Member 518
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(M)
Rochester, NY, US
Immortal since Dec 12, 2007
Uplinks: 0, Generation 2
Sometimes there is only what happens when you are silent. Fisherman, writer/thinker, dad.
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    From awindow
    Fuck 'Exploring Inner...
    From feanne
    killing wildflowers
    From pacocamino
    When Particles Collide
    From
    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.
    The state of our species...

    I wonder, in the end, what statement is being made, or difference forged, or truth realized through the collective intelligence, insight, creativity and hypothesizing happening here. Are we preaching to the choir? Are we simply sharing in sympathetic circles? Is our commentary inherently exclusive?

    Recent conversation around the quality/relevance/value of the information being added to the body of work that is Space Collective asks and tries to answer the question. The intensity and focus of initial posts vs. what seems to be fatigue as the months lumber on. What does immediate, mass dissemination of this information accomplish? What does it say about us as a culture...species? There's talk of malaise and disenchantment. There's the wholehearted, if only virtual, interest and exploration into the capacity/potential/value of a society that exists solely online.

    Humankind exists in billions of small universes... each with the potential to overlap... concentric circles from pebbles dropped on opposite sides of a calm pond. When I mentioned sympathetic circles above, I wasn't necessarily speaking of like-mindedness in individual opinion/attitude/experience, but rather like-mindedness in the fact that there is a collective comfort and confidence in the sharing of those opinions/attitudes/experiences in an online setting.

    The phenomenon of electronic culture is growing and garnering more and more clout as a viable and arguably vital part of our society/culture (I'm old enough to remember when typing classes were a requirement in school and half the class still had to use traditional typewriters). But what about face-to-face discourse? What about the marches and demonstrations from our not-so-distant past? The collective and most often undeniable voice of flesh and blood? Is it enough to simply record our opinions/attitudes/experiences here? To make them available to an audience (in reality, a thoughtful minority) for study and debate that stays-put in an exclusive medium (after all, invites are extended to those we feel would add to the conversation..we knowingly,or unknowingly, protect our space)? At what point does our intelligent and socially and culturally (and even politically) valuable discourse turn to involve/influence the leadership and policy of the real world (I'll point to the TED conference)? Is there a bigger picture? Will we ultimately leverage our applied thought to bring about social or environmental change? Will we illuminate the dire situation of millions suffering human rights injustices? Will we help to simply open peoples eyes to a greater and more dynamic appreciation of creativity?

    This may very well not be the platform for any of these things. And that's absolutely fine. But if we believe enough in our own merit to publish our thoughts for the world to see...and to challenge those of others respectfully, intelligently and with great passion...if we believe in change, in the idea that an individual voice can be heard on a global stage... there is a need...a requirement...to get dirt under one's fingernails (as I have been discussing with awindow recently), a need for intention and intelligence to defined art (or even this historical electronic record) as "true." What truth are we looking to put forth about our species and its state here? Is it enough to simply define it?
    Wed, Apr 9, 2008  Permanent link

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    When I say—
    (the sun sets on a field of blue to orange-red)

    it has nothing to do with—
    (thin fingers of smoke rise from refugee chimneys)

    (tired heart, clutching threadbare rest)
    Mon, Mar 31, 2008  Permanent link

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    The lake is half frozen & the geese & swans can’t make up their minds.
    Everything has gained a transitory aura & its tough to pin down exactly which habits should rise
    from ancient genetic patterns until the beard-frost leaves the surface.

    Their feet are leathery—
    the cold does not phase them.
    Mon, Mar 31, 2008  Permanent link

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    Drums started the boys west to this field from Washington.
    War to them was a three-month enlistment,
    a bright uniform & a chance to carry a musket.

    Senators, Congressmen, their wives & children,
    packed baskets with lunches & followed to watch the show.

    Almost a century & a half has passed.
    Somehow my visit seems forced, disrespectful.
    I walk through the field, burnt umber by a dry summer & the changing season,
    toward three oaks that would only have been saplings when the battle started on this hill—
    much like the boys whose spirits are still here.
    My foot step snaps a fallen branch.
    Starlings lift from the oaks
    then settle again.
    Mon, Mar 31, 2008  Permanent link

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    I
    most are kids
    can’t grow a mustache
    where they’re going, bullets won’t care
    jumpy ghosts who know nothing about conflict
    except what a fist feels like after a school dance argument

    ready to be heroes
    boots, BDUs & guns
    leaving gym bleachers like a slow parade
    watch the families say good-bye with tearful
    fuck yous & hearts spilling on the polished wood floor


    II
    passing on barely audible steps
    like long-standing bets with their fathers
    dead ten years now
    buckets of ash in their chests smothering
    these hawk-eyes for the not-quite-right
    quick-study marksmen
    knowing only diplomatic decay
    kevlar, tightly laced boots & a full magazine
    patrol for their lives
    pray in half empty canteens
    that the hand of god finds its rest here


    III
    they want to write home
    everything’s OK no worries miss you
    small home-front hope
    really only that much to offer

    it registers in their periphery
    small muzzle flash out of a tragic panorama
    just a puff of smoke-spark click pop
    before lying down mute heroes


    IV
    they fall into formation
    draped in proud uniformity
    red white & blue promised land
    as far as the tarmac can see
    listen as the echoes
    snap to attention
    listen as the cadence is called
    their march continuing on
    Mon, Mar 31, 2008  Permanent link

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    how is it we can understand when speaking speaking speaking
    filling space

    fragile reed
    volumes remain in the silence between thoughts

    Wed, Jan 9, 2008  Permanent link

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    These words are breath on a cold morning drawn through the throat of the blood-gilled trout—
    the belly becomes white, becomes the belly of a cloud front tumbling over snow capped
    mountains.
    It doesn’t matter the hows or whys
    rather that there is nothing else at this moment & everything else from now on.
    The sun learns existence from the movement of shadows away from it.
    Opposition & survival.

    This is existence—
    the stuff that sticks like hydrogen atoms to each other.

    This is explosiveness—
    the twisting of words like so much cording,
    the absoluteness of the braid lengthening to keep ships held fast to pilings pushed into the
    bedrock under the water of a harbor sloshing against the starboard side & foaming upward at
    the gulls feathering the northern wind until they dive for minnows.
    Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link

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    I’ve seen more lately. I imagine some
    K-Mart shopper tossing nonchalantly
    the plastic wrapper from a pack of menthols
    into the air while walking
    away from the automatic doors.
    Before it reaches the ground
    some chemical or biblical shift has occurred,
    creating conglomerates of cells
    for feathers, knobby legs & feet,
    beady eyes & a voice like a car crash.
    Once it touches down,
    blows under a mini-van & a pick-up,
    the miracle of life flexes inside of it
    & suddenly there is the back-end
    of the bird & one foot. The bird is huge
    coming out of such a small
    piece of plastic. Now the other foot,
    the mid-section, neck & yes,
    a mean-ass beak. The blackbird shines,
    clean as black on white, pecks a couple
    times at its old womb & flies off.
    Wed, Jan 2, 2008  Permanent link

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    One population becomes destructive
    & the weight of necessity becomes evident.
    Bottlenecks bursting at their seams—
    this our lineage & history.

    The poplars will bend under their perfect weight—
    the weight of ten billion eons.
    They look on with faces bright from attention—
    resolute & randomly tittering in the blue mid-air.
    Wed, Jan 2, 2008  Permanent link

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