It felt like the biggest thing since the Enlightenment, a reliable sturdy creation with infinite possibilities much larger than the house Emily Dickinson imagined.
It was critical or lethal and a bit of both.
Look what we made!
Oh well, it’s out of the makers hands now.
The hints were there all along, it was just picking up the remote signals.
We are all weavers of webs, despite the gossamer display of arachnids who have been at their art much longer and have endless spools.
Along the world wide lines, signals are sent and retrieved, divisible in byte sized bits, digestible only be permeability, though we work at it every day.
Self-absorption. Absorbing all around. Come on-we’re not that porous, we usually bob on the surface letting the timely tide take us integrated, aggregated, curated, cultivated, pseudo-created avatar ambling along, shrimps on a Joeless shoe-string.
Hang on the line, was once a real line to hang yourself with.
Tailored threads hand me down, TV has nothing on receiving, channeling, funneling people or bots to works we make for man’s sake, it all started out as useful.
Like blinking, we trust everything is there in between-
Searches and updates are endless, archives immense, impressive towers that loom, spin castles into clouds, no wonder its knot raining this winter.
The clutter we defragment into micro-chips, the bottom of the bag, petabytes of particles add up.
Fine as silk, the web that covers the world wide connected by sub oceanic cabling balloons from no birthdays, beacons blinking vibrations, its working, we are entangled.
A fiber optic photograph on a 11-D graph, an amazing maze we made, the complex vortex wrapping fellow weavers and believers in their own image and calling it a cocoon.
Resurrecting Dark Ages.
Image By Christian A Diez (Christian A Diez), The Web (2008) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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