One day in May of the year 1916, Andy decided to visit the Alexander Hamilton High School in Arlington, Virginia. He emerged from a lofty group of cumulous clouds and flew across the school's spacious lawn, coming to rest upon the sun-baked dome of the main building. This impressive, four-levelled, neo-classical structure rested high upon a hill, towering in the warm light as if it served a more important function than simply being a public high school.
From this high vantage-point, overlooking a rolling slope of oak trees and the northern ridge of Arlington Cemetery, Andy could just see the apex of the Washington Monument shining in the distance. A grumpy tugboat could be heard moaning from the Potomac River, as it pulled its unknown heft towards Baltimore. A swift blue jay landed on one of the brick chimneys before darting off again. It was one of those days when Andy was happy to be on the Earth, absorbing the day what was, all around him.
Once having taken in the breezy view from atop the school's roof, Andy began to sink down through the rafters into the attic of the main building. A second later, he was sweeping along an empty fourth floor corridor. It was 1:35 in the afternoon and all the fifth period classes were in session. Without there being any air-conditioning units, most of the windows within the school were open, allowing sweet whiffs of dogwood, cut grass and honeysuckle to permeate the shady halls.
Not quite sure what he was in the mood to do, Andy decided to explore a classroom labelled 4-D. Inside this room he found twenty-two students and one teacher in the middle of what was apparently a very boring algebra lesson. The groggy students yawned and daydreamed, while a man in a white shirt and brown vest scratched out a long equation on the blackboard. Seeing a cute-looking eighteen-year-old girl by one of the opened windows, Andy levitated in her direction.
Using his Extra Sensory Perception, he learned right away that her name was Lillian Wilson and that her father had an important position with the U.S. State Department, negotiating war aid to Great Britain. Andy rested his tiny, transparent body upon the knuckles of Lillian's left hand, as she used it to prop up her lovely head. She, as well as some of the other students, was nearly nodding off to sleep. Upon the wooden desk before her, Andy saw a much chewed pencil, a small piece of scribbled paper and a text book opened to page 242, which explained the various rules and characteristics of logarithms.If he listened to Lillian‚s reticular formation, Andy could pick up the lazy purr of theta waves passing through her mind. By focusing on these brain waves he saw a montage of visions, which included Lillian eating strawberries in the park on the Smithsonian Museum, or anxiously choosing a new summer outfit from the juniors‚ section of the SEARS and ROBUCK catalogue.
Sliding down Lillian's smooth wrist, Andy hopped over onto the desk and began drifting towards the open schoolbook. Examining the pages more closely, he became aroused by the mass of numbers before him. Andy was often attracted to complex equations and their hidden variables. To him the intricate world of negative and imaginary numbers was full of wonderfully poetic symbols and representations. So, not having anything better to do on that sultry afternoon, he decided to fly into the textbook and ride along its vast, extended number systems.
Edging closer to the algebra book, Andy discovered that the pages were covered with Lillian's small, lead-ridged fingerprints and the delightful smell of her lavender perfume. The smaller he grew, the larger these scents became, intoxicating his disintegration into the world of quadratics and radicals...
The first thing that Andy came across within the Intermediate Algebra book was a set of Multiple-Valued Functions on page 98. He had materialised into the left side of the open book, which brought him into an existence among one of the earlier chapters about Supplementary Problems. The dull grids he found there were not especially interesting. Moving on to other pages, Andy passed through various addends, subtrahends, minuends and remainders. He flew across the pages and was able to even go within some of the more complex fractions, exploring unknown equations that stretched into plus and minus infinities.
It was not too long though after Andy had entered Lillian Wilson's algebra book, that he came across something which he had not expected to find, a smudged pencil sketch she had made upon one of the margins of page 37. The drawing depicted a strange sort of house with many windows and one side door. This structure rested a short distance away from a small canal, which contained its very own miniature duck Lillian had been so inventive to add. Pausing before this tiny drawing, Andy contemplated the building and its abundance of little square windows. He wondered what sort of things were inside? What had Lillian been thinking when she was making the drawing? What spirits of the subconscious had guided her hand in sketching this obscure place? Was it someplace she had actually visited, or had she made it up?
