Here in the infold, the tower blocks of liquid memory number in the tens of thousands, expanding over the back end of Klein bottle that is our little islet, dwarfing the stasis machinery which maintains the tranquillity of this non-space on the lip of the abyss. Encoded therein are all of the reports of the twelve observers, generation after generation. When the surface becomes overcrowded, the plane will sprout another convolution to accommodate our incessant industry. The blocks reveal nothing on their surface, the memories bubbling away secretly to themselves, accumulating without judgement. Sometimes a clone might go out there amongst them to get away from the mob. There may only be twelve of us at any one time, but if even three of us are together this represents a quarter of our total population. The notion that three is a crowd is literally true. Once one gets far enough into their forest, the paths between the blocks are a curiously regular labyrinth of crossroads. Looking up the view is divided into crosses and the sky beyond bows in a nauseous manner that is simultaneously both concave and convex. One can continue to walk in a straight line in any direction but once orientation is lost it becomes impossible to know whether one is moving deeper into the cluster or withdrawing from it. While they are finite in number, from the perspective of one lost within them, it is as if their parallel lines might meet at some unfeasibly distant point. Hypnotised by this grid, more than one wayfarer has imagined themselves staggering drunkenly somewhere in the expanse of narrow streets between Tokyo Bay and Redondo Beach, returning again and again to the same broadway, finding the same kebabish, the same massage parlour, the same piano bar; in ever decreasing circles until the whole of the Pacific sprawl resolves itself into a single cupboard with a single barstool in front of a single bar, “hit me again, kemosabe, and have one yourself!” Likewise more than one lost observer has been found by the recovery drones, curled into a tight ball; the endless repetition of derelict geodesic cinemas punctuating empty parking lots, waiting patiently behind their eyes. As regular as geometry, when they are returned to the fold, they ask the same familiar question, “are we there yet?”
Posted on: Sat, 08 Jun 2013 09:57:27 +0000
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