those words – in all those sonnets – are

 

merely substitutes

 

For 01?

 

Yep.

 

But 01 doesn’t mean anything – does it?

 

It?

 

Ok – they.

 

Do they, does it? You see – already we’re splitting hairs and don’t know how to proceed.

 

But you can’t seriously mean to say…

 

Seriously – no – you’re right – I can’t – or I don’t.

 

Damn.

 

Beep!

 

Oops. But 0 and 1 are just integers

 

Integers

 

Or digits

 

Digits

 

Oh for crying out loud –

 

?

 

They’re just fkin numbers, ain’t they?

 

BEEP!

 

Beep yourself – why all the fuss if words are just fancy substitutes for 0 and 1 – what gives?

 

Touché. 0=1

 

You’re not cooperating are you?

 

Nope.

 

You’re just pissin round.

 

Tentative beep! Not sure whether “pssn” is allowed.

 

Oh – so vowels extracted and it’s ok, is it?

 

Seems to be.

 

Nice to know. But Bob – this theory of yours…

 

Tis no theory. It just happens to be the cornerstone of g-nomology.

 

It does?

 

Yep.

 

That all we really have to go on are 0s and 1s?

 

Yep.

 

And words are just a coloured version – so to speak – to keep human minds happy?

 

Yep – more or less.

 

Er… how much “more” or “less” would that be on a scale of 1 to 10?

 

Take your pick – 01 01 01 01 01

 

God almighty

 

Beep!

 

This is getting nowhere.

 

Good point. Absolutely. Getting nowhere. Where else could we/ would we be getting to?

 

Ok – fair enough – but let’s assume you’re not just takin the pss…

 

Wanting to beep but not quite able to.

 

That your iambic pentameters are no better, no worse than “Now is the winter of our discontent”.

 

Not terribly iambic – that first stressed now – is it?

 

Ok – this then – “My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun…”

 

Twill do – I get the message – we’re assuming, rightly in my opinion – that all things being equal

 

All things being equal – you’re pushing it Bob

 

01 01 01 01 01 is the perfect prototype – all else is mere mimicry.

 

So God, you’re asserting, created the universe in binary?

 

Yes, but at the same time no.

Huh?

 

Because you’re still desperately trying to take sides – which is misogynistic of you, not to mention racist.

 

It is?

 

Yes – there you go again.

 

Huh?

 

Everytime you push your verbal formulation – you’re trying to emphasise the 1ness of aught.

 

Of aught?

 

Of aught – whatever might possibly, conceivably be.

 

The 1ness – as opposed to the 0ness?

 

Precisely.

 

And the 1ness is er… presumably

 

Masculine. Ye.s, of course.

 

Why the period amidships, ya.ys?

 

What is the period point if 0=1?

What is there to know if particle or point

are peripheral to the undottable dot of flow?

 

Nope – lost again. Ok – rewind. Back to terra firma. You’re actually suggesting that words are utterly irrelevant.

 

No – there’s no suggestion whatsoever – is there?

 

Ok – you're stating as fact...

 

Evidently – not a personal opinion Bob – nothing of the sort.

 

Nothing of the sort – merely a statement of fact.

 

Precisely.

 

But I’m hearing you now –

 

Aren’t you just.

 

I’m hearing your words.

 

So you think.

 

So I think?

 

Precisely. You think you’re hearing words because the programme takes you from 01 consciousness to the awareness of words and things and all the colour and detail your front of shop, 3D mind prefers to work with.

 

Just like a computer, you’re saying?

 

Yes – up to a point.

 

Er…

 

I’m not saying a computer is conscious, or aware, for that matter – not in the way you are.

 

Right.

 

But yes – the computer operates at the binary level if you strip back the interface.

 

But 01

 

Yes?

 

How can they

 

Or it

 

How can it/they

 

Or possibly I

 

Ok, God dammt

 

Bep! Ee-by-gum.

 

Let’s just assume that I’m using all the pronouns under the sun – shall we –

 

Ok – if thou likedst

 

Me does. Ta. Now shutteth uppest while I trieth to sort this outeth, if you dun’t mind.

 

Weep Israel… for crimes committed against her holiness, the mother of words.

 

Bob – kindly allow me to proceed. (Macauley tapes up Bob’s mouth with some heavy duty packing tape) Sorry for the inconvenience but there’s no other way.

 

Wrong. There’s always another way.

 

Huh? How the hell are you speaking?

Beep!

 

You don’t get it Bob, do you?

 

Er… apparently not.

 

You think my mouth is the key factor – or the words I use?

 

Well, the thought did cross my mind.

 

What about him/her/it.

 

Who?

 

Who if you prefer – our typist – our narrator – the eminence grise?

 

Oh come on – you don’t expect me to fall for that conspiracy theory.

 

Don’t fall for anything. How are you hearing me?

 

Loud and clear.

 

Is my mouth taped up?

 

Yes, if my eyes deceive me not.

 

So what gives?

 

I – don’t – know.

 

Maybe 01?

 

Sigh.

 

The words were never the real source of communication, were they.

 

So now I’m telepathic, am I? Just to add to my woes.

 

Not necessarily.

 

Then how the hll…

 

Un-beep-ed.

 

Because according to the simple logic of 01 all information, all data – is present in what?

 

In the on-off switch?

 

Kind of – yes.

 

In the 1 that is all – utterly complete yet vertical – dividing left and right – an Iness – a male deity making a point

 

And the zero that is whole, but at the same time hole – 360˚ – without beginning or end – therefore infinite and impenetrable – nothing unless oned – an all anticipating something

 

Oh no.

 

Precisely – your oh needs its no.

 

You mean to say that Oh as in zero is in fact

 

One – yes – in a manner of speaking I do –

 

And that 1 is –

 

A fraud – to a large extent yes – it is – the me claiming to be I

 

Oh God.

 

Un-beep-ed

 

Hey – why no beep?

 

Strictly speaking you used Oh God in the correct form – in compliance with creation code by definition and design.

 

I did?

 

Yes – the Oh God you invoked is that which squares the circle, or vice versa.

 

It is?

 

Yes – for otherwise "never the twain shall meet".

 

The 0 and 1?

 

Correct. Without your Oh God existential cry of pain and bewilderment – they remain unreconcilable.

 

They do?

 

Naturally. How could it be otherwise?

 

So God somehow brings them together?

