In abstract terms reality is measurement. Reality is constructed, like a building is constructed. The project is never done, or, when it is finally finished after some very long time, it simply collapses back into the ground from which the measurements are taken. In the purity of abstraction there are no words, only numbers.

In the impure human experience however, words and numbers co-exist, or, coincide. The story is constructed by writing/reading as the space within which the story unfolds is constructed by measurement; they are analogous processes. It is through words that images are realized.

Written words represent song as a "whole that is greater than the sum of its parts." A written text is a digital translation of sung poetry. It is the epic song upon which Plato declares war. The analog world is the intra-uterine world, the pre-historical world, the past, a contiuous world with no empty space of time. There is no experience of depth preception in the absence of written words and numbers. From analog to digital and back again. Is that how it goes?

It is the first morning of May on Harris Creek. It is late spring with late spring's green and budding flowers ready to burst and then the madness. I can tell you, it is a bloody business, this gardening. To impose order on the madness of sex and growth is warfare. Many die and I grow weary by August longing for the fall into winter's sleep. So I feel a certain ambivalence as I look out upon this green and the white swan gliding through the still surface of Harris Creek.

These reports from Harris Creek are word productions; the one who writes them and the one who reads them is similarly a product of words. Strictly speaking, there is only writing/reading, production without products. The products are by-products, after-images which appear due to the time lag in perception.

When I awaken in the morning from the dream, I plug-in to this word machine. If the machine were suddenly to vanish, I would vanish. I only exist insofar as I am plugged-in; otherwise is the dream. But the word machine does exist, upon every morning that I awaken. Writing/reading is gardening, the imposition of the order of time/space, upon the unconscious, the unordered. If I do not awaken from the dream, it is.