What is still folding and unfolding is, by folding and unfolding, becoming a kind of respiration of the idea system, and that may be useful for this eccentric channeling I'm engaging in now: every post is now accompanied by Gort and The Stig with whom I share mental breathing space —I am at home (comfortably folded into what is folding into me) in this recent and not fully-built triumvirate. What flexible architectures surround my own flexible architecture of being and perceiving —even the anarchy of body, the rebel limbs that feel free to reject orders from the brain and experience whatever they want, fingertips convinced and secure in their exclusive reality of fingertips that are really jacks, these jacks hardly privy only to the history of the game, but, within the flexibility and flexibility's able collaborator: anarchy, these fingertip jacks are transformations (evolutions that when sped up function also as enchantments, even miraculous departures from what is possible in this external reality system, but only the ordinary in the reality the fingertips generate in their independence); these fingertip jacks are transformations of the anther and filament structure of flowers, the structure that produces pollen, that invites and welcomes honeybees (known as a keystone spacies) who started disappearing a couple of years ago, as if snatched away in spaceships to pollinate flowers also abducted to beautify alien worlds that would be barren without these abductions —only for the sake of beauty, including the beauty of the fantasy. Necessary abductions from the point of view of the abductors. It was no longer possible to live without the beauty of flowers, the fragrances of beauty, the growth of beauty from seeds as hard as rocks, as hard as fortresses protecting the possibility of flowering within.
As Wisit says on Top Design: no one can deny the beauty of flowers, no being from any planet, from any where that is a where... The disappearance of the honeybee, a subtraction from the flexible (and sometimes fragile) architecture of a system of reality (this world) that as a consequence, as an interaction with that subtraction —an interaction with negative bees— leads also to a loss of flowers. No bees, no flowers. (...a situation suitable for opera; an opera suited to Wisit, who can sound like flowers, the lament of the last wilt, beautiful aria, each note a petal). I wonder what strange pollen the strange anther and filament system of my fingertips produce, perhaps a pollen so strange, the bees cannot use it, so my fingertips do not blossom —unless alien modified bees return on spacecraft in search of just this variety of pollen that my modified fingertips produce, and then there may be crops of very special flowers like those that transformed Mr. Spock in This Side of Paradise (episode #24 of Star Trek TOS), a paradise that is still in the future, just as we remain on this side of the future, on this side of where we are ultimately going, an irreversible ending, arrival at a boundary of destination beyond which there is nothing, a vanishing that perhaps can also be an extreme compacting toward infinite density that in approaching infinity explodes, and a universe begins blossoming.
* (Diagram of flower anatomy is from Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum)
(The image of jacks is from myjanee.com)
(The image of Mr. Spock kissing Leila in a romance with an alien flower is from Wikpedia)
Gort & The Stig are my obstructions, invaders of my now (penetration all the way to the core of the moment, a sit-in saucer-style* center of a GAS universe: the GORT- &-STIG-verse, v1.1), agents both against and for, via twists, via other manipulation sets, larger relevance, significance, agents that take humanity to and from exaggerated elevated states and profound prolonged descents; they are worthy and unworthy vehicles, part of the world of humans, related to humanity without having to conform to humanity's boundaries that they, when outside humanity, help define and restrict.
¡KLAATU BARATA STIGTOE!