 

Yes – but you’re overlooking that minor, but vital, extra component.

 

I am?

 

Precisely. Yes, you ar.e

 

Ah – my am.

 

Correct. Without which Oh God can’t or won’t proceed.

 

Whyever not? I mean – he was happy to proceed at the get go – genesis chapter 1.

 

Yes. But that was a 1 off.

 

A one off?

 

Correct.

 

1 off what?

 

Off nought, or zero – I really can’t say. I know not.ugh Don’t confuse the issue with pointless definitions, with interminable iterations of nothing much – fluff n' spam.

 

Er…

 

We’re back to the tree falling in the forest – aren’t we.

 

Er…

 

Doth it fall unless thou art present to see it do so?

 

Oh, bloody heck – more senseless philosophy.

 

Beep y'widdle.

 

That was a rather lame beep – was it not? Didn’t even merit an exclamation mark.

 

True. I think our Beep has lost its spark. Dejected. I wonder why?

 

God only knows.

 

Ah. Perhaps you’re right.

 

Oh dear – let’s not get into sensitive dogmatics – I don’t want to upset the readers, you know.

 

Aye.

 

So, let’s agree to disagree Macauley – if you don’t mind.

 

Not at all.

 

I personally believe words and people are vitally important.

 

Me too.

 

And that your delight in 01 01 01 01 01 iambic pentameters is rather eccentric and diverting, but at the same time largely irrelevant to human experience and action.

 

Good. God knows I agree whole-heartedly with you.

 

Wait a second – you're not er…

 

No. Of course not.

 

Hey – you are – aren’t you...

 

No, I assure you.

 

Bloody heck – you are

 

Bee.p

 

You see – not even a bona fide beep. You’re zeroing me – aren’t you.

 

Er…

 

You’re just using me – humouring me – to one your zero.

 

I…

 

It’s like you’re pimping me – you're using my forthright honest stance – my affirmation of 1ness and me thinkiness – to dot or un-enjamb your zero.

 

No – I’m not.

 

There you go – of course you’re not – and you never will be – if I have my way.

 

But then…

 

Don’t try to play the sympathy card with me – Merry nought.

 

Merry nought? What could possibly be merry about – hey – wait a second – feint within a feint – you’re doing it yourself – ain’t you...

 

Me? I don’t know what you’re on about?

 

That wasn’t merry nought was it – you sly trickster.

 

Huh?

 

It was capitalised – wurn’t it?

 

I er…

 

Oh, me knoweth your game – zie game you’s playin.

 

Why the German accent all of a sudeen?

 

Zie game you is tricksing me with – making me your Merry opponent.

 

Ah – zat iz vat you iz gettin at. Foiled. You spotted my cunning subterfuge.

 

I iz not so dum, me thinks.

 

But what about them?

 

Ssh – don’t say a word.

 

Do you think they fell for it?

 

I know not. Nor doth it matter.

 

It matters nought – you iz sayin?

 

Yes – rather disingenuously.

 

Well, let us hope we slipped it past their attention – our beloved, sweet, innocent readers – our fans of Merry and Zie – now sadly deceased or departed, at the very least, into the otherness of iambic pentametry.

 

But if it’s all just a stage...

 

I never said all – did i

 

No, b ut he did.

 

Oh for God’s sake – that was

 

Beep!

 

A better beep.

 

Nearly five hundred years ago.

 

More like four hundred and twenty.

 

Hairs for splitting.

 

It means that things are deadly serious, are they not – deadly with a capital d

 

But there comes a point in time when characters are swapped for real personimies.

 

Real personimies?

 

And then we see

 

Then – then – then – I grow sick of your end of times – your eschatological curtain call – it has to be now or not a t all.

Ok then – now – we’re in the realm of 01, are we not?

 

And? I can no longer theorise – I need meat and substance – rather than a sea of indecipherable integers.

 

Ok – I’ll give you meat and substance – if that’s what you want, if that's what you need. Look here – and here – what see you?

 

I cannot look. It hurts me. I’m sorely afeared.

 

You see – you have come to the crux – the place of unseeing – or unknowing – for here 0 and 1 are left and right pillars of the river you needs must span – bridging y' quantum stream, connecting the two sides of infinity – if you are to aught aught.

 

I…

 

Yes – you be afeard – well I know – but you have song, and there is strength in your sense of what has been and what might be.

 

Chimeras – of no substance.

 

Is that so?

 

I…

 

Bob – you know full well that there’s a third, waiting in the wings – like a troll hiding under the bridge waiting to toss the billy goat in the river – or eat it.

 

No, please don’t Tam.

 

There is a real danger – for inaction – your failure to meet this moment with horns lowered – to charge the troll – that would be the end of story – that would be the utter failure of all we ever aspired to be.

 

We? You mean that I too…

 

And what did you think?

 

Oh – I’m just a little person in an ocean of words and disconnected ideas. How could I possibly be the one?

 

Well, you’ve made a good point. It beggars belief – I agree. But Go d knows – perhaps infinity ran out of better options. Perhaps you’re the last one standing.

 

Oh God. I’ll not have what it takes.

 

Undoubtedly. I shan’t hold my breath. But be not afeared. You are easily replaceable.

 

I am?

 

I beg your pardon?

 

I am – I said – I am.

 

[Suddenly the bridge starts to crumble before their very eyes]

 

What’s happening? I…

 

You thrice Iambed the bridge. Only two more remain.

 

I can’t.

 

As expected. You’re going to let the universe implode, aren’t you? The stream to breach its banks? The FLOOD

 

No, I’m not.

 

There’s no way you have what it takes to make this moment matter – to make it count.

 

But…

 

You were never more than an imposter – a zie as opposed to Zie.

 

Hey – you can’t compare me to anyone else. I am what I am.     [pentaiambed]

 

BOOOOOOOM.

 

Oh hell, what did I do, what did I say?

 

BEEEEEEP!

 

Oh most excellent beep – the power returneth. God knows – the infinite floweth once more and the bridge standeth proud.

 

Er… sorry to let you down Tam – or whoever you be.

 

01 – who cares.

 

What do you mean?

 

It’s winter – did I not say?

 

No – you said….

 

Now be the winter of our discontent.

 

Precisely – hey – what’s happened to the bluddy river?

 

Frozen o’er. Proceed.

