From pebbles

I sometimes think of a growing machine, or perhaps an artwork. It grows by itself, but it is geometrically very interesting, it takes up space but it changes constantly. It is not so much a computer, a babbage engine, but a piece of life. It is not a model of anything else, but it inspires many people. It is made from geometric curves defined mathematically but it is not static. Its internal structures click into new relationships with one another when possible. This is what I imagine.

I tend to describe it. And desciptions are our instinct. But the machine resists description; it is not even a living thing. Yet it is dynamic and suprising, fascinating. Do we see it as we are? These changing determinations a mirror to our faces looking back?

It is old when one was expecting something futuristic. It contains the seed of another universe within this one. Slowly growing like a mechanical budding flower. For many years it stops, halting its growth and just sitting still.

What is it made of? One builds ornaments to match it at a given snapshot in time, but one is always false. It can never be replicated only poorly represented. There is a strange sense I have that it hears me, Jack.

But I have no evidence for that. I look into it sometimes. It is brass rolling molten, it is smooth geometry broken occasionally by the cusp of a singularity waiting to unfold its components.

But it is none of those things. I don't know what it is. It is thought beyond thought. Lacan would have told us, Jack, that it is the Real itself. I have seen it though. And it keeps coming to me, dream after dream.

Is it that it follows a principle? No. It generates new principles within the relationship between its components. It is my life's work, and have seen it, if only part of it. Still I have.