the glacier arrives

Neural plasticity in extreme slow-mo or stop time captured by zero patient enough photographers: one step forward, a thousand steps back. The beauty of neural plasticity in this style being that moving in reverse at an average pace of -999 steps per, subject will arrive backwards at the right location. Less glacially the image could be captured by one step forward by some rotund guy and he falls into a kind of self-inflicted canyon for a year. Think Dagobah bog but with 100 drunk/demented/unforgiving Yodas, or that biopic scene where Bruce Lee fights his demons only substitute some white guy much more out of shape. The demons are better educated, better toned and our Mr. Smith's carrying just some kind of Nerf weapon, and he keeps digging himself further in, been down so long it... The glacier is busy but rest assured he hasn't forgotten you, he's on his way. The glacial profession one not so much of on-time delivery or reliability as its norm (you get what you pay for) only now scramble its compass or momentum. Add an ellipsis that in some Virginia Woolf way encapsulates a million years... and the glacier arrives. Something to promise your grandkids their great great grandkids will see. Geologic time as a precedent for a before work routine, or for the response to overdue correspondence. The spacetime continuum as a boundless storage place for disappointments and fears. Eastern Standard Time as an awkward collection of societal near misses and almost-there-for-yas. The glacier arrives and is met with zero fanfare, an empty town, a blinking neon sign for Vacancies. "The Glacier Arrives" the avant garde musical, with Korean opera as its inspiration, one beat per year. The Glacier meditation: focus on breathing for a split second, then panic for a year or so. If you realize you've stopped focusing on your breathing for Christ's sake you fuck get back to it. Don't feel guilty feel SUPER GUILTY and maybe if you meditated more it wouldn't function so flabbily. The glacier arrives: slow blog movement. In my next dispatch (July 2068?): live Tweeting the reluctant death bed scene.