Sorry about the missed post on Friday, I was taking a little Thanksgiving blogcation.
My parents live in The Woodlands, a master-planned community 28 miles north of downtown Houston. Although the suburb was bought out by real estate developers in 1997, George Mitchell’s original vision for the community was focused on aesthetics. Relics of some of the original ideas can be seen. On Research Forest Drive, office buildings made entirely out of mirrored windows crouch among the pine trees and swampland. It’s as if Superstudio’s utopian Continuous Monument was begun in the Great Piney Woods of East Texas.
These buildings house genetics firms with nondescript names like GenSys, GenTech, and BioSynth. Inside these corporations, sinister DNA-bending scientists are working to create a new subspecies of humans who can thrive in the petrochemical smog that blankets Houston. One day, they will break free from the labs and take everything within 50 miles of the refineries in Pasadena away from their oxygen-breathing brethren.
via wikipedia.
According to universe today, now that the solar panel modules have been added to the as-yet uncompleted International Space Station, it is the second brightest object in the night sky, next to the moon.
via universe today.
Venus has been dethroned, and this is just a sign of things to come. Our children’s children will look up into a sky filled with artificial satellites, floating space cities twinkling in the twilight.
A lone guitarist, camping on a mild post-global-weirding Saskatchewan winter night, will sing a song about a woman who left him for a life in space. The sky is so bright with habitats, he can hardly pick out her new home. Her muscles, weakened by the lower gravity of the Lagrange-point colonies, will never be able to support earth’s gravity again.
Full of Vim and Vigor.
“The Miizzzard no longer exists. He died circa 400,000 B.C.E. while trying to discover the transformative secrets of the Space Yetis.
His ghost haunts the digital realm and possesses various weavings and synthetic fabrics in the material world in an attempt to recreate Scriabin’s ‘Mysterium,’ a Gesamkunstwerke that destroys this earth to give birth to another.
“He is a figment, a warm bowl of minty fig meat topped with a spoonful of cold jellied plum.
“I have also heard that, although he has lived out only twenty-three years, the path that he traces thru spacetime is discontinuous: he shook to Marie Curie’s radioactive boogaloo, procured pamphlets from Le Sony’r Ra in Chicago, was a starving outcast with Grettir Armundarson on Drang Isle and pissed blue thanks to Yves Klein. His last known location was drunk out of his mind at the Deep Eddy Cabaret, singing karaoke alongside the shade of Rrose Selavy.
“All we can know for sure is that he’s a weird guy.”
-from William Cardini’s biography of the Miizzzard, “A Neo-Archaic Man”
