Arrive at the appointed place and time.
Swim the waters.
Intuit the rules even as you recognize their fluidity.
We are agents, of which Conway would approve.
Choose and choose again.
Those around you choose.
From choices trees unfurl.
Expansive arbors lick at the horizon.
Pixels, neighbors, nodes blink off and on.
Life as pattern in motion.
Ulam and von Neumann’s cellular automata.
Signals synchronize.
Stigmergic swarms generate exquisite gliders and spaceships to speed across crystalline lattice.
A note in ballpoint on the bottom of a pencil drawer in the Hans Bethe house on Bathtub Row: “A mathematician does something on a piece of paper, and then lo and behold a big explosion can occur. S Ulam – Phila. 1967.”
And that “explosion”
Hydrogen bomb?
Or superposition?
The grail…
Atoms broken?
Or linear time?
Consider consciousness harnessed.
Put to bed Georgia Guidestone fairytales.
“Useless eaters” are not so “useless” when networked towards the Omega point.
Biodigital convergent infrastructure maximizes return on humans tethered to sacred fields.
Liquid crystal fascial computing, soulful frequencies dance through entrained torus fields.
Electroceuticals, biofeedback, “white hat” nano join to decrypt secrets beyond human knowing.
Hypercubes architected for group-mind memory storage.
Manifestation protocols where pictographic tokens masquerade as community currency.
Sophisticated storylines weave consent for Santa Fe’s B game.
Human potential harvested from the cacophony of the wise guy commons.
Is the terrain dangerous or didactic?
The conducting programmer…
Benevolent? Malevolent? Indifferent? Curious? Bored?
Can you count the degrees of freedom?
Find your way to the edge?
Flip the board?
Become the governor?
An empire of one?
One man is an island…
Chaotic cycles churn through gap junctions.
Emotional distance offers fleeting grace, a respite of unexpected order.
Thoughtlessly step into the void.
Life’s obvious turning points are outnumbered by countless split paths traversed on autopilot.
Doors are opened, opportunities are taken off the table, outcomes obscured.
Five senses cannot perceive beyond the bend,
But probiotics on standby may orchestrate the holobiont stochastic symphony.
Even as a gut-led leap year duck visitation arose en-route to Montauk.
There, textured yarns were spun of nuclear estuary rituals entangled with digital totem poles, tree spirits, astral projection, and advice on finding your way home.
Where lighthouse and radar tower flank hoodoo bluffs.
Cobbled, glacial beaches kiss Atlantic waves, a naval domain of photonics and frequency.
Microwave ether claimed sodden oak, velvet moss, lichen and quartz.
Inner knowing dispells history’s iron curtain.
Are you the hero?
Is a hero what’s needed?
What Are You Doing Here? YouTube. Mexican baby telemedicine ESP. Who/What is The Client? Doctor Who episodes: The Snowmen, and The Bells of Saint John. Written, and made many years in the past. The writers knew what you were questioning.
Hey Alison, thanks, that was like entries in an artistic journal, your way with words (and hearts) is wonderful. Dunno if you are interested but James Tunney was on Alfa Vedic and he is good at seeing the big picture. He talked about the cubes/block/brutalist we see everywhere as being part of the left brain/machine thinking we are living in and how it is not to make AI creative but to reduce our abilities and connection to Divine/God. I’m Irish so love listening to fellow Irish albeit he is living in Sweden. Blessings to you and hugs for your move.
I would be cautious with people appearing on the podcast of influencers who sell what I’m calling “white hat nano.” C60 = carbon nano, fullerenes. It’s been a set up since the beginning. https://www.alfavedic.com/product/oil-essentials-no1-carbon-60/
https://www.nature.com/articles/nnano.2010.210
Nice poem. Montauk is a sinister place. Their black cube symbolizes their evil Saturn-worship.
It is a place. I don’t get the sense from your comment that you absorbed the scope I was attempting to share. Emotional reactivity limits ones ability to delve deeper. Perhaps go back and re-read it and spend some time on emergence and cellular automata.
There is so much here… your poem! Layers and layers of meaning and me, a dictionary and limited intellectual or historic knowlege or understanding of all you say here, yet my cells know and ‘grok’ it. The pictures juxtaposed – that sinister black cube on tilt in front of that crazy tree, bare branch architecture waving as if madly trying to get away or give us messages… I love everything about this post and you, though we’ve never ‘met’ but i feel you as kin somehow and will read and re-read your poem and appreciate it and the photos in all their truth, irony, brilliance, play and peeling the onion layers while at the same time connecting all the dots, the makeup of the Universe, and i’m craving curves, round, circles, spirals… Thank you, Alison. Happy belated Leap day to you in all the wonderful facets. That heart you left; so beautiful, soft, intimate, seeing, looking itself like a Being with hair, eyes, a face, a soul, your soul intertwined in everything you see and make and do and are.
I have walked to the top of the hill above and behind that radar station shown in your pics. The fences were wide open, despite the signs in your pics. I was looking for something I had walked around (circled about) in approx. 1970-’71. It had been a hollow cylinder about 10 feet in diameter. Its walls were less than a foot thick. It *looked* like it was made of ordinary plaster or cement. It was open to the sky at the top. It was about 15 feet tall (above the sand) and went down into the sand the same distance, where only sand was visible, at the bottom. It was about 100 feet from the bluffs that overlook the ocean to the south. There was a circular hole, about 2 feet in diameter, cleanly cut/formed through the cylinder’s wall, at about 5 feet above the sand. Aside from the sky above and the sand below, there was nothing visible inside the cylinder. I knew this by sticking my head inside and looking up and down. I recall thinking that a human being could not escape if they were inside the cylinder. The cylinder was painted yellow on the outside; the inside edge of the “viewing hole” was white (hence the look of plaster, or cement). There were 4 Army- green colored vehicles (2 jeeps and 2 canvassed trucks) parked about 100 yards away. No people were visible. An abandoned 2-story building (no glass or any covering in/on the window frames). Approximately 45 years later, while walking around that radar place and elsewhere at Camp Hero, for many hours, I could not find the cylinder. There were, however, some electrical cables running along the sand, which disappeared into the base of a mound; the mound itself was covered in vines and other vegetation. The mound seemed to be concrete beneath the vegetation. I did not follow the electrical cables to the other end. The entrance that I and a friend (who had brought me to the place) had used 45 years ago (just feet from the side of the old Montauk Highway — or whatever it’s called) was/is no longer there, as of 10 years ago. [Unrelated (?) : I’d rather not be bio-digitized.] P.S. — I do not know “where” in digi-land this comment is going, or how I (or anyone) can view it, or other comments that may be left.