just over the dead horizon, post-everything:
The surface of the Earth, the surface of the Moon: remembering + forgetting + remembering + forgetting
Imagine scrunching a map into a ball + letting go: gravity devours it but the ball doesn’t bounce when it hits the floor, doesn’t land with a dramatic thud because it’s already opening crinkling rasping into a new, original shape becoming a fresh terrain completely at odds with the landscape it represents: roads twist and turn at bizarre new angles, along strange elevations, peaks and troughs.
It’s always the same space, changing evolving. The dune complex for example – eventually – becomes the territory, stretches out in all directions, through time + space in crests and waves, a vast sieve sorting debris, cradling stones. The dunes dance the slowest waltz: they are the slow sea.
The territory emerges, A knot of world like a fragment of the future hauled kicking + screaming through time, bursting in the present, an alternative, separate temporal rhythm:
Our practice is the precursor of that specifically immanent utopia to come, an exemplar of a new world that is already contained within this one. Our practice is a future fragment projected backwards in time.
[O’Sullivan 2006, pp. 156-7]
There are so many worlds already contained in this one… [+ one silent inevitable, a version of the world no eyes will ever see]