"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
bubbles.
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
lighted windows.
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
whispers, “…vorbei.”
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 Manifesto
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
planet.
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
been.
Write with grace from Slipspace. Remember the folks at home.
Vati Jake’s letters
Become an event when the trees grow bare and the wind is too rough to stream Slipspace above. Naomi died giving birth to Rachael on Reformation Day… or Halloween to the English,,, exactly 100 years after Jake’s great-grandfather purchased the section, sight unseen, from Ixheim. Scarcely three slip miles away; the father and daughter send papers from a dream-world.
Jealous of the juice that runs the printer that could be diverted to slipcraft, the gum of stamp-glue on tongue and buffeting walk to mailbox becomes a bridge across slipstream. Slipspace craft can be vehicles or thoughts… and thoughts use words just like our bodies use Slipspace craft or slipships. Jake has launched a flurry of slipships, and filling them with return cargo has been time-consuming. The air is cold now.
Jake says the black-clad Bleriot flies of its own accord at least once every generation. Naomi somehow managed to launch it, presumably by horse, on a dark Reformation Day evening and Old Man Scheiber looked her in the eye as she glided over the Scheiber outhouse toward Jake and Naomi’s place. It was known that Old Man Scheiber was fond of strong drink, and few believed his outbursts of Naomi’s witchcraft.
Still, Naomi died bringing Rachael into the world on the same day the following year. The idea that Rachael was somehow “touched” has made her both admired and feared by her scholars ever since. Rachael is the connection to the reformation taking place now among the last of the Flock… and the last shall be first. The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast. The folk must lead us into the new way, or so many more will die.
A Slipspace Signal
my dear brother jake as you see i have already broken ordnung. No capitals. No punctuation. Incomplete sentences. Ordnung is not in our heads, it’s on the paper. We put it in our own heads. It is probably not a “miracle,” any more than it is “witchcraft,” unless you apply metaphysics. Are you not glad you looked up that word? There is probably a perfectly Welt explanation in Cognitive Science. Look it up!
Rachael can fly because, as she says, she can “see” things we can not. My guess is that she has not been exactly “blind” since birth, but that the physicians misdiagnosed the function of her eyes based on their (her eyes’) response. Somehow Rachael developed a memory in her visual cortex, which I would imagine is very active (if you would only let the English doctors examine her). I still respect your decision.
It would not be honest to say I agree with it. Aber, you are probably right about the goy, so I understand why you thought I was one of the black helicopters. I believe you would not have known about the black helicopters unless you had really seen one. Our LW-4 is the kind of thing they use for the kind of visit you describe. Such an examination should be her choice as a way of helping others who have not developed her Sight.
And I would not disagree that her Sight is her Faith in Jesus Christ. I am just saying that He has a neurological phenomenon (please look up) as one of His instruments. I do not think that Rachael’s knowledge of this will affect her judgment in matters of faith at all. You are His instrument as well, and you asked for advice. You are quick to say you do not have the answer to everything. I, as a Weltkind, believe that I do.
(Insert The Answer to Everything here)
I dare say you have gotten good at what I call Permaculture and you call Gardening, how goes the discussion among your congregation as to whether it is the same or different from farming? More important, you have found a faith awakening that I also dare-say obliges itself to be shared with others. You have turned Rachel’s Sight toward Energy, Environment, Economy and Peace.
I also dare-say… it is the Energy part that troubles the folk. In my plain opinion, I do not see battery electricity as being tethered, and you will need to decide if it will drive your grandchildren into the world. This is what I think, brother. Your prayers are welcome and I appreciate them! I would beg you to speak more on Gardening to those who would listen! Many have told me your talk strengthens their faith.
Aber, it is Rachael who touches their hearts! She need never speak of flying nor say anything about her other skills. As you know brother, I give little thought to metaphysics or causality beyond the text. She speaks her own words, and reading them transcribed fills me with God’s Glory, and I am unworthy to pay heed to such things! I will watch for the sign in the time you mentioned… a visit would be good.
If I mail this today, it should reach you in time to talk about other times and places, depending upon God and His weather. Give my blessings to the girls and my thanks to the boys for their hearty greetings at the store because “Vati Jake says you’re okay!” Nur die Wurst hat zwei… when I mention a case of beer! Ah, zu spat schlau, my friend. The usual blessings and greets until we speak, (signature).