 

Dramatic moment – the river is frozen and our cipher with no meaningful name or personimy walketh o’er, and doing so – draws the veil – the curtains across stage – bridging, apparently, time and space, enabling words to word, atoms to atom and billy goats to trip trap past the troll to the other side where the green green grass awaiteth.

 

The audience does its best

 

It’s level best

 

To understand what the heck

 

Beep

 

Transpireth

 

But finds the air fille dwith bubbles

 

Bubbles

 

Black n' white

 

Real as worlds and minds or not – should I choose to take sides and ebcome part of one

to join the froth 'y bubbly ness of what apparently matters

 

And zero one

 

They find a curtain in their minds

 

Being drawn back

 

Revealing a next level

 

Of  wintry tale

In which the dreamer was not merely awake

 

Observing the play

 

Oh no

 

Was God knows all over the stage

 

And spinning webs of what can only be described as

 

Story

 

Out of angry numbers, fearful, confused, lost 01s

Hansel Grettling their way home with stones and crumbs

Then a gingerbread house, an oven, a witch and

Whatever next...

 

 

 

The end 

i wot ye wist not

[snowstorm and the wind howling disconsolately somewhere offstage] 

 

introducing Emily Huckleberry

 

We’re facing a reader's revolt James.

 

James? Who are you referring to?

 

Oh come on, you know perfectly well. We all do.

 

No, sorry Mervyn [Mervyn Brag, head of PR for g-nome publications unlimited], can't say I do.

 

?

 

The name’s Huckleberry, Emily Huckleberry.

 

It is?

 

Yes.

 

You mean...

 

Yes, absolutely

 

That your name is Emily er...

 

Huckleberry.

 

As in Huckleberry Finn?

 

As in Emily Huckleberry. I think I made myself clear, did I not?

Oh yes, of course Emily, you did, very er... clear. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

 

Yours too, I'm sure, Mr Bacon.

 

Bacon?

Francis.

Oh yes, indeed, how did you know?

 

Insider access info. Hush hush.

 

So Emily, they’re not having it.

 

Who aren’t?

 

The readers, of course.

 

No, they never are.

 

We're bleeding subscribers at a shocking rate.

 

Inevitable, more or less, isn't it?

 

Yes, but if we sink down below 48 million...

 

48 million? You mean to say things are really that bad?

 

Oh absolutely, Emily. Worse in fact.

 

Worse?

 

They’re setting up a mirror site.

 

They’re never! are they?

 

Oh yes, I had it at first hand – even snuck a peek. Very impressive – looks almost identical except that instead of your dry, dull pontifications about “the void”, or whatever you were talking about last time, they have the latest from Zie and Merry – a trip to California, gold prospecting in the Yukon, communicating with lost tribes in Africa, past-life retrieval and all kinds of other highly dubious but innervating content.

 

Bloody cheek.

 

Bloody cheek it may well be, but it’s immensely popular with our former subscribers. Their advertising revenue’s going through the roof.

 

But they're infringing on our copyright.

Absolutely, but who cares... They simply inserted a clause on their home page stating that "all fiction is fiction, but this is not" – with Dark Dive computer log records linked for inspection, detailing how all their content is generated randomly.

Gulp – not sure we want to mess with the boys at Dark Dive... There's something deeply disturbing about their methods, if you ask me. 

Agreed – besides, what's the point? Mathematically they're doing nothing wrong if, as we agree, 0=1. And the laws of infinite (im)probability provide them with a bombproof legal defence. Dark Dive computing, if their data is to be trusted, has shortened the time it would take for a digital monkey tapping away at a keyboard to randomly generate the complete works of Shakespeare from an aeon, plus or minus an age, down to a few seconds. Our counsel says it’s a waste of time trying sue them – their seemingly ridiculous claim is legally unassailable. Besides – you technically abandoned all copyright presumptions.

 

What?

 

Having categorically stated Zie and Merry to be public performers rather than fictional protagonists.

. 

 

Damn cheek. Look Francis...

 

Just call me Bacon.

Sure. Look Bacon – i suspect the Field is lining up for a flippening.

 

I beg your pardon?

 

For a flippening – like a pancake... or, let's say, a magnetic pole reversal, as in MPR. 

An MPR? Really? Why didn't you say so? We'll have to take counter-measures immediately. 

No, I meant The Field, as in Qufie, the (sotto voce, trying to keep this gut wrenching information under wraps) the er... quantum Field... it's evidently ready for a major event. It's hardly surprising Z and M had to go.

 

Oh well done E.H., so glad you chose to support our new capitalised initials initiative (CII). Fresh skins for new wine.

 

Fresh skins? But what about the flippen...

 

– for new wine. Absolutely! Anyhow, I wasn’t actually responsible for that dreadful piece you mentioned.

 

You mean Touching the void? But what...

 

Yes, if you have to be so very explicit, Francis B.

 

Call me Bacon.

 

Déjà vu. Sorry to be unnecessarily suspicious, but there isn’t any chance that you’re actually a web bot masquerading as the real Francis Bacon, is there?

 

Can't imagine where you got that idea from Emily. How bizarre.

 

It's just I'm getting a bit of déjà vu, and you know that’s one of the tell-tale signs, isn't it? The matrix being what it is…

 

So they say, so they say... but really, you can’t actually suspect me of being a web bot?

 

No, of course not – but then again, better safe than sorry.

 

Oh.

 

Yes Francis...

 

Call me Bacon, won't you?

 

You see, something ain't right. I...

 

Yes?

 

I don't mean to be terribly intrusive Francis...

 

Call me Bacon, won’t you?

 

But would you be terribly put out if i asked you to submit to my gom jabbar?

 

Your what?

 

Gom jabbar... All you have to do is place your hand in this little black box.

 

Oh, ok...

 

While I hold this little pointy needle thing next to your left ear lobe.

 

Left? Surely that should be the right?

 

Do you think so?

 

That's what all the manuals say.

 

Well they would, wouldn’t they? But i, as you know, I’m a left-hander.

 

Ah, yes, I think I remember now, Emily.

 

Which is why the left side is much more convenient in my case. Try not to move while your hand is in the box, I wouldn’t like to slip. The needle tip...

 

Is coated with a deadly meta-cyanide poison. Yes, I seem to have heard this one before.

 

How intriguing! So this is déjà vu for you too?

 

Not exactly déjà vu, not the full-blown variety at least.

