Tom O'Bedlam: When we met first I promised you a secret didn't I? A fine and shiny secret, passed from hand to hand through the years, from master to pupil. Didn't I say I'd tell you what cities are? Listen then, for I'll not tell it a second time.
Here it is as I was told it once, old but new-minted with each fresh telling. Our world is sick, boy. Very sick. A virus got in a long time ago and we've gotten so used to its effects, we've forgotten what it was like before we became ill. I'm talking about cities, see?
Human cultures were originally homeostatic, they existed in a self sustaining equilibrium, with no notions of time and progress, like we've got. Then the city-virus got in. No one's really sure where it came from or who brought it to us, but like all viral organisms, its one directive is to use up all available resources in producing copies of itself.
More and Mor copies until there's no raw material left and the host body, overwhelmed, can only die. The cities want us all to become good builders. Eventually, we'll build rockets and carry the virus to other worlds.
Cities have their own way of talking to you; catch sight of the reflection of a neon sign and it'll spell out a magic word that summons strange dreams...
...In waking dreams I've seen cemetary planets circling abandoned stars. Like mausoleums, silent and dead, every building a headstone. That's what cities do... but those of us who know the secret learn ways to unlock the power in cities. We make a pact with them and they give us gifts in return...
...The Earth doesn't want us anymore, see. She's brought us up as best she could and now it's time to leave the nest and let her get on with her business. We're not wanted here. We have to cut the apron strings boy. Can't suck at mummy's tit forever. We have to leave our bodies and our cities behind and go into space, just like the fishes had to leave the sea was all they knew.
Andd when we're gone, then the Earth will grow over the cities and turn them into dust. Meantime, we must make allies of the tower blocks and the motorways and the industrial estates...
...When you dream what makes you think it's not real?
From The Invisibles by Grant Morrison
Here it is as I was told it once, old but new-minted with each fresh telling. Our world is sick, boy. Very sick. A virus got in a long time ago and we've gotten so used to its effects, we've forgotten what it was like before we became ill. I'm talking about cities, see?
Human cultures were originally homeostatic, they existed in a self sustaining equilibrium, with no notions of time and progress, like we've got. Then the city-virus got in. No one's really sure where it came from or who brought it to us, but like all viral organisms, its one directive is to use up all available resources in producing copies of itself.
More and Mor copies until there's no raw material left and the host body, overwhelmed, can only die. The cities want us all to become good builders. Eventually, we'll build rockets and carry the virus to other worlds.
Cities have their own way of talking to you; catch sight of the reflection of a neon sign and it'll spell out a magic word that summons strange dreams...
...In waking dreams I've seen cemetary planets circling abandoned stars. Like mausoleums, silent and dead, every building a headstone. That's what cities do... but those of us who know the secret learn ways to unlock the power in cities. We make a pact with them and they give us gifts in return...
...The Earth doesn't want us anymore, see. She's brought us up as best she could and now it's time to leave the nest and let her get on with her business. We're not wanted here. We have to cut the apron strings boy. Can't suck at mummy's tit forever. We have to leave our bodies and our cities behind and go into space, just like the fishes had to leave the sea was all they knew.
Andd when we're gone, then the Earth will grow over the cities and turn them into dust. Meantime, we must make allies of the tower blocks and the motorways and the industrial estates...
...When you dream what makes you think it's not real?
From The Invisibles by Grant Morrison
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