By now it is dark and the air is a swirling cloud of the season’s first real snowfall. It is about a mile to the neighborhood mail box, much safer than leaving it in the driveway box with the flag. The crystals weave Rosetta stained-glass in the air, as in the nose of Notre Dame. All this metaphysical lotion is one notion toward the stars. Mailbox door bangs closed, and the wind cries Mary.
Jacob stunned to think that anyone would consider the real physical existence of Jesus Christ “unimportant.” To regard the angels and shepherds and Magi as a charm-tale for children does not diminish ein particle from the goodness, beauty and glory of the story. It carries the same message whether it took place at some speck on time in the “carbon world” or not. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe!
Yet Jacob could not get beyond the idea that if the events were “false,” then the Gospel itself would be false, which cannot be possible. The structure crunches underfoot and dark winter night orbits through Slipspace. The story, like the Ordnung, exists on paper and we put it in our heads. It is not in our power to make it real, only to keep it real. Why would we let the events eclipse the meaning? Are they one and the same?
Speck on time in the carbon world sizzles in iron skillet and scents warm inside with harvest onions and potatoes and Season spirits. Was there really a Säemann who threw all those seeds? Did anybody ask the Lord if the story was “true?” Only those who would not see for the seeing or hear for the hearing! There is cinnamon in the coffee celebrating the message scent to us. We bay at the moon.
Jacob can no longer regard them so harshly, those who lost the sent and bay at the moon. Paid to stand on barren Land any try for sky lies belie them. They are taught to take pride in winning, so humility in cooperation falls on them hard. It will end by wrath in vintage thorn as it does on the trampling path. Not far down the wheel write gambling road no chickens scratched the yard. The suburbs starve and shiver by Living River.
This house has vegetables. The Lord commanded neighbor to help neighbor. “Cyberspace by nature feels very big from the inside,” says Joe, and but nature by cyberspace feels small. More slips to the carbon world started gatherings, slipcraft landing like crows in a field, ducks on a pond or gulls at a beach. Many folk become accustomed to turning a blind eye toward the wood lot.
There is always plenty of help in the gardens, and the gardens grow. Panels grow up here, Freedom Shelters there, and in this season of wanton hunger an unknown population is filled with a New Gospel, source unknown. “True be green,” they would say, often to recognize each other. TBG in text. Every young green motor-head is working on their rotor or controller. Velomobiles whirr quietly in slip.
The air buffets gently this still night under a cold Christmas moon. Few lights blaze below like the fabled Star in the East. Even above the flapping wind and whirr of the electric motor, the sound was unmistakable. Scores of human voices, not all male, are singing. “Oh Come All Ye Faithful,” drifts up from freezing darkness below. Voices are young and strong. Yes, they are coming from everywhere.
They arrive quietly and disperse quietly, traveling silently for hundreds of miles each day in all directions. There is food and shelter and juice at most stops on any slip. Stops beyond the County are pure conjecture and second-hand information anyway, so turn back toward glow on the frosty edge of England. With night fighters over the Channel we mock the Prince of Peace. Jettison the deHaviland Mosquito fantasy and land.
It Came Upon A Midnight Clear that we can not create energy, only transform it. Stomp snow off inside breezeway and peel off propaganda only the Pharisees. We are not running out of time. There is time enough. The old slipster wonders if it is like the old days, when for a brief time, we all recognized each other. We may be running out of stop in this state. Do not disgrace the stopping space, the stars our destination.
Behold the Birth New Amish Nation.
Kekionga
Slipcraft
Cooperative
Now that we know Slipspace goes beyond physical space as we knew it, and we are aware that slipcraft is more than a vehicle… it is also a
skill. Willie the Bum became awakened to
slipcraft in a railroad tunnel through the Cascades in 1933. Wilhelm Maches came from Rimschweiler as a
boy in 1910 and worked on the Slagle farm for almost twenty years. When the Depression hit, he lit out on his
own.
It was somewhere in northwestern Oregon where Willie was hoofing up a railroad grade, rounded a bend and went into the tunnel. That’s when he heard the train. He could have backed out of the tunnel, but
heading toward the train seemed wrong.
Willie saw the light at the end and began to run. Sure he could make it, whistle screamed, Willie
became aware of headlight over shoulder, threw against the rock wall.
Every crag and stone surrounded Willie like water. There were inches of Slipspace between rock wall and freight train roaring in total darkness. Willie was not aware the train had gone until
he heard insects beyond the exit. Willie
stepped out into the most majestic silence on God’s world and smiled. “This is a queer thing,” Willie said to
himself, and he began to laugh. Willie
Steinhaus laughed for the rest of his life.