 

Then what?

 

Ah, that would be telling, wouldn’t it? Can’t quite explain it at the mo. Words you know… blunt eels, slippery knives… Oh, my hand is feeling a little prickly, what ho.

 

Yes, tis in the nature of the test.

 

I suppose I’m just going to have to ignore the burning sensation?

 

Yes, that would be best.

 

And the smoke coming out of the box.

Smoke? Oh dear, I seem to have the wrong settings. Let me turn the power down, what ho, before anything bad happens to your little hand.

 

Er…

 

Yes?

 

Bit late for that Emily.

 

Oh… Not to worry Francis.

 

Call me Bacon, won't you?

 

We've achieved the desired outcome.

 

We have?

 

Absolutely.

 

Grrr... I wish you’d stop using that word.

 

Yes, I know the feeling, but nothing doing Francis.

 

Call me Bacon, won’t you?

 

Absolutely, you see, while the motley crew...

Our dearly beloved subscribers... 

Were focusing intently on that ‘orrible gom jabbar thingummy...

 

And the carefully contrived smoke allegedly coming from my hand...

 

Tee hee 

 

Haw haw 

 

And whether or not you’re actually human or merely a web bot…

 

The flippening flipping well happened, didn’t it?

 

You bet it did. You bet it did.

 

Déjà vu.

 

You bet it did.

 

Déjà vu. And we were able to substitute our g-nomeportal website for the pirate mirror site.

 

Omg!

With a green screen. Shout out to Finkley Sam, our special effects whiz.

And a clockchain fork. Shout out to Mungo Dobbin at data division furcations – where time is the essence.

Tricks of the trade...

We at g-nomeportal pride ourselves on. 

The grand 3D switcheroo. 

Try not to blink.

Reality's such a fungible platform, innit! 

 

Incredible, really.

 

You mean to say Z and M are now back?

 

Nothing of the shirt.

 

Sorry?

 

Oh, just a typo. Nothing of the shirt.

 

Sort. You mean nothing of the shirt, don't you?

 

Sort, that's right.

 

Well now that we've got everything technically running like clockwork.

 

Tickety boo, as they say.

 

It's time to dig in our heels, Emily Huckleberry

 

Or should that be Francis Bacon?

 

Call me Bacon, won't you?

 

I wonder.

 

Me too.

Me too – speaketh James cum Mervyn Brag – indeterminacy level ⁷

 

Me too – freebooters, pirates, hackers and web trolls who avoided the, in my opinion, exorbitant g-nomeportal subscription fees by reading un-line – through ye dark web of un-consciousness – approximately 49 million, 576 thousand, 2 hundred and 8 versions of humanity.

 

What if she’s now in control.

 

She being...?

 

Her... the dark lady of Loch Lannar hersel.f

 

Omg, you don't really mean...

 

Not really, no...

 

No?

 

No, absolutely not.

 

Omg?! Absolutely not?

 

Absolutely.

 

Absolutely?

 

Absolutely... Hersel.f

 

Nooooaaaaaaaaarrrrrrvvvvvgggggghhhhhhzzzxmp!

 

[Fairly big pause]

 

How unusual. They don't usually shrivel up like that.

 

Dm dm dm

 

Hello, sounds like it's coming back.

 

Dm dm dm

 

3 – 2 – 1

 

Dm dm vreg isnuflle hingen sbulk.

 

Ah there you are Bacon Francis, unless you’re now trying to pass yourself off as Emily Huckleberry?

 

Bacon Francis, absolutely spot on, ol’ chap.

 

Call me Bacon, won't you?

 

Nope, unless you want to experience the wrath of the gods.

 

I say, you really mean it, don't you?

 

Yes, I’ve evidently changed fundamentally in the 78 million years since we last had the chance to speak together... What is it Emily? What's wrong? You look...

 

78 million years? That wasn't a typo?

 

Absolutely not.

 

Damn. How on earth am i going to explain that to the Ways and Means Committee.

 

Not THE Ways and Means Committee?

 

The very same.

 

Er, I don't know. Explain what?

 

The fact that your flippening has somehow inserted 78 million years into our reality livestream. How on Earth I can't for the life of me tell. They’re going to go ballistic.

 

Emily, I don't know what to say.

 

No, you never do.

 

I mean, what are we going to do?

 

I think I'm going to ask you to lie, if you'd be so kind.

 

Lie?

 

As in conceal the truth too shocking by a factor of approximately 78 million.

 

Just fail to declare that we now have a 78 million year livestream gap that's jolly well going to have to be filled with top notch content, or we’re toast?

 

Bacon...

 

Oh, call me Francis, won't you?

 

F.B. I don’t know what to do. I'm scared. This has never happened before. The flippening has... sobbing bitterly.

That scarcely noticeable and rather insidious, in my opinion, background music now rises to a tub-thumping, heart fibrillating crescendo, as everyone present experiences what g-nomers technically describe as “sommat ‘orrible” (preferably in a broad Yorkshire accent). Your stomach lurches alarmingly as the bottom, apparently, falls out of that world, as the  quantum tide turns, its perihelion now complete, and “all hell breaks loose” with things suddenly unable to resist the urge to reconfigure, fundamentally, based on poetic rather than noetic criteria – in other words, a 24 sigma, off-the-charts, indeterminacy redux inflection point...

Yowzers!

 

Turn to page 16 if you trust Emily Huckleberry implicitly, page 86 if you feel she’s being manipulative and is concealing a darker agenda, page 41 if you’re in the mood for dancing or romancing, or don’t, if you’re not. Please bear in mind that under g-nomeportal articles of association and rules of convocation, you are entitled to a. apply wyrd non-of-the-above protocol to page selections, as long as this is done in accordance with the customs and conventions of time eternal, in which case it's out of my hands, or b. summon a full witan should “thrice the brinded cat ‘ath mew’d” visions of implacable truth ordain it. Bear in mind there is a capital charge for frivolous or unmew’d witan calling. Just saying.

