Sighmatics

Chimes prompt that which is oncoming:

The flickered fonts of crisp text on noir backdrop, piano music accompanied by swelling strings and low-attack pads climbing up the back, like little children hopping into their Mommy-sacks.

Shapes, reconfigured, edges sharp but smooth. Unfolding like fans, crumpling like paper, the voids providing temporary comfort from the onslaught of forms.

I take some peace between the aged brick walls of this comic book store, reading computer magazines dated far past their prime. Antiquated technology advertising the latest and greatest — of then. It's even more of a comfort to see how a lot of it turned out.

Plastic wrap sealing artifacts, thrift stores (overlapping with this) like museums. A childhood captured, set free, forgotten, then remembered again.

When games had a single screen and no scrolling; but you had to keep moving anyway.

I wonder about imaginary vector lifeforms, and what "vintage" would look like to them. I think of the energies between these spaces, of a bouquet of roses growing in the open that many are too out-of-sync to appreciate. It's right there, on the ground floor, and it keeps getting walked past. (WHAT IS GETTING MISSED HERE??)

I'm happy for the history that's been kept: the local BBSes of yesterday leading into the Internet of today, resolutions expanding into oceans of widescreen, the nostalgia train that keeps passing me by.

And I do still ride it, regularly.