It is a land that provokes lightheartedness and a light step.
Tread carefully, for you tread on dreams.
Turn on the radio.
Real music flows and sews the installation together. Flying up into the uncluttered sky, you will find a building, an industrial basilica, perhaps dedicated to the Patron Saint of AC, St. Tesla, with its sparking mast, a sort of child's windmill, electrified.
Radiant.
This is an ode to awe.
To the awe of childhood, from the awe of the past and of the promises of science, to a deep appreciation of the spirituality of form, sometimes riotous, sometimes profound.
A scattered pattern of fragments fill the pale landscape. Pieces of childhood, devotion, and memory that recall and represent the tenacious, heady power of random remembrance that only a scent, a song, or a faded photograph can re-evoke. A beam of primal connectivity joining now to a time before we knew we had a memory.
A fallen bust ripples just above the surface, its never closing eyes full of the ocean, an ocean of classical proportions.
Melancholy. We have all been on this wavelength at one time or another.
Childhood is here. The observant infant entering into an always already created world, a nest, a jumping off point. Memories formed by objects, a way to find yourself, and find your self within the random world of toys and fads and statues, the contents of a well worn toy box, the box room in the mind.
They stir in our parental lobe those grave sleepless moments of anxiety, thoughts of nature and nurture, and how the casual choice of a plaything might spawn a Mozart or a Manson, and how can we know if we have made the right choice? And can we really be expected to be eternally vigilant? And then time and tea and lazy reasonableness sooth us out of that frothy fear.
There is nothing to be done for it.
The child's eyes, that un-revisitable point of view, will take the burden of choice.
Making their own sense of our tiny purchases and the long cultural shadow that they cast, they will transmit it, on another frequency, far beyond the compass of our ken.
To visit Radiola
Log on to any HG enabled OpenSim grid
Put this address into your Map vps228543.ovh.net:9000/
Search, and Jump.
A scattered pattern of fragments fill the pale landscape. Pieces of childhood, devotion, and memory that recall and represent the tenacious, heady power of random remembrance that only a scent, a song, or a faded photograph can re-evoke. A beam of primal connectivity joining now to a time before we knew we had a memory.
A fallen bust ripples just above the surface, its never closing eyes full of the ocean, an ocean of classical proportions.
Melancholy. We have all been on this wavelength at one time or another.
Childhood is here. The observant infant entering into an always already created world, a nest, a jumping off point. Memories formed by objects, a way to find yourself, and find your self within the random world of toys and fads and statues, the contents of a well worn toy box, the box room in the mind.
They stir in our parental lobe those grave sleepless moments of anxiety, thoughts of nature and nurture, and how the casual choice of a plaything might spawn a Mozart or a Manson, and how can we know if we have made the right choice? And can we really be expected to be eternally vigilant? And then time and tea and lazy reasonableness sooth us out of that frothy fear.
There is nothing to be done for it.
The child's eyes, that un-revisitable point of view, will take the burden of choice.
Making their own sense of our tiny purchases and the long cultural shadow that they cast, they will transmit it, on another frequency, far beyond the compass of our ken.
Log on to any HG enabled OpenSim grid
Put this address into your Map vps228543.ovh.net:9000/
Search, and Jump.
No comments:
Post a Comment