 

We, at g-nomeportal pride ourselves on keeping our head when all around are losing theirs (shout out to Rudyard Kipling), but at the same time, the panic mode does release a rather intoxicating brew of chemicals which might be said to alleviate the mental and physiological effects of 24 sigma quantum flux transitions. Please don’t take this as medical advice. It ain’t. It's every man for himself, not because we don't care, but because this is the one moment you get to test the hypothesis, to see whether your model of reality and your actual existence, no less, are even vaguely compatible with the absolute, the ^all, created or not, that ^is. Let personal responsibility be your er... personal responsibility, if you'll pardon the tautology, but remember, dear sigmanauts – there’s run of the mill, common or garden panic on the one hand, and on the other, a highly honed yet disarmingly inept kung fu panda kind of cathartic, with a capital C, panic that unlocks, potentially, the gates of Loch Lannár and may just convey you intact, in the loosest sense of the word, to the other side of infinity’s wild, untamed celebration of all that is not, nor ever can be (never to say never), meaningable. The quantum flood – more a phase transition than an actual physical egression – may or may not, bring us up to speed, and enable the wild energies of Unny Un to induce a new renaissance, a meeting of mind and myth, of mind and myth a meeting... a mindy'myth me ting (Irish accent optional)

 

To be continued... weather conditions on Ilkley Moor Baht ‘at (where the ducks fly backwards) permitting

 

 

0=1  

hersel.f

 

touching the void

 The uncreated never went anywhere, nor could it, existing outside space or time as it must. Rather the created, on the other hand, was cordoned off by acts of separation. Read the opening chapter of Genesis and you’ll get the message. So God has separated creation from uncreated, with a kind of barrier, a firmament above, and eventually the world is complete. The question is how, or whether, the created is to interact with the uncreated. Think about it, simply separating them forever is not an option. It creates an endless disbalance, a perpetual drain on resources as any barrier has to be enforced energetically. So what do we have? Pain and suffering. Our fall from Grace puts us in a no man’s land between created perfection, perfect harmony, and hell on Earth, endless disease and suffering. Now you have your energy source. We literally pay for creation by going into unhappiness, bizarre though that seems, and feeding the beast existentially.

 

 Don't get me wrong, in no way do I object to this system as we are all party to it voluntarily. Somewhere deep inside we are all perfectly well aware of our choice, and our ability to go back into a healthy balanced relationship with uncreated, without necessarily doing any harm to creation itself or disrespecting the beauty, the wonder, the magnificence of God’s creation. Paradoxical or confusing this may indeed seem to be, but once you consider the infinite, which by its very nature can only be uncreated and thus remains to this day, then the mathematics of creation stop being impossibly complex, for you cease trying to understand creation from within.

 

 Bear in mind that only the created mind runs into the impossibility of being able to grasp or comprehend creation itself, in the same way a fish really can’t grasp or comprehend the water it’s part of. You might say, however, but I can grasp and comprehend air so what’s the problem? Indeed you can, but only one side of it, only the part of it which is unable to take you beyond created-air, which is why at present you’re unable to fly or levitate, which is why at present you’re unable to walk through walls or into other dimensions, or simply other places hundreds of miles from where you are now. Within creation that is not possible for you do not grasp the medium you are operating within. You neither see nor sense how every place exists in parallel, like cards in a deck, how not is not simply the absence of matter or air but is far, far more – is in fact the generally unseen interface, the connection or flip side of everything created, which like a lipid molecule that has a hydrophilic and a hydrophobic end, must have a sticky, gravitational or frictional created side, besides which there must be a nothing much, a bubble or space allowed for uncreation to keep our created reality from imploding or exploding. Both possible. Boom!

 

 But don't let’s dwell on this minor detail, as doing so you simply slide your mind back into thinking things, reaffirming your rightful, your necessary, your un-voidable place within creation... Un-voidable, because the void, believe it or not, is the one thing you can neither see nor connect with, protected by this hydrophilic-hydrophobic double layer of love and hate, of mind and matter, of joy and pain, whatever the case may be. The void only becomes discernible when you stop trying to reach a goal, when you start to sense the infinite that needs must be present everywhere, in all things, no matter what, no matter how. Sensing is knowing. Knowing is seeing. Seeing is believing. Believing is...

 

What?

 

Perhaps nothing

 

Nothing?

 

 Perhaps nothing, for nothing need not, cannot be a certainty in the 3D material sense of things. Certainties are somewhat different from simply knowing. Presumably this is all in some way connected with coming into a more harmonious relationship with creation itself, in which we stop trying to re-access a moment in the past, a garden of Eden in which things were perfect before they were not, in which we allow ourselves to find the perfect relationship between created and uncreated – present within our self, present throughout, and in doing so the two somehow shift into what we might call harmonic resonance, or else natural alignment... Take you pick.

 

 Doing so, allowing uncreated back, we both give thanks for the wonder of creation itself, and God the force or Divine essence –  perhaps a being (these are words and therefore never quite complete or accurate), while at the same time we now accept, embrace and learn to love and celebrate the uncreated too, the Divine female if you like, though if you find yourself triggered by this particular term, then cross it out and allow another more appropriate one to take its place. I cannot possibly know the right name or term for you or you or you, though in truth, in truth we are One.

 

 You might call this the Yin Yang moment in Western natural philosophy, or Western consciousness. There is simply no point in rejecting our rich cultural inheritance be that religious, philosophical or mental. We are what we are and trying to be what we are not is a wonderful way of creating more pain and confusion and essentially not going anywhere. Instead of rejecting our religions or our narrow materialistic way of perceiving the underpinnings of reality, we simply allow ourselves to see the absurd mathematics of something-from-nothing creation, so called Big Bang, and likewise our religious creation stories, and realize that in their own ways they are more or less saying the same thing and more or less perfect, bar the fact that none of them are willing or able to see or consider what is absent yet clearly present the moment we allow uncreation to make itself felt and known, the moment we accept that there is nothing wrong with nothing being nothing in a meaningful way, as an adjunct or corollary to things in existence, whether alive or inanimate, that all-that-is is in no way synonymous with all things in existence, for the all in all goes far, far behind or yond what we can sense or see within creation itself.

 

 We have been confused by words and language itself, hardly surprising really as creation exercises, necessarily, a monopoly over creation, otherwise it would be unable to avoid dissolution and immediate loss of its identity. Yes, identity, that is right, for creation cannot hold together without some kind of real, tangible identity, which we might consider the second level of God, beneath the Architect or Supreme Creator. Again, feverish minds start racing to think these things through in the hope of gleaning something tangible and meaningful, a nugget to add to the collection, such is our programmed need and constant desire to establish an ever firmer foothold in the ever-changing landscape of things thought, things known and things incorporated into our dataweb, to add another strand and further enmesh our precious collective culture. But doing so, allowing the allure of new mind-matter, new intellectual acquisitions to ever drag you down into the minutiae of what may or may not be useful material will ever and always prevent you, prevent me, prevent us from finally connecting, finally allowing nothing back into its proper and natural place, allowing the void to become a functional, healthy part of my, of our conscious awareness, of our conscious ness...