Willie went back to the Slagle farm just above New Haven and pitched in just like he hadn’t been gone for almost ten years. There was not much difference between the
Plain Folk and the English back in those days.
Everybody did what they could, and most people had horses. Then the War came along, and so did the
cars. There were German prisoners to
help with the chores. Trains brought
them. Cars took them away.
“Mother, I am so sorry for your loss,” said Willie, “have an apple.” The scowling woman laughed,… the
first time, said her husband, since Billy was killed at Anzio.
Baggy pants flapping men snatch a slouch-hat gusto whip Nineteen Forties
gritty America
war wind wrapping skirts around leg make up.
Fresh calves with eyebrow-pencil lines and powder puff trample a man not
doing his bit for Uncle high heels.
Few people ever noticed that Willie had slipped at least two great wars. Willie was just not the kind
of man you could ever imagine killing anybody… or helping anybody else do it in
any way. You could say he was wherever
the war was not, but not true,. Willie married Gunde after the war and never
joined the church. They say Willie could
hear what you were thinking sometimes, even when he got old and blind.
Willie is gone since Jake was a boy, but Willie told Jake about the wagons. Gypsies, Roma,
Tinkers, Travelers… every culture has a name for them… but now these people are
new to it. You would see the slipcraft
gathering like crows, and then the velos running like deer. Then the wagons will come to catch Rachel’s
Holy Fire. She never gives “sermons,”
and it is unseemly to hang around their garden uninvited.
Jake’s simple solution was to invite all… to prune, pick, shape and mend. There was enough work,
and time at days’ end for Rachel’s lessons.
Now she had scholars of all ages.
She would show how to can sweet potatoes, and sometimes (it is said-
just now) that the halt would walk and the blind would see. This is hearsay, having never witnessed it
personally. Jake does not mention it in
his letters.
The Wayfarers have some of the best horse-whisperers and mechanics you’ve ever seen (we are told).
More are retiring to Slipspace now. Living is a gift that needs no
“earning,” but work keeps you warm and dry and fed. Rachel is off now, visiting relatives, a
congregation out west (it is said). Faith
is no longer a Christmas tree ornament; stories are witnessed instead of read
ink. Tubespace beginning to shrink.
Rachel’s letters arrive like a grand-daughter home from University, and while they do not make much sense now, they will in time. She says they must wander in the wilderness
like the Hebrews in the Story, “The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth:”
presume she means the Wayfers with their Freedom Shelters, panels and
slipcraft, their livestock and wagons days behind… or ahead… depending on the
scouts. Just guessing.
The homeless are slipping among us and whispering signs on the trellis and gateway and yard. The
ones who have heard the ones who have herd will be leaving it there like a bees
nest card flopping love in a glove on a silver tray hey-- brought in by sorcerers
and their appendixes documentation a vanishing nation gnat-sifting air and despair. The diatoms die and the TV sets lie and still
people find it depressing.
It is not hard to imagine Willie somewhere, a few smiles away as the crow slips between the words on the edge of a page. Rachel writes of a small angel Corn Chip,
growing in Slipspace and finding her age.
Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap are hanging around for the paradigm
snap because slip is around Willie holding a sign it is yours at the mine and
not the bankers and cheatings. Slipspace
state of Grace sign of the time wishes to you.
Reason’s Greetings.
The Enlightenment took 220 years to get here…
but with cities like forests… buildings like trees are a no-brainer. Medium-of-exchange is still “…too far in for even a pinprick of light from either side,” but Clue Train rounds the bend. Nobody knows how it will end. Reading of signs and divergence of lines and yours and mines: Permaculture trend. “Argue as much as you like, but obey.” That is what they used to say.
Foucault comes around today. A rare communication says that is what the scouts are talking about. Clip on the wings and twist and shout and hit the sky-bound slipspace. Climb for all the juice is worth to see far horizon curve and there it is: an airship wearing a bright-green envelope like the Foucault with her technology and bloggers. She is miles distant, easy to out-slip her to Jake’s farm where Rachael is said to be.
Foucault is not a noisy smelly TV helicopter, nor does she seem to be military or “government.” She is a true Slipspace-capable airship, whisper-quiet and likely powered by electricity. Rumor has it the higher-performance scouts attempt to track her, and she takes refuge at insanely high altitudes well into restricted airspace. She has been known to slip out of a dark field-fog and announce her presence with only her lights.
