Static

My advice to anyone within earshot is to be mindful of the static. Pay attention to the bubbling seething about you.
Today’s political movers and shakers were yesterday’s hate-filled street corner preachers. Shouting and raging against modernity, against humanity.
We ignored that boil as it oozed and popped and spread across the nation. We whistled our own tune, or cranked up our supplied canned responses, and strolled on by.
For generations we ignored it. Either because not our place, or off putting, or too noisy, too staticky to process.
There’s a secret to understanding static, though. It’s subtle and sublime. Static hides its patterns in plain sight. It’s everything converged, smashed, spread and packed. It’s everything at once and it can be explored.
Take a breath and freeze the static, examine it, get inside and peek out. It’s moiré patterns will half and fold and blend back into their constituents, which again half and fold and reveal.
The static reveals the reality we ignore. The stuff that’s always with us, and around us, and which through us, can be known. It’s all right there, in front of you as bold and sharp as tonight’s full moon. Take it hold, unfold it, and pay attention to it.
Pay attention to the constant roiling frenzy of ugly disdainful kooks. They will/have become our masters.

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Franklyn Monk

Poet. Geek. Science fiction aficionado. General freak.
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