By making himself even smaller than he already was, Andy became even in scale with the only door to the house. He was now most curious to investigate the mysterious structure and its many rooms. Yet in order to actually enter the universe, in which the drawing existed, Andy would have to penetrate another four-dimensional continuum; one that was even more abstract than that of numerical exponents. Otherwise the picture would remain nothing more than a flat, smeared, two-dimensional image, as seen by the eyes and not the imagination.
Once the necessary changes in essence had occurred, Andy appeared in front of the side door, levitating now in a bizarre, new atmosphere. There was a sufficient amount of gravity and the temperature was as pleasant as the May afternoon he had just left behind. Andy could even hear the sound of Lillian's duck barking from the nearby canal. Unfortunately though there were no colours to be seen, only the dull graphite-grey of the pencil lines. At this particular point, Andy existed within an entire universal history, which only consisted of a single house, a small canal and a quacking duck. It was not until he began to materialise through the door of the house, that Andy entered a rich, colourful environment, completely conceived by the subconscious thoughts of an eighteen-year-old girl.
He entered an empty, white hallway. It was much cooler than outside. There were no sounds and no other persons. At the end of this hallway, was a single window, which looked out onto a vast field of farmland, which had not appeared in Lillian's original sketch. Sliding over to this window, Andy looked out into the distance and saw a young man in the field. He was steering a motorised tractor from behind the vehicle, with a set of long rods. The absurdity of the scene made Andy smile. The very idea that someone should lead his or her tractor with a mule harness was wonderful.
The man passed back and forth against the rural backdrop, ploughing his field as if the huge machine were a cumbersome beast that required guiding. It became an ironic three-way game of man, machine and element, as the awkward farmer sewed the seeds of natural fertility through the assistance of such ridiculous mechanical accessories. He was even a sort of circus ringmaster, leading his four-wheeled animal in its preposterous performance.
But who controlled whom? Was the man, the tractor or the land the real master? The sequence made Andy reflect upon the relationship between humans, machines and their element, recalling a plethora of useless inventions and stupid appliances invented to better control and manipulate the environment. What he saw out the window was even a kind of satire on the often-idiotic sides of human intelligence, going to elaborate, unnecessary ends to achieve their various fancies. The man steering the tractor as a satire of himself.
Rik De Boe & Peter Morrens
Throughout the first floor of the house were several closed doors, which all came off of the main foyer. Andy drifted over to the door closest by the rear window and passed through it. He now hovered in a dim space with very little lighting. The curtains were drawn and the air was musty. Upon a low coffee table, in front of a row theatre seats, he made out a huge photo album, lying opened within its centre.
Going over to this book, Andy saw that it hosted a collection of vacation photographs, which had apparently been taken whilst someone was on holiday in Japan. There were the typical shots of oriental flower gardens, misty, mountainous landscapes, modern buildings and other, trivial scenes captured by the camera's lens. By flipping through the pages of the album, Andy came across what seemed to be hundreds of random images. He even started to hear sounds coming out of the photographs.
A picture of a public square sounded like a storm at sea. A snapshot taken within a café contained the sound of birds singing and a close-up picture of a rare flower gave off the noise of an ambulance siren. Voices spoke out of place, over top of one another, causing the varying images to overlap and contradict with their appointed sounds. Amid all this sight-sound confusion, Andy began to detect a sense of restlessness and even a touch of disillusionment with what he saw. It slowly became evident that a lovely holiday upon the island of Japan might not be exactly what one imagines.
With unintentional gestures and the haphazard seizure of its subjects, the camera presented a documentary of indefinite reality. It captured the most casual of details, instead of the most sensational ones.The album showed Andy that no matter how far a human might physically venture in his or her quest to discover the exotic, banality will remain present. In the end, the exotic and the banal rest side by side, each interpreted by the person looking at the pictures.
On the other side of the hallway Andy came to a medium-sized room, with rhombic, uneven walls. It was completely empty of any furniture, having only two opposing sets of windows, which allowed light to filter in from different sides. The space, although devoid of objects, was alive with illumination. Andy went around the interior, examining the subtle differentiation in tints given off by certain portions of the wall.
