At birth, the child carries the womb out and unfurls it, but it keeps unfurling as the child grows into an adult, and never ceases unfolding until the material is rolled back up like a rug put back into a box with other rolls in deep storage. Patterns interlock across endless fabrics knitting themselves together into a greater common rug known as existence. The inside is always the outside. No matter how deep one unfolds into the experience of consciousness, a surface awaits, for the interior is its own exterior. The womb was never left behind but carried out with the other countless re-wombings that populate the planet, the greatest womb through which all of her wombs birth themselves into a singular consciousness segmented only by the illusion of corporeal cells called bodies. The spin of the great mutual unfurling of all wombs coincides with and inhabits the greatest womb hurling through the deep space of greater wombs yet to be eventually carried through the vacuum of a black hole again otherwise known as the rebirth canal.
A conspiracy theory is like the scrawl found on a wall somewhere. The inked characters are desperate to get out the truth as the owner of the hand who wrote it wants you to believe it. When the only message it sends is one of a mind in need of greater self-reflection. A mind in need of more critical ability than finding a scapegoat or a cure-all. It reads as a call for help from someone who needs to find a pattern or put an order to the chaos in order to feel as if things could be under control or solved. That there is always somebody to blame (ironically negating the randomness of existence). The laziness of its accusations abounds online but I have to believe that most people see it as I do, like nonsense scribbled on a random wall whose truth is nothing but sad.
The space consumes the form and the form the space. The terrain absorbs itself. Color sops up difference. Separations pinch. Holes twist open. Pathways stretch from crevices. This strange material is caught in a stagnant churn. Reforming the form without any original form to begin with and no final form to reach. Tossing and tumbling into itself, it ingests what it discharges and discharges what it ingests. Its gestures are traces; its cracks experiences. A static vortex suspended by its own force hovers through the emptiness.
Did you know that the potato inspired deer to grow antlers? Neither did I. But apparently potato hungry deer began sprouting their own antlers after countless years of tater munching. And certain northern European tribes that roamed in tandem with these wild deer had a trophy to bestow upon only the bravest of wanderers: the heart of the spud.
This phenomenon has also been documented in the Americas where the heart of the cactus was also bestowed as a trophy of bravery.
The glass curtain rolls over every segmented and coded unit ready to plug into a conditioned lack. In the cavernous belly of the beast, only objects of warm and cozy domestic bliss can be found. The unctuous chain of production leads back to certain reflective surfaces that bounce any seekers back to the reproduction itself. And in the rafters of the subsidiary, the conglomerate shadows eavesdrop for absolute compliance in service to all desiring machines in all directions.
Why else does the immensity of this space exist bound by the heaviness of this sea and cliff but for the most delicate of forms to sway and flow in the mimicry of something ineffable like a floral jellyfish or an illuminated nautilus whose static dance inhabits the gestures of Isadora Duncan stinging this spiral between weight and weightlessness?