To see life as a celestial dot-to-dot, a puzzle
where the pieces fit together to form a bigger picture,
is to miss the mise en scềne. It is not the constellations
that control our fate. A starry sky is but a glitter-ball
to distract the dancers in a discotheque where pheromones
are muted by cheap musk. The music of the spheres is synthesised
into a thudding bass line out of synch with our heart rates’
bpm. A repeated retro vibe each generation
redefines to fit the foxtrot or the frug, the funky chicken -
all the footloose fascination with the body as we
boogie. But flashing lights conceal the man made patterns, tacky
plastic overlays to join the dots with imaginary
lines. If space is curved, then we are closer to creation in
the corners, with the wallflowers, than with the wilder
blooms who bounce beneath bright beams. It is not the scenery but
the seeing – and shamen who give names to shapes without meaning.
