I ask you to be my perceiver,
the body of my journeying.
Receive from me the shells of stories,
that you might seek
within the landscape of your travels,
bending and stretching them as you must
to make them fit.
If you can
look and listen also with my mind.
You know how I love to unravel
space and time.
I ask you to conjure me
and create for me some record
of my own vicarious perceptions.
Memories of a reality
not quite my own
First things first, you need an arc. Be it flood or fire or the fading stars of the ever expanding universe; the end is coming in its own good time. It's not divine authority, I'm just a utopian obsessed artist who wants to know what we will carry with us and how. (Though I have it on good authority that you should bring two of things... and penguins.)
Fires light the last shores
rhythm and ritual tuned for six thousand years
From before the birth of our spirits
In the forest hunted, on the water hunters
What seal can withstand our barbed harpoons?
And even the mighty whale can be caught in the shallows
while we feasted and danced on the blubbery beach
those frayed white sails
Crept ominously out of the horizon
I’ve been thinking about these narrative missions I am sending you on. And, if we’re endeavoring to create a new reality of flexible spacetime, then we should start, as I tend to do, with the creation of the universe (multiverse).
There are an intimidating number of narratives to chose from, most of which I am ignorant of. Here is the one that I know best, though perhaps not the one you will encounter:
They say the universe began with an explosion, something on a magnitude we could never understand. It left brilliant jagged tears in the swirling nothingness of space. Reds, yellows, blues, greens and purples burst through the fabric of space-time. Color was the only witness to the birth of the first stars.
I look forward to being there at the start with you.
This is perhaps the most specific mission yet. You may want to enlist Andrew and Ben's help for this one. I hear you are going to be surrounded by snow and glaciers.
As you know, gravity is fluid, it pools in the voids, and allows us to open up portals. Within my art work, I often use a giant white arch as a gateway for travelers to enter and exit the painted frame.
I ask you to open one of these gate ways along your hike. If you build it big enough and sturdily enough, perhaps you can stumble through it into one of my paintings.
Aside from the documented memory, as you chose to present it, I would request, for my own painting purposes, to receive pictures of the building process as well as the completed work.
Calafate is a frontier town sandwiched between the desert of patagonia (wasteland fit only for tribal nomads and ostriches) and the silty grey waters of a great mountain lake. No roads extend beyond Calafate but a sufficiently brave fellow can follow the lake's eerily still beaches for three days. After three days you reach the ice wall, which is the limit of our world and the beginning of another.
Accurate reports of the ice world's properties or inhabitants do not exist. None who have sought to collect such reports have ever returned.
Nonetheless, the silhouettes of monstrous shapes have sometimes been seen in the dense clouds rolling off the ice wall. Low moans and rhythmic thuds and crashes can be heard as far away as Calafate itself. We don't know who or what lives on the ice. Many hope to never find out.
This is either the twin or the lover to the second mission. (It's like that beautiful mathematical uncertainty whether two has been squared or doubled.)
We want you to know, the oceans are rising. Inch, by inch, by meter by mile. We've left offerings to appease it's hunger, but it's endless cycle of floods greedily claims the shore with our treasures. We try to incorporate it into our system of human rules and rituals. After 4 billion years, it’s time to celebrate the ocean’s birthday. But how do we relate to it’s hopes and desires? What once was a little blue pool has become a flood; endless arms reaching for the moon. I write a love letter, and cast it to the waves. The water still rises. It’s a good thing I like to swim. Diving and emerging with the passing waves. Caught in the cycles of all this excess of water, a current that carries us through time, or dumps us on the shore. Reds, yellows, blues, greens and purples seep out of the waves. We are baptized in color. We practice being reborn.
Hello my hardy Fabricator of Realities! I have decided to play around with the language of these missions. My paintings are often used, in part, to show the magic of the world that I experience, and my help you to encounter the augmented realities that are the food and water of my existence. Please seek out the following: