This is an emotion I feel often. I think we all do. You know what I mean?
It’s Gemini Day. It’s summer but that’s of no consequence here. This is the Agreed Upon Needlepoint Metropolis. This is where all the ideas are congregating this time. This Time. Every aspect of speech here falls away with echoes of other meanings. This is a crossroads of sorts. We’re all here. This is the Decision and the Direction. This is the Your Name Here Iron-on Knit Your Own Macrame Nightmare.
This is Time’s End. Which isn’t entirely true because time never exist(s)ed here in the real ‘time’ sense but Time’s End sounded nice and dramatic. They could have called it Time’s Beginning but it doesn’t really have the same ring to it. And so many decisions bring about the end of something, after all.
Have you ever had a test that seemed to take forever but only took ten minutes?
This is the Naming Convention.
This is the Consequence Auction.
This is the Eternal Day of Reckoning.
This moment pulses down the thread of eternity every day and sorts everything with the insectile flickering of binary switches.
It’s The Conductor. As in train, as in symphony, as in something that something else easily flows through. It directs and holds on for dear life as this entire city, this entire constructed overliving entity, starts to fire up and chug at The Beginning.
It’s not going to happen slowly. It feels the power starting the course. This is a city the size of a continent to put it in human terms. It’s a living city created on a flat earth and the city is on both sides, bristling. It hangs in nospace, obscene and almost bestial, poking into a quantum existence. Its population is a series of living switches that hang onto the threads of time. These strong living switches pull the bright orange lines of possibility up from the front of the city like fishermen drawing in their nets. Like horse carriage drivers gathering their reins. The glowing insubstantial Might-threads groove their gloves.
There are trillions of these living switches on the front edge of the city.
Many more than that wind back through the city waiting. Waiting and preparing to make decisions.
The tracks are heating up. Like filaments in a toaster. Filaments in a toaster made of stretched out suns.
This is the Reality Ginny. This is the Now-pass. This is the Trans-later. This is the Presenter.
This is the loom for every decision that ever gets made.
This ship travels down the furry fractal curlicues of the possible quantum multiverse, ironing it into the straight simple lines of the definitive stable universe.
Every decision you make.
Every decision everyone makes.
The Pulls are starting. The Waves are splashing in shudders as The Now tugs on this city; this machine.
Fate roars and pulses down the wires, daring the Spider.
Destiny, Decider, Director, Delineator.
It goes. It goes quickly. That is to say that it both goes down the entire history of this universe and is simultaneously stretched out to occupy the whole timeline all at once.
The threads hum through the blurring hands of The Switches. Their precision hums and burns. Their hands start to glow. Their hands start to smoke. The fuzzy orange wool passes through their hands and is smoothed over into blue wire. Back through the city and the alleys and the engines and the hands, the hands, the hands.
They are your Dencity.
This happens every day. This happens every day.
But guess what?
That’s a lot of decisions.
Eternity is a long time.
The Switches are bored.
Sometimes they flick a left instead of a right. Sometimes they turn a little bit in instead of peeling it back. They are binary. They pull a 1 instead of a 0.
This is the illusion of free choice.
morgue
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