Uncanny Valley

Shprixieland lies at a crossroads of rural practicality and art dreams.

Magic realism scintillates in the air and tickles your nose with its sweet and subtly euphoric scent. The atmosphere feels a bit thin around here, and it can leave you feeling a little lightheaded, but that’s just because we’re in such close proximity to the event horizon of fantasy.

Ideas are often very fluid. The multiverse is animate in the creative spirit, with all infinite possibilities alive before us simultaneously. In this nebula of imagination, intentions blend with flashes of chance, and they coalesce. In observing it, our consciousness travels like a shockwave, causing the clouds of concepts in it to condense down, patterns unfolding all around us in a gestalt. The bright flash of our creative experience illuminates the plane of time’s tessellation as it metamorphoses from the past into the future. We glimpse all of the other realities for the briefest moment before they become eternally inaccessible to us. All the possible branching paths have collapsed into one, like the jagged course of a lightning bolt leaving its after image burnt into our eyes.

This is how art is made. It’s also the way our experience of reality gets shaped into the marble statue of our memory - all of the features of the days of our lives chiselled in place by our having lived them. But like all great masterpieces of art, now they’re subject to the ravages of time, gradually evaporating from where they live in the gallery of our memory. 


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