Member 1615
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Philip Beesley (M, 64)
Toronto, CA
Immortal since Feb 24, 2008
Uplinks: 0, Generation 2
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    From Philip Beesley
    Endothelium- power cell...
    Now playing SpaceCollective
    Where forward thinking terrestrials share ideas and information about the state of the species, their planet and the universe, living the lives of science fiction. Introduction
    Featuring Powers of Ten by Charles and Ray Eames, based on an idea by Kees Boeke.
    From Philip Beesley's personal cargo

    Toward Brussells June 15, 2009

    Streaking clusters arc across, stuttering their prescribed half-kilometer pulse along their vector, silently agreeing with a neighbour’s domain of a kilometer or so. The nap covers approximately, gradient stretching between flickering surface of Baltic sea and quilted Jutland shore. Free-soldier trenchant barges plough up the middle of the strait toward a port north of Aalborg. The drift coheres at landfall, resolving to corrugated cover and sheltered base.

    Tended cells arrayed along tight-lipped seams, tidied by the tightening cluster of attention at water’s edge. But reaching inward, the cloud cover tightens its grain, first shifting to a dense stranded screen punctuated by fissures, then to wide banded rivers moving south-east, thrown into relief by the dawn light. As the spread thickens more, the distinction of the warp-oriented main vectors blurs, fusing into broad ribbons interspersed with valleys. Slight shivers appear in the perpendicular axis, an oscillation recapitulating the chop of the dispersed veil that preceded it now two hundred miles passed. Fusing again, toward an evenly spread delicately wrinkled miasma of swells. One hundred miles more, and strains shadow the surface, reaching south and then south-west, arcing across the bias in a shuddering series of braided cross-currents. The seams reach deeper and suddenly cleave the surface, sending wide fjord-furrows out in repeating chatters of cross and parry. The breaks extend, each arcing back toward itself in a lagoon-form broken by its opposite-arcing coursing reaching out and slowly dying in intensity, a string of vortices shed from the first cleavage.

    A new shore: a vast floating edge ends, revealing the preceding world as a tableau. Trailing carcasses of thinning haze stream downward and stretch off into entrails. A plunging gorge, edged by lipping swells that converge and marrow to heal the foot, bleeding into lower depths. This catastrophe is quickly cloaked by upper haze, engulfing me. Except for a string of plumes that orient me to wide left, the field shifts to a single, hovering sphere reaching the pure horizon, sky against stratosphere, pronouncing the lensing flux of light at its furthest spherical tangent. Almost nothing, a suspension that plays me by deflection: wait, retinal trenchants, there is little here. That parsimony is stretched toward primal vagueness. Not lost, but delayed past recognition. No event.

    A slight descent, tuning suspension: the horizon eludes even also, exchanged for thinly-spread cirrus and stretched-tissue whispers flickering above, thickened. Soot, evenly dispersed and sanitized into subterfugual milk-mist. Corrosion cloaked as leavened temperance: the quietest death.

    I know nothing.

    Sat, Jun 20, 2009  Permanent link

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