Data and divulgation – the stream of endless data – attempting to make ripples in the stream, which is largely outside our control, by strategically ‘dropping stones’. In order to create chaos ripples, or to attempt to deflect the stream.
These stones are ERASED by the stream, through erosion, worn to pebbles, into sand, into nothing. But the nature of information allows content to itself be a measure of ERASURE of the ‘content’ material of the stream’s flow, infomatic, anti-possibility which seeks only self-sustaining control mechanisms. If the idea of ‘mainstream’ is to disallow fringe belief, action, contention, then the stones one releases can be logic bombs that divest the mainstream of its own content-ion. Creating a misanthropic voice against vocalizations of control-basis. To deny the possibility of consensus, to awaken the exploited by a question mark of whether the claimed best-intentionality is simply – that – what it claims to be – a measure of faith. One’s best stones are taken fully in the spirit of awareness that we are in a glass house, and one is not throwing stones, but dropping them into a river which we are all immersed in, bathing in, drinking from, and the stones are either further pollution, or somehow a ritual purification. An act of disruption that serves to awaken the stream to its SELF.
The stones are ourselves.
It is a reclamation of sanity. Building cairns on a path we feel often we have no choice in being carried away upon. A massive onrush to a future we don’t want, surrounded by a rush of information we disagree with the thrust of, in these public spaces where the noise is not meditative but grating and – obscene?
We stack stones in a cairn as an act of building a divergence. We build our sanity.
One could potentially build a foundation over the stream to – stay dry, to build a home. To walk upon. A refuge.
We place stones, drop them, in order to remember. The echoes remind us that we are here and alive and resistant. That we have memory that the source we may feel conspires to erode our being and resistance – to make us forget ourselves. Turn off your mind- relax- float down stream-
We feel compelled to give away our autonomy to the current. To the currency that spends our time in the compel of its own desire.
The stoic seeks equanimity. To maintain a level head. We do not desire to stand still in the stream of history. This is what -they – the illustrious they- the anecdotal sacerdotal ‘THEY’ – may accuse us of- being anti-progress- anti-rationale- anti-community- anarchists against order and life- We want to gain our own flow! We want to feel again our own current. If we are fish floating in the stream, we want to not be dead and floating atop the stream, baked and filleted. We want to swim, and that means, natural. In the stream of life and the universe, of history and true community. Not of the artificial, the digitized humanity of powered light against light.
The stream that strives to take over the stream.
STONES DROPPED REVOLT
Like dropping a needle on a record that starts a song to reclaim the cycles of nature, playing music and lyric and energy of art and time and beauty against the drag of lesser mind. Of the pull and drag and undertow of those who seek control and to relay one’s energies and efforts into their eddies and wake and whirlpool. To pull one under, to put one out to sea.
To ultimately drown us in their private pools.
Drop the needle with the weight of a small pebble and let the music dance.
Leap from the stream like flying fish.
And echo bounce the voice of a bat’s echolocation to sound out -where, truly, do we stand?
What do you want from me, purveyers of the stream?
What do I want, and need, and believe?
What oxygen do – I – must – breathe?
Hear me, walls of cage and cave, though I cannot yet sea.
I have salmon pink blood too lightly spilled for this disease.
It’s time for me to break away.
I need to find my own way.
I am leaving you, dire fate.
I am packing my bags, and swimming now –
UPSTREAM.
The Haunted Typewriter 