Gradually he came to see a completely overt geometrical puzzle being projected upon the flat surfaces. It was as if the yellow-coloured light from one set of windows, converged with the white-coloured light from the second set, to create an indirect series of shades within the space. One quadrilateral area, low upon a wall, became an aluminium curtain with rounded edges. This silver sheet mediated the two transacting sources of light, turning them into a neutral, metal cloud. Another similar quadrilateral appeared on the other side of the room, absorbing the light waves within a steady puddle of cobalt. This signalled an imaginary depth within the space. It opened a metaphorical window between the wall and floor, beaming the reflected and refracted illumination into an oblique, rhomboidal prism.
Andy swept through the room again, finding an intangible quartet of vertical and horizontal measurements. It was as if a certain visual contemplation had been seized and arranged within the atmosphere.
Greet De Gendt
Next to the illuminated room Andy passed into another chamber. This space contained a typical, western, domestic interior. A sofa, lamps, tables and armchairs were arranged about a large carpet, each corresponding with the styles of the early twentieth century. Andy wondered if this wasn't the actual living room setting in Lillian's parents' house? It was warm and inviting there, so he went over to the sofa and sat down.
Just then he saw a large, black dog staring at him from in between two armchairs. It sat a couple metres away, gazing intensely at Andy; its long, pink tongue wagging back and forth. It was impossible for Andy to tell whether or not the dog was friendly. When he tried reading its mind, he couldn't.
"Hello," he said at last. "My name is Andy."
The dog's expression did not change. It continued staring at Andy without reacting to his kind intonation.Then it did unexpectedly reply, in a soft voice, its eyes never changing.
"What was it you were thinking just now, as you sat down and saw me?" it asked.
Andy thought for a second and said, "I'm not sure... I think that I was thinking about the fact that I couldn't read your mind. You see, your eyes were saying something to me, but I wasn't quite sure what."
"My eyes? What could they have been saying to you?"
"Like I said, I'm not sure. There is something very human about your face though. It's as if your expression is somehow knowledgeable, and yet you're only a dog..."
The black dog remained stiff. For a moment Andy thought that it was stuffed. It wasn't normal that a dog sat still for so long.
"What do you think it means to only be a dog?" it asked. "Don't you suppose that there are certain thoughts that go through my mind too?"
"Well, not really... I'm sure that you're capable of certain capacities, like feeling affection and loyalty, but I have no idea to what extent you may be intelligent. When we look at each other though, it's weird... I mean, do you, as a dog, ever consider who or what you are? Do you ever wonder?"
The black dog got up and moved around the armchairs. It wagged its tail, yawned and paused to scratch behind its ear. It came over very close to Andy, stopping directly in front of him. The two looked very intensely at one another. Just then, for a split second, Andy saw himself reflected in the moisture of the animal's pupil.
Emerging into yet another room, within Lillian Wilson's sketched house, Andy found himself inside a dank, darkened space. Again, there was no furniture in this room, not even windows. Floating to the other end of this rather humid interior, he came to the far wall. It was there, through the dim lighting, that he noticed a putrid growth of mildew clinging to the plaster from ceiling to floor. A group of air bubbles distorted the flat surface of the wall, some having already ruptured; sending bits of damp plaster onto the floor.
Andy glided closely along the wall, observing a fascinating constellation of tiny, parasitic fungi. They spread out across the surface in woolly, furry clusters, granting this room an oppressive sense of rot and decay. Zooming in closer, he scanned various algae. They contorted and multiplied at an amazing rate. The combination of the room's dampness and its warm temperature made the ideal conditions for the algae's growth.
At a certain moment Andy became intrigued by the aesthetic quality of what he saw. The various thallophytes distributed themselves in a way that transformed the wall into a living canvas. The busted swells became layering and accents. The near microscopic diatoms became active parasites of green and black silica. It was an abstract sort of picture that controlled itself, becoming what it would. This work of automatic art was a composition of decomposition.
Regaining a distance from the rotting wall, Andy considered the symbolic brevity of the process. There was no way of preventing what was occurring. Time chewed away upon the soggy surface with its corroding agents. This wall would be brief. The little dance of diatoms upon its flank made sure it would not last long. It was almost as if this display of biological virtuosity had been set up upon a stage, as a deliberate experiment in refined happenstance.
Boris van Nes
