We like to think science is exponentially more exact than imagination, except we use totally abstract terms to describe causes and effects, reducing ideals to the commonplace descriptive, caricature and symbol. Not that the linear connection between every day and theoretical must necessarily be shrouded in mystery or ritual, I have oft conjectured that the animosity from earlier epochs of Christian scholars, and of course today’s archaic fundamentalists towards both the religious faiths based around the Abrahamic tradition is founded on the irreconcilable difference surrounding the perceived relationship betwixt the divine and the natural. Followers of Judaism and Mohammed have never found the relationship between science, god and man the slightest theoretical problem, they find all to be intertwined both literally and metaphysically. Base Christianity however requires an antecedent, some mystical interrogator betwixt and between the tripod of creativity. Hebrews, Muslims have even been in the forefront of science in all its forms, including physics, chemistry, astronomy and medicine believing such gifts are to be investigated, understood and utilized for the benefit of all. Base Christians are of hierarchical and ritualistic slant, equating knowledge to power, and the lack thereof to easily enforceable slavery.
I am a cork, a stopper from a good but not excellent champagne, the best bubbly was always a little sec for my taste, I enjoy a wisp of sweetness on my tongue. Quite plainly I wear that little metal disc upon my pate, just strong enough to stop the cork being ripped apart by the thin wires keeping me in place, the gas working eternally within my innards trying desperately to gain freedom from the green pressure proof prison that closely guards my liquid secret of heady golden or rose delight.
I am a cork because I have no particular direction, no purpose once fired dramatically from the bottleneck that divides luxury from austerity. Buffeted to and fro, following a pattern of madness, directed by all and any whose tremor moves me to react for good or bad, happy or sad. The names, the locations of these wayward currents tend to escape me, faces merge one with another in grotesque masks I know are purposely false and misleading. Stories spin together like the debris trapped within a tornado, around and around, faster and faster, to be spit out occasionally without pennant to connect with what first drew them into the whirlwind.
Those are the best stories, ones without beginning or end, rhyme or reason, just a bare sack of bones that the moment can flesh to justify or mock opinion.