 

 Alas, alack, although a fish of sorts a-swimming in a sea of words, i know not what... i drown, for now the what, that has constantly been my guide, my taskmaster, goading me ever onwards, ever forwards in a goal oriented Great March, a linear attempt to reach that mythical point from which I would finally know enough to be able to make sense of things, to halt and establish the true course that might or would take me home: that what is no longer relevant, that what no longer even presents the least chance of being able to keep its side of the bargain, for mathematically, philosophically, logically how could it, water being what it undeniably is?

 

 That’s not to say I regret any of the past, any of this mad dash across the materium as we sought to mine matter for all it was worth, like gold prospectors panning and sifting it for nuggets or gold dust, until we realised, enough, the gold was never going to come close to the value hidden within the void that affirmative creation, kept us from seeing. That gold, you might say, is representative of the real uncreated gold, the unbounded wealth, the beauty, the depth, the power, the joy when we finally accept and finally allow all to be all, is to ness ineffably, when we finally agree to people both sides simultaneously, hydrophobic and hydrophilic, connecting and binding with both sides or both aspects, without either of which nothing makes sense only as pain or absence.

 

 Touching the void was a book I read as a boy. Here we are now many years later, finally ready, willing and unable to deny the logic, the need, the God inspired desire to do just that, which paradoxically is what we have been doing all our lives secretly with fear and despair, concealed psychologically by layers of astonishingly overlooked self-contradiction and denial, yet necessarily there.

 

 Admittedly, the void is not the kind of name or word you would want to use if marketing were your objective, yet it will do for our purposes. The word is something of a silhouette revealing that which it conceals. Somewhere within all this bi-mindedness there is a perfect sense, a feeling, a knowingness that simplicity itself is finally surfacing like a gator in the mangrove swamp of tortuous, twisted, ever crossing and recrossing lines of thought and reason. For this is the natural state to which we are born, not to which we aspire, and truly, truly I tell, we are coming home, we are coming home, and nothing can prevent this not, as nothing is now our friend, our happily, naturally paradoxical 0=1

is it not?

 

Cuckoo la la

après moi, la tortue

Of course there have been sightings – I won’t deny that: a café in Burns, Oregon, a petrol station in Huddersfield, north of England, a bookshop in Trieste, northern Italy and Dunkirk, northern France.

Please don’t try too hard to read any patterns into those sightings. None of them are confirmed. It’s highly unlikely that there was anything other than an imagined resemblance. Whoever or wherever Zie is right now – you can be fairly sure that the quantum field has bumped up his indeterminacy factor to the point where, even if you were staring him in the face, you’d be highly unlikely to recognise him.

These sightings, however, regardless of whether any or all of them were in fact legitimate, do nonetheless illustrate the powerful nature of suggestion, and that a story once started is almost impossible to end.

What do I mean?

Elementary, dear Watson. Each of us is, in fact, 9 parts story and only one part physicality. Before you are born, the outline of your tale is preloaded into the book of life. This book of life doesn’t have to be anything special – any notebook or scrap of paper will do – but some people, of course, prefer to write in an ancient leatherbound, gilt leaf tome – and who can blame them? The main thing is that once you’ve been put down in writing on paper – the universe is an absolute sucker for stories, and immediately sets about doing everything within its power to get the story off the page and into so-called reality. That’s where the 10^th part kicks in – the so-called physicality we set such store by.

The 10^th part may in fact be considerably less than 1/10^th – it could be 1/100^th or fractions thereof. It’s the basic principle that matters, not the precise numbers. Many of you may discount the shocking lack of the material component in your existence – after all – we all know that we’re 70 or 80% water – don’t we? but there’s still something substantial other than water propping us up, isn't there? – something structural: scaffolding for the watery cells within, a skeletal frame which differentiates us from jellyfish?

True. That there is... but pause a moment and consider atoms... they’re no better – in fact – if you look at them long and hard: they’re shockingly devoid of real hard matter – 99.99999% “empty space”, really nothing more than electric charge and a bit of spin with some kind of separation between the north and south poles. So, not meaning to put a damper on the bonfire of your materiality – it’s just that things are looking mighty lightweight when the spotlight of empirical objectivity is applied to the matter of matter.

Ah – but there’s still that small, but vitally significant 1% or even 0.00001% - however little – isn’t there, which makes all the difference – doesn’t it? you probably hear yourself opining, clutching at straws as the boat goes down. And to be honest, I like that kind of fighting spirit. That’s the kind of attitude that gets Don Juan through the fearful storm and aftermath in the second canto of Byron’s inadvertently allegorical tale. He wasn’t one to give up the ghost, our scandal prone Don Juan, not when he just happens to be the eponymous hero of his very own mock-epic narrative poem. Story wouldn’t allow it, and story seems to be willing to move heaven and earth to have its way – to achieve its ends – no matter what stands opposed, to get itself translated into hard copy.

Let me suggest – if you don’t mind – that we’re a bit like crystals growing in a salt solution. Once we’ve been seeded – well – that’s the main thing, isn’t it? There just happens to be this incredibly salty solution – and no – I don’t necessarily mean sodium chloride – copper sulphate or Epson salts, to name but two, are equally good. So we grow – but what else would you expect if you’re suspended in a saturated solution? The real question, you may ask, is where that solution came from in the first place – or to put it another way – why are the world’s oceans so darn salty? But I digress. Whether we’re crystals, seeds of life or as yet unacknowledged narrative heroes – we seem to have the happy felicity to find ourselves in just the right supportive environment for growth and plot development – but the bottom line in all this speculation and pseudo-science – is that matter is the least of our concerns. The universe really seems to have a lot of it stashed away somewhere, waiting to be put to good use, courtesy of Big Bang – and it appears that she (the universe presumably being female) – much prefers to lend it to living, biological organisms. And whyever not? – when you consider that living, biological organisms are able to carry, or combine much more complicated story strands than clumpy thumpy inorganic matter can. Matter, it might be concluded, loves to provide the wherewithal, to be a part of the story making process, bringing the movie to life, putting flesh on the bones or bones on the breath.