It is blogged that there is nothing unusual inside the gondola; just a set of controls up front and a deck strewn with sleeping bags, computers and phones, outside a small spiny array of antennae. The Foucault arrives above a picnic in the yard where Rachel is speaking with someone who has a phone. She stares off at nothing. Rachel is blind, you know. The barn-size airship is housetop high, but none take hold of the line.
Another line falls and two descend airship weathervanes into light breeze, pilot works hard to compensate for ballast. One drives a pylon; the next wears a cyber-hat. Rachel gave Foucault the slip, witnessed live across the internets. Is she in the tent? Approaching the back door, is she in the house? Slipcraft of every description are streaming away. People are cordial, but know nothing.
Women of same description are crossing fields. What will you do if they surround you by force? What will you do when the trooper yields paths and roads and woodlots with blazing lights and armed slipcraft? How was Foucault to know? Rachel had slipped the troopers once, obeying an Ordnung appear at the nonce. Rachel says armed slipcraft can not be. Tethered to weapons is weight to slip free!
The green Foucault begins to rise, sucking in cables like noodles and turning her nose to the wind and upward turn arc in round air green gondola noting the crew zipping into their bags and the pilot is changing the heading and course and seats and direction in all a reflection of brave mountaineers. They will bolt for their sanctuary up in cloud-Everest leaving below won Vale of Spimes. Then turns again like a big green weenie.
Foucault is the wurst of times. She turns and dips on a dime to slip full speed, fence-level hopping over woodlots dropping to slide refuge aside a wood unoccupied and looks like a sneaky gherkin trying to hide by a serving of broccoli. Crew points up and military slice overhead at pattern altitude and are gone. Wave to the crew and slip on home please. Broccoli crawling with 44 peas.
Brothers and sisters today we say The Awful Truth.
(Insert The Awful Truth here)
“Oh the foe will rise with the sleep still in their eyes, and they’ll jerk from their beds and think they’re dreamin’ ”
Now we are conscience dreaming. Now-unembraced millions of boomers awake to a world way different from the “working world” asleep in the teens. They slap down sock-money on recumbent tadpoles congregate in dark mall parking lots with sk8erz, lecturing from 30 kph lawn-chair instigators. They have little but themselves to blame after 40 years of stuffing self-serving crap into their brains.
“There’s a breakdown at central control, blue midnight white thunder. Will you dare to drive your soul where they gypsies wonder?”
It is a long, long highway out to your wishing star. Not everybody gets to golf away their final spark at Boca Woods, most of us were not pointed that direction to begin with and the gypsies wonder why anyone with a soul would do such a thing. Slower travel along tubes and capillaries revealed a world unappealing to Slipcraft and Freedom Shelters. The hipsters are now slipsters, slipping to all the places where Disney World is not.
Cost that many had to pay to keep the few in fairyland never laid lash upon bare black conscience more than now. The toilers and peak-oilers see golf course as garden trying to grow. White coiffures in clown cars are relics of another age. Their simulacra can not stand the sunshine. Las Vegas gives way to starship where all aboard are crew. Players find it more difficult to slip. Better be crew than one of the few.
Many black velos and wagons dot the yard as well as some familiar wings. Turning down and on the ground, a teacher says farewell as Rachel slips away to saintly things. Now it is said she has the power to heal while slipping along the tubes and capillaries where she is least likely to be known or recognized. Foucault blogs about miracles along the road, but those lunatics will say anything to engorge a myth of an invisible culture.
Reason and light are hidden in plain sight. All who get sucked into larger tubes with vacuum-bag twits tweaking toxic TV pews will miss it like a bus on the other side of the world. That leaves the rest of us to operate on the edge, to check in with the home office as little as possible and to slip the home office as soon as possible. The 44 peas in the broccoli could be military—deployed as a slipspace division.
The soldiers become detached in machines slipping five clicks a minute on nothing but night goggles and sunshine. It got hard to tell who was commanding what or controlling whom. Usually they would find the weapons stacked at the place where the tracker went dark, and soldier nor slipcraft were rarely heard from again. There are exceptions, and among them the crazy contingent following the gas-bag Foucault.
Some keep their comm. gear and some discard it with the weapons, but nobody leaves a stove or a panel behind. They (whoever they are) say some military have slipped armed and wired. It is usually hearsay, and those who know do not tell. Most melted away, slipping to stay in the sight of their blind Madonna. The old house is quiet now, and the boys will slip for the light or a fortnight or twilight. These days it is hard to hear…
...to stop without a farmhouse near.
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