Wait a minute….


The mixes of my mind gave way to so many lies, landing on the grounding of my last thought.

The last one that killed individuality and brought the hive mentality to one swarm that rapes and pillages.

No.

This is not what we do.

We stop before the hoard of Gremlins and orcs and monsters before they take over our little village,

we band together and stop listening to one source of information.

We could try to reconnect to centralized bundles of information but then we would worry about our privacy and social integrity fails when transparency reveals way too much behind the curtain draped over the body of work that was called nothing but dead weight and somehow flopping like a fish.

We never had to anyway,

all we have is this culture countering it’s parts,

scrapping them out and passing the dutchy to the left,

grinding the seeds in the hopper,

dropping the aggregate details down the mainstream to get a worthy fine grain at the chute and the possibility of making so many products is possible.

This work that I do is not pressing coins,

what I do is prepare the collection of heirloom seeds,

the variagated process seperated only to keep us from planting Hops where a grain goes and vice versa.

The thing is…. This might be guerilla warfare for the age of information and the things I have to get through with is all these things you make by adding to the production value by multiplying the interest you have in my work. it’s not exponential unless it’s machine learning golden rules and that will reveal too much of a good thing.

I’m all over the place,

pulling materials out of the muck in the subconscious plunder of the treasure we thought was bits of information.

It might be superficial but that’s what makes this a presentation of connection from the ether to the metadata to the platonic solids to the archemedian shapes that make this easy to categorize; to the copies of these situations and how they copy my impression onto them and keep the water of influence into the place we congregate.

Is that a Shepard’s pie?

or an Amus Busche?

an app or a plate?

a garden or a plot?

Don’t make me wash the dishes if you can’t count on the cook to help clean up his own mess.

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