Foreshadowing

Location gets short shrift these days, but not for long. Soon the bloggers will turn their imagino-guns downward into the very dirt they stand upon, and a new stage-stage of transparent oddity will thus arise and seek procreation. Space is composed of infinite points, yet the connections between them are depressingly gray-scaled and finite. Ideas are combined in staggeringly limited ways, memes congregate with other "safe" memes, vistas ignore each other and a perspective is locked into a head, vise clamps on fearful noggin.

In the subsequent Year of Our Lord, he (the unnamed blogg-o-lutionary) will use the rectangular space created between his Heart-Threshold and his Brain-Lintil as a door, through which will storm the Minions of Tomorrow, Liquid Psychonauts and Half-Emergent Brainfields which are even now combining the uncombinable, breathing in the unbreathable spaces, moving and shaking that which cannot be moved or shaken.

Street maps will become like so many veins on the back of a hand, and scattershot picture/posts like so many desparate pricks of the Heroinist's needle, looking for the Right Vein in the Wrong Place. We've shaped our organs to look like neighboring counties, we've triggered our hairlines to mimmick the dodges and weaves of the clouds. Lightning in our breakfast cereal, ant colony-heaps in our memory-moments, newspapers breathing in and out in the back black corners of the strip suburban bathrooms.

Bed Bath & Beyond will glisten in the might-light of the rampaging PowerPoint diagrams, we shall Photoshop the world into a new nebulae of sensation, taking/grabbing what Is and forcing it into the nightmare Dali jello molds of What Could Be. East/West roads will now stretch from Blueberry to Neverdania. Big Box bureaucrats will become our unwitting mouthpieces each time they make business bank transactions or small talk over the Pringles cans at a 7/11.

Ours will be a distributed network of hijacked vision-matrices, wherein each citizen's thoughts and daydreams will parallel process the collective horizons descending through the pyschedelic marshes to take up influential residency in the meridians of our ho-hum human carapaces. Like a PAC buggering the halls of Congress, these brightmares will haunt the movers and shakers with the pattern-recognition of an army ant in outer space, surveying his next territory, looking for an "in" on the beachheads of the blue-delta electrochemical Continents of Romance and Danger.

His will be the last iceberg to appear, the last whale tooth in the side of the Reality Principle's sinking hull, and soon after, dark boiling clouds will bubble from the deeps of each lifespan, and we will be like wolves once again.

Thus, you will have your mutation.

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