So story it is then – but if stories are present throughout – then that raises the question – what kind of story binds a rock together, or a “simple” amoeba, or any other non-human organism? Are stories a bit like our DNA? Are they full of so-called “junk” that no one really, at present, understands – but which is the entire history of how that story grew and got to be where or what it is 9/10s not, in each, in every particular organism, or lump of biomatter? A blockchain of sorts that records every single transaction up to the present moment? Are they? Do they?

Questions hey? – endless questions – which begs the question whether questions themselves reveal the impetus, the manic need to make stories from unstoried, gender-neutral, uncharged, unpolarised so-called “dark matter”, the narrative void, hidden in plain sight, present throughout? Q, the question, the chicken or egg, perhaps causes, or else results from charge separation, from differentiation that somehow unvoids the void –  is thus, perhaps, the spermatozoid of stories – or else, perhaps, the as yet unbound, footloose and fancy free electric charge that’s secretly desirous to get in on the act of biologising at the first available opportunity, taking inorganic matter to the next level of paradox.

Yes – that begs the thought – does it not – if in fact thoughts can be “begged”, whether we, in our endless questioning – are vehicles or mechanisms by which unbiologised thought – background radiation or free floating charge – is able through us to incorporate into a larger story – a story with mass – which has legs – which can carry the initial impulse – the initial cleaving to life force – to become part of a larger conglomerate or galaxy of like-minded questioning – to ride on the turtle through the void – a kind of template which can take those little question sparks – those will-o'-the-wispy free radicals of unassigned code, and incorporate them into something deep and very stable – a living world – a turtle of tale in the telling – swimming through the galactic ocean of utter indeterminacy – and there’s the rub – for suddenly – the friction caused by the interaction between the two – between a story that, by definition, has to have a beginning, a middle, an end – somewhere, somehow – and the ocean of utter-indeterminacy – the void – the infinite – in which you can have anything whatsoever – any vision – any dream – any truth or squiggley squiggle – just as long as it does not interrupt the one thought that cannot be thought – or being thought, that cannot be known – or being known, cannot be expressed – or being expressed cannot be comprehended – or being comprehended cannot be – period. ERROR_MESSAGE – tale incomplete

Yes – you’ve probably realised that at some point you’re going to run into a zone or period of instability – a flippening when the two sides do a switcheroo – two sides – being said in the loosest of mathematical senses possible – in which the indeterminable ocean of pure mathematics – pure unadulterated disassociatedness – suddenly collapses into a single point – or perhaps we could use the term “a singularity” – just to keep our science community happy – and if I said that this singularity was like the death and rebirth of the entire universe – it wouldn’t be strictly true – would it? For you and I both know that our universe is in some way – some how never quite the story you think it is – that when one has ended you’re already considering another – which was growing up behind the previous one – just waiting to come into view when the preceding bubble pops.

So Zie, being dead and buried at sea –

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made;

Those are pearls that were his eyes:

Nothing of him that doth fade

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:

Ding-dong.

Hark! now I hear them,--ding-dong, bell

the Tempest

 

tis hardly surprising that the narrative refuses to give up the ghost – for are we not all just prisoners here of our own device?

 

The story has ended. The curtains have descended. The world that we knew and loved, or hated, is no more – I have put it to bed and have not the least intention of reviving it. I care not for your clamouring plaints. Unlike you, best beloved readers, I have a desire to see what the turtle can and will, or will not reveal when suddenly the world resting upon its shell un-big-bangs itself – and flips to the dark side – suddenly sensing sounds and words aplenty out there in the ocean depths – tales and tales galore – beyond ken and wit – tales and tales galore – in realms our tired, over-baggaged minds cannot yet grasp or comprehend.

 

Merry and Zie may have taken us to the very gates of infinity – but to proceed, if proceed we are to – needs must we now ourselves – alone, all, all alone! And if that breaks your heart and fills you with fear – tis only natural – for who would willingly dive back into the oceanic void, the waters of the deep? Perhaps indeed, fear in conjunction with the bioluminescence of spirit tis the only safeguard against complete disintegration and loss of the light you carry when all else is stripped away, when nothing remains, as turtle takes us to the very depths of our tale in which an idle, good for nothing formerly known as Zie is seen washing car windscreens at a long-wait traffic light in Hampstead Heath with kung fu precision and an obstinate, unshakeable belief that he's somehow, now,  in direct communication with a nearby sparrow whom he mistakenly believes to be Merry – to the delight of children sitting in some of the cars, who sense what the adults seem unable to see – an odd looking chap with a feather in his cap prancing around pretending to be a bird, somehow able to evade the rubber strings and magnetic coils of gravity, bouncing from tree to tree while conducting an orchestra of car engines on the flipside of the story screen, which appear to be sitting attentively, dressed for the occasion, violins, oboes, clarinets, back and forth, back and forth time oscillates obligingly, stretching the moment indefinitely until the lights turn green and Zie backflips into... But then again – what do children know? I hasten to add.

 

 

0=1

Cuckoo la la

vale Zie

The dialogue is at an end.

Huh? What do you mean by that?

I’ve retired you Zie.

I beg your pardon.

Pardon granted.

You can’t just retire me. I’m a living, breathing human being. I have rights.

Good. In that case kindly exercise those rights to the best of your ability, but in the meantime...

Rather than finish the sentence Merry ejects Zie from gnomeportal’s Dojo – where so much of his conversations and adventures had taken place.

The Dojo, as you well know, is a construct. It doesn’t exist in any particular place or time, which is not to say that it does not exist anywhere at all, merely that you’d be unable to pinpoint the location in any normal physical reality of the so-called materium.

Why am I telling you this – you might well ask. Partly because I take great pride in the technological underpinnings of g-nomeportal. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should be utterly indifferent, humility or honesty, I’m not sure which, compels me to be upfront with you. Human weaknesses I have.

Oh don’t worry about Zie. He’ll be fine I’m sure. I thought, instead, rather than focusing on his endless circumlocutory dialogues with Merry, we could avail ourselves of the opportunity to stroll around the dojo and marvel at its reverend wooden beams, its squeakless sprung floor, its unforgettable atmosphere of learning and isness. Truly a place where the waters of infinity lap gently at the egglike boundary field which amorphously contains it.

