Spectacle1, Spectrum2, sceptre3 and spectre4: Incorporeal materiality. A nonlinear continuum or the moth-holes in the fabric of euclidean reality from which emerges randomly associated reactionary tendencies transcending the subliminal chaotic matrix in a possibly scary adventure into ostensibly ordered superficial arrangements.
Everything is different, that's academic. What piques our interest, when not in search of justification for war or grounds for disassociation, is the common something shared within a crew which seems to persist with the enduring association, whether speaking of atoms in ionic dance coalescing from a drying solution or affinity groups or traveling troupes who's members come and go but very often return like homing pigeons and salmon & mourning when they don't – waking from a bed that's empty – it's as if someone's dead so find a mirror or pinch your skin just to make sure it wasn't you. Did you only lose a life-long habit?
All culture is conceptual art once euclidean bindings are ruptured or aristotelean boxes are crushed by an incendiary boot on the top uppermost face forever (down but not out)! It's all about the vortex created in a pepper-mill and the coming solidarity of its bestrewed barley-corn excremental derangement like chicken scratch. There is no void as radiation bounces back into itself with the snap of a rubber-band or impact with a sudden field of density like three feet of black lead or just dissipates in all directions upon the mere encounter with a rain-drop, forgetting its first intentions 'cause there's just no more coherence or prodding prompt for any sort of reinforced remembrance. And vacuums are nonsensically gibberish without a simultaneous gravitational pull seducing their suck – when the pulling force is cast round the lower appendage, its vacuous proprietor will fall, but even that's uncertain and not always funny.
A monopoly of appearances may be as simple as a cloak of invisibility around everything outside the carpet-bag of medicinal elixirs smelling of snake oil. Answers are only implied by the absence of questions. Like, what else is there? Without the posited, sub-real and shifty "center of gravity" around which elliptically inclined objects fall for each other without an antagonistic collision [like binary star systems] are figuratively tethered in a judo-like oscillating dance or undulating wobble or the almost telepathic tip of an atom's electron responding to a tap from its dance partner on the other side of the galaxy, the missing third must be ethereally electric love or it's a universal accident disguised as nothing.
Like 'economics', quantum force is merely a meaningless word-game resembling corpse-like vomitus just to avoid the accusation of "romantic" when trying to explain the inexplicable attraction and mutual reciprocity (sans exchange medium as well as debt and insurance premium with moral currency to bind the transaction) seen emerging on the cosmic dance floor because gravity and motion account for only two-thirds of physicists' theoretical observations and the long distance attractive force between distant wall flowers. If a transaction can be voided by a mere club, it was probably missing from the start. Such is the nature of true fiction and false fact.
It may just be that Mr. Grey, that fatty tissue in the cranium called chief executive is only there to help us track, to read the signs so we can navigate when the target of interest is moving and lies beyond our perceptual horizon and we must follow cues or clues and then remember just in case of a distraction and we have to start all over again. Just because the limbic is nearby (we may need to hurry) is no excuse to say the head's the master or in control of anything but disaster when it's certainty that steers the boat instead of an experimental suggestion. There's no controlling chance no matter how preplanned the itinerary: one goes with the current flow, capsizes or navigates around it because in nature, there are no short cuts. A natural articulation is the zone of free association, any way you slice it.
see – The Psychopathology Of Work by Penelope Rosemont
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