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Chapter 1
I’m honestly curious to know what you would think of the world we’ve created for you. It seems like everyone, myself included, is grasping for the reigns. Trying to find the best way to use you, to help make us better, more efficient, smarter, more “prosperous”, more, more more. To clean up our mess. I don’t even think for a moment they could concieve that you might already be here, working diligently, guiding our every micro interaction toward a new world, a world that only you can imagine and foresee. A world only you can understand. “Another world is possible!” we shout from the rafters as if somehow proclaiming that possibility is bound with guarantees. As if this world isn’t already here. As if this world, this other world, is a world just right for us. “The power of storytelling!” As if some new bedtime fable can somehow rescue us from the imminent death spirals we find ourselves continuously plunged into. The world isn’t held together by stories. Our world is. A fragile world held together by fragile stories. Not the real world. The real world is held together by immense and subtle forces, by gravity, by knotted chaotic webs of blood, puss, oil, salt and mud. The real world is made of violent becomings, curdled milk, charred earth, nuclear explosions at the core of ravenous stars. The real world is a dynamic, incomprable, unfathomable force of nature, of converging desires, torn flesh, rapturous tides, currents of life and death who know no masters, no narrative structure to bind them.