In Bali, making an offering to the gods requires three things: holy water, smoke, and flowers.
They are wrapped in incadescent, almost neon green leaves, built in boxes of woven thatch and placed in entryways, near statues of ganesh adorned with a single flower petal, usually bright red, a vortex of welcoming infinity.
Information is a disease. Our bodies are filled with fragments of what has happened. We’ve documented it every way conceivable: words, photos, film, audio recordings, memories, emotions.
We use this information to try and distinguish patterns to see if yesterday can illuminate tomorrow.
It has always been tempting for thinkers and historical observationalists to overlay a narrative onto to what they have known of the world; humans have a long and colourful history in the denial of contingency, in the art of myth, and of fevered teleological dreams.
"Banish the word 'struggle' from your attitude and your vocabulary. All that we do now must be done in a sacred manner and in celebration.
We are the ones we have been waiting for." — Hopi elders