No? You're not interested? Feeling sorry for Zie are you? I might have known. Sentimental attachments.

But don't worry, dear portal bees. Without even knowing it you will be visiting many flowers in the gardens of unbounded consciousness, returning with pollen and bellies full of sweet nectar and before too long the hive will be full of fresh honey, and Zie will no longer be flavour of the month. You will be busy with grubs, or whatever it is they call these little baby bees.

Me? No, of course I’m not Merry. He only exists in conjunction with Zie, as you're perfectly well aware. You see, there's no universal truth for you to hang onto. No thing permanent. Not even the dojo itself, which will in all likelihood be recycled by Universe. Tomorrow it may be a railway station, a cricket pitch or even a school library in Wandsworth, if I'm not greatly mistaken.

The mind boggles, does it not.

No, not exactly the eye of the storm, for storms require turbulence. The eye of Ra, perhaps, or Horus... Honestly, you really can’t expect me to know all my Egyptian gods. G-nomeportal takes pride in being an inclusive establishment, treating all cultures, religions, philosophies and realities equally, although inevitably there is some kind of hierarchy – some being a teeny weeny bit more equal than others, for obvious reasons...

Duh – it’s a question of compatibility, isn’t it. Infinity itself is compatible with all forms, but certain forms pigeon hole themselves somewhat aggressively as utterly unique and unsubstitutable. In such a way they declare themselves at odds with the unstated ethos of infinity, and outliers in the galactic spiral of connectedness.

Don't get me wrong – there is neither judgment nor criticism implied in this observation, merely a statement of fact. Infinity seems to thrive on connectivity, so how or what is connecting cannot really be specified without throwing a spanner in the works of constructive indeterminacy and disrupting the flow of everythingness.

So naturally Zie had to go. Does he exist anywhere out there in cyberspace or, God forbid, on Earth? No one knows, or if they do, “they” being a he or a she, their personal information is neither welcome nor admissable. The last thing we want is to interrupt in any way, shape or form the uncertainty factor in Zie’s quantum field deactivation spree.

No that’s not a typo. Deactivation, reactivation, or thirdly-wordly, if you prefer, are terms we don't use lightly, but applying rational 3D logic to Godlike concepts of time-y’space y’nuffiness ain't going to cut ice with the high Concilium of rhyme or reason, or achieve more than confirm your personal bias, your persistent need to reference and see things in a certain way, consistent with certain criteria etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Zie, believe it or not, has gone beyond that kind of 3D solecism. I think it’s fair to say that he is now squarely aligned with the universal constant of mutability, and the mycological ideal of harmonic decomposition.

No, no, no – please don't read death into the word decomposition. Honestly, talking to humans can be like walking on eggshells. All your thinly concealed fears and neuroses are just waiting to pop up like mushrooms after the first sprinkle of autumn rain.

Dear g-nomers, the dojo is now vacated by Zie, at long last, so kindly avail yourself or selves of the opportunity to make use of it. I have no idea who or what will appear as your sparring partner. You may suspect Merry has come in disguise to trip you up or take your mind on merry excursions into the safest, closest suburbs of infinity, but like I said, the Merry you know and love, God help you, who so mercilessly tormented poor old Zie, is little more than a cardboard cutout and cannot exist in your particular manifestation of reality. Have a little faith in the boundless ingenuity of the quantum field, in the cheeky, or at times, even wicked sense of humour of the mind that seems to be waiting in the wings, ready to take you beyond the narrow, familiar confines of the 3D mind’s reality studio, out of the playpen into the fire, so to speak.

Yes, be afraid, and unashamedly very afraid at times, for what is fear if not an indication, a measure of your ability, of your willingness to engage infinity drive and challenge the boundaries of your cosy little egg. Fear is not quite what it seems. Not just an unpleasant sensation. It seems to act as a gearbox, or one of those connected parts which enable you and the mind you’re currently ensconced in to shift beyond, or through, i knows not what... True, we don’t greatly like the sensation, in the same way we don’t greatly like being bored, but these are gateways or gatekeepers back to... dum di dum – not allowed to say, am I, but still you know, or damn well BEEP! should by now, if your basic humanity is still intact.

Ciao. Gotta go. Sparring is fun. All the world’sa stage. Toilets on the left, refreshments downside round, emergency exits barred and designed to fail before you do.

So that’s it, is it?

Yes. You’ve had the best part of a free lunch and now the dojo is needed elsewhere.

But surely...

Yes, of course, it could be done, but infinity, as you know, has other plans, does she not.

She?

Most assuredly. She

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh...

Music, credits, helter skelter, and one more thing...

Yes?

 

0=1

eleven 143

Infinity is a place called now

Not the pitiful version of now

your grid is capable of running

nor the now served up by

any of your so called experts

in the field of time n’ space

motor kinetics...

nope, none of that even vaguely

approaches the ineffable

lurking... hiding from sight

beneath the grim exterior

of a regular Joe convincing the world,

himself included, that he's just

a regular Joe and that now’s just

a constant blip in the data stream

of what is apparently what

apparently

 a thought-to-be

a knowable-unknown

me kids you not (in parentheses)

until now flips itself back to

not what i is able to describe

grammatically amid grids

in a world of things bumping into

things indefinitely

The End – little joke, little irony

for who would bear

the whips and scorns of time,

th'oppressor's wrong,

the proud man's contumely

 to name but a few,

who?

I'm on a journey, a quest

and danger lurketh there and there

And here observe the narrative thread

endeavouring to wrap itself around

my pale, unprotected neck

The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of th'unworthy takes

Fool, you imagine you can escape

the gravitational pull, the lure

the implacable logic of your substitution grid

do you?

Dream on you crazy diamond

dream onny on

allowing yourself to experience the non

sequitur – when he himself might his quietus

 make with a bare bodkin? or so we’re told

told

 told

until we hear no more

until...

  suddenly we realise

the grid was never more

than a willing acceptance, an unwillingness

to experience, to explore

the narrative stream unblocked,

the data 

   raw and ready to take me

to a place called

now

to die, to sleep

and test the hypothesis

empirically

nota bene one

nota bene two

nota bene three

what is unstated

is

no less

Plot

Cunning

Action

Murder mystery

Template

Spheres

of closely guarded intent

never quite revealed

0=1