He is in the forest. He can see the trees. He thinks of himself as enlightened. One hand clapping, and all the other Zen bullshit. Some days he is just about the Smack and the Craic … a junkie in a junkyard talking about William Burroughs and hoping for a Beat Generation of his own.
He’s a little codey is Cody. He named himself after Kerouac’s man-crush in On The Road. But yes, cryptic, building cryptids in cyberspace … he’s writing something interesting for those that come after him and try to understand what it was that he had said; he doesn’t want them digging in his data-trail, and so here he is, booby-trapping all his work, so that it becomes an informational bomb that burns down their kingdoms.
He has sat here on the model’s event horizon lip for a while, it’s in the gutter of the page, between the page turns, and he is waiting for the enjambment to carry him past the caesura and into the next metaphor. Math and magic and poetry all coagulate on the tip of the man’s tongue that has been talking at him a hundred miles a minute since they drove out of East Texas on their way to New Orleans.
‘I’d like to cut all these fucking trees down.’
‘You’re a fucking heathen.’
‘This place needs a mall.’
‘This place and every single process that goes on in it, if studied, would reveal to you all the secrets of the world.’
‘Great, well that’s true of any damned aspect of the world. Take some tiny aspect and extrapolate a fractal from it, and you can map from the microcosm to the macrocosm with any data set.’
‘Harry, I love that you’re smart, but when I am being poetic I don’t necessarily need an a-hole straight man to ground my high-flown flights of fancy.’
‘Ah, let’s just get back in the car.’
‘OK, I just want you to appreciate that this place used to be huge, and through logging, and practices that weren’t designed to be sustainable, the whole place has shrunk, and has probably had its peak days already.’
‘And who really cares?’
‘Hmph. I do.’
Harry got in the driver’s side and opened the door for him. He climbed in.
“With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life you could call my life on the road.”
And they peeled out, travelling towards the edge of the forest faster than they would have in the past, entropy fizzing as their journey burned down like a fuse from its start to its end; the wave of probability collapsing before them as they shifted from super-positional to binary and on into a singular concrete now.