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.
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.
Mark P. Hensel died circa 400,000 B.C.E. while trying to discover the mystical secrets of the space yetis.
His ghost haunts the digital realm and possesses various weavings and synthetic fabrics in the material world.
I have also heard that, although he has lived out only twenty-two years, the path that his life traces through spacetime is discontinuous; he was seen with Alexander the Great in Macedonia, was with Grettir Armundarson on Drang Isle and was last seen drunk out of his mind at the Deep Eddy Cabaret.
The moon was low and large and distant in the sky. The inter-dimensional machineries churned to keep the Trans-Dimensional Hypercastle in place, and the haze produced fuzzed the moon, as if she were the ghostly final slice of a peach. The crystalline lattice of fluorescent blue light tubes slowly unfolded under the heavy-lidded lunar gaze. It seemed to be grasping at the whole of night.
The Miizzzard walked up to it and began to play his Hyper-Crystal Mind-Organ…
The other day, the Miizzzard decided to take a walk, to more clearly contemplate the strange flowering that has blossomed into the sentient universe and the techno-spirituo-promise of the singularity. “Space is the Place,” sing Sun Ra and June Tyson; “There’s no limit to the things that you can do (Space is the Place) There’s no limit to the things that you can be.” Well, pounding the paved swamp of the Greater Houston Area gives one perspective on the relationship between concrete and the stars. Maybe one day homo cosmos will swim in the free-fall of the middle of hollowed-out asteroids; maybe one day we will all know the joys of the Silver Surfer. But these are days of lead, and each step is heavy.
The Miizzzard stands alone underneath the mystic crystal pinnacle of his trans-dimensional hypercastle, focusing the magical energies to better delve into the universe. The weight of it all presses against his flesh as if he were buried in mud at the bottom of the ocean; and yet, he is lighter than air atop a structure that cannot be contained in any one locus of the space-time continuum. The paradoxes of his life drive him down the cascading steps, tapestries of lost times mocking his vision; which at times, can cut into the vastness of infinity. But not now. It is occluded.
He would sit in his apartment in the nights of heat and rain and weave, or fold paper, or sew; and as he carefully and drunkenly constructed these illusory selves, he thought of the person who he wanted to be, and who his father had wanted to be, and who he wanted to be, and he thought of a feminist class he had taken in college, and it was one thought rolling thru his head in time to the music and the wheels and the dawn that would come and pass once more: “Biology is no longer destiny.”
“When I was a little kid, I would sit in the bath tub and play with all the shampoos and bubble baths that were sitting around the rim of the tub. I would mix them together in a little plastic cup, and think that if I mixed them just right, and drank it, I would be transformed into Bowser, and I could romp around the town, breathing fire and destroying stuff.”
“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 weirdguy.”