"Things like “doubt” and “certainty” are almost meaningless in Slipspace."
Slipspace is all the space around you that is not being used. There are fine points here about
molecules, but Slipspace is a place where certain ideas get you more easily. Yes, ideas get you… not the other-way
around. Stand on the center-line of a
great 20th century interstate highway… or a runway… on a cool
deserted moon-lit night. Slipspace hugs
the earth on a string straight to the dawn-star horizon.
Moving into Slipspace can be as easy as taking a step, but not likely. We are usually stepping
toward our next space to occupy.
Slipspace can not be occupied… only moved through. We move through it in occupied bubbles as
large as a ship or as small as a bicycle.
In heavy traffic, the greater Slipspaces seem to be occupied, but this
is an illusion, a cavitation due in part to the velocity of the occupied
We are seeking the electrified Slipspace, where the thoughtscape is less occupied by direction and drone of engines. This is where one more easily senses the string
of life-span and the thin thread of space-time.
It is said (just now, that is) that great practitioners of meditation
are able to become Slipspace. We are seeking to join creative energy in
Slipspace, occupied by ideas in their purest atomic form.
Closer to occupied space, ideas tend to clump into memes… like molecules. OK- so far, we have Slipspace, Uspace (space
that’s being used), memes and molecules.
Let us now steal outside of the sleeping house and slip into a still
night with a bright .45 caliber bullet-hole moon and stars all the way to the
end. You could read a newspaper out here
and no wind would ruffle the pages. You
have no newspaper.
The scent of night is soft and the harness is cool to the touch. Technically, it’s illegal to do
this… just like it’s probably illegal to pee in your yard. But nothing gets wet except maybe your palms
as you apply power and leap off the ground.
Now you feel the small invisible currents as the house-top slides below at
a safe distance. The other darkened
houses fan out below. There are a few
But no one is up tonight. To the moonlit horizon in all directions, there is nothing but the stars
and a turn toward the nearest thermal.
There’s one. Way out there. Another night-hawk, in time you are wheeling
opposites a thousand meters apart in the rising column of air. You have formed the diad, the
self-and-other. Fear of the “other”
stills before the idea that it’s an “other” just like you.
The other turns toward the big-box parking lot below, acres of moonlit asphalt with bright patches under the dangerous light-poles. You form the vertical helix. There are probably other night-hawks down
there, whispering like school-girls in the shadows about a forbidden thrill on Blueberry
Hill curfew violation. Now you are in
the triadic state, aware of the interactions of “others” just like you.
“Other” is a tricky word, because what is the “self” but temporarily-occupied space? Whether it
is being “used” or not is a value-judgment to be avoided like a
light-pole. Assume that it is. Like snowflakes, all supposedly different,
but ever-so-much the same; things like “difference” are of little account in
Slipspace, save the difference between the craft and Uspace. The stars close into a dome and the air
The barn roof is a bright black patch below. The porch-light shows a wide strip of gravel driveway. Over the barn and aim at the
spot. Stop behind the car and get out of
the harness. It will be safe here for now. The dew has beaded on the grass like
memes. Memes are the thoughts and
actions we learn and repeat almost unconsciously… a crazy mix of patriotism and
backward-ballcaps, macro-economics and mudflaps.
Now the dew beads on the boot whipping noodle grass circling a pass from Uspace into Slipspace and back.
The door squeaks, and the smell of coffee means someone else in the
house is awake. “Wake up and smell the
coffee!” It’s a meme… and it’s the sort
of plops said when somebody thinks they are certain about something. Things like “doubt” and “certainty” are
almost meaningless in Slipspace.
Slipspace has its place in myth and meme. It’s where Dick Van Dyke danced and nobody sees it but the birds, stars and chimney-sweeps. Good Luck will rub off when I shake hands
with you. All that poot-wheedle has no
place in Slipspace. One has to carry it
there like baggage… or fuel. Second star
to the right and straight on ‘til Morning.
Pan and Poppins and plops dew off in Slipspace.
Slipspace should always be part of The Commons. No individual can own or occupy Slipspace. We intend to move through Slipspace to heal the illusion of “self” and “other.”
Where Slipspace touches personal Slipspace, we shall be kindly and at peace. Slipspace is the
corridor between individual and collective, and as such is not only a physical
space but a mental and spiritual state as well.
Personal Slipspace is our portal to our Uspace. As such it is due respect but it must intrude as little as possible into Slipspace. We
shall promote healing in Slipspace to sustain the well-being of all aboard our
We endorse the Comedy of The Commons.
This is where you hear the horn and the pie. The band hits, “How Ya Gonna Keep ‘Em Down on the Farm,” everybody does a “take” and exeunts, elbows a-bobbin, at the nonce
for a place that aint onstage. We are
going to move into Slipspace like our great-grandparents did. Instead of barnstorming, something else… like
barning down the house. Times are going
to be interesting. They always have
Write with grace from Slipspace. Remember the folks at home.