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is the metasphere resident in the noosphere?

Cyberspace as a concept emerged from the singular writings of William Gibson, and as rapidly as these things can happen, the term is now generally seen as autocthonic nomenclature.  Primarily social, Cyberspace encodes human behavior.

The Noosphere is drawn from theological writings of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin.  Noosphere positions an evolving network of biological activity, led towards intelligence and consciousness by a transcendent aggregate. 

(It is perhaps a term watered down and liberally thrown about for Gain hypothesis.  Indeed, I myself have written a piece called Voices of the Noosphere, in which I vaguely refer to the Noosphere as the aggregate of human thought, emotion and capacity.)

A conversation with Lowry Burgess leads toward the Metasphere.

The Metasphere resides within the Noosphere, and intersects with Cyberspace.  Metasphere is seen in maps of finance, tracks of transactions across the globe.  Metadata flows from defense to energy, government sanctioned extradition over off to unimpeded access.  Metasphere is immanent, descending round the sanctioned psyche:  Leviathon uprising from the pentagon.  Metasphere will choke us all.

Meta is a neuroma in the Noosphere.  No drugged out trippers traipse enchanted in the pathways of the Metasphere.

Art will prove an antidote - but where is the vein in which to enter the measure?


Writing is placement, the craft of context.  I hear something, and it is rich, dense with meaning.  I play it - perhaps instead it sounds like a syphilitic yak.      Except there is probably some sonic interest in the mewlings of a dying, pock-marked yak.  The writer's challenge will be to put an undeniable trajectory from here (the beginning) to there (the meaning moment) and back again (perhaps).  The analyst's dilemma is to take apart an irreplaceable sensation and trace a path that shows exactly why your hidden note has meaning. 

Maybe I hear that sweet initial melody, and it is heard while someone stands behind me, swearing 'Fuck' for nothing. 

(fuck fuck fuck fuck.)

Maybe while I'm playing the piano, you should have an iPod with the 'Fuck' track on repeat.   

When I was a student, I wrote a piece for four spoken voices.  Each voice had four lines, each line repeated 50 times.  I forget what they were.  The piece ended after about 5 minutes with 'Catch me if you Can, a sing-song cadence, counterpoint to a final fearsome statement of 'Fuck', repeated to the end.   I don't recall what my thinking was with this one.  Some Jack the Ripper agitation, compounded by a youthful listening of Lulu?   But I was much more taken in by  Wozzeck (and if it be told true, then even more by  Strauss's Salome).   

My friend, who had drawn the lucky page with this direction, had used impeccable instinct to save it all for the end.      He was a great violinist, who deserves a better memory than to be embarrassed and discomfited by my choice of language.  I recently found a taped performance where we played Brahms d minor violin sonata.  We made a show of it, playing with a spotlight and some funky shoes.  A ragged performance, but alive and filled with spunk.   I wrote a poem listening to that tape, a free form piece that turned towards a rough -edged lust for song, for life, for him and all that absolute belief could have ever meant. 

God but that was sweet, that second movement.  And the poem will be found some day.  For now, it lies unread and no doubt in this half/re-formed resuscitation it is twice the hymn.

Runic Walking

The rules for Runic walking are quite simple.  Beginning with a map, mark out the shape of a rune.  In some cases, the starting point will be your home.  On others, the lay of the land calls out for a given shape at that place - and only at that place. 

When walking the runes, you are open: capture every moment.  Are you looking only for the given runic correspondences?  Or are you looking?

Each morning in December, when the weather has turned cold enough that I don't ride my bike to work, I wait for the bus in front of a barber shop.  Penn avenue is a busy road, but at 6am, it is still dark and filled more with walkers than with cars.  Who are these walkers?  I'll leave that for the police records and my own imagination.  Last year, a large block building was demolished, now freeing the road for several miles along the line towards the eastern hills of Pittsburgh.  I can see the bus when it first make a turn out from the semi-circle station out in East Liberty.  On bitter cold days, I see that turn in many things - milk vans, school transit or long distance drivers pulling to the strip.

Milk vans?  there is that one most special song by Billy Bragg, who sings about the Milk man of human kindness.  A mytho-poetic figure, cross between the piped piper, Bombadil and fool.

Then now, this morning, down the line of Penn avenue, the sky is filled with crows.  The sky may fill with crows in summer, and I never see it as I never wait around for buses in the summer.  A hundred crows, or maybe more.  I don't know where they gather from - from rooks and crannies, nooks and crevices out by Frick park.  I certainly have no guesses where they go to.  All I know is that they fly along the central line towards the merging of our rivers.

The crow, the raven - harsh voiced birds of Odin's memory.  A wave of fate.  This seems to me a good place to begin a rune walk. Video, or paper.  Sound or silence.

A rune shaped like a capital L would begin at point A.  Walk always on the left side of the road:  walk down until point B.  Cross the first street and continue down the second, still walking on the left side.  Reach the end point C and cross, then turn to face Point B and walk - now on the opposite side of the street, but hanging on the left side.  Then before reaching point B - remembering to stay always on the left, turn and head back towards the start.  Cross the first street and end at the beginning, having outlined and filled the runic shape. 

Always walk on the left - unless you walk on the right, in which case never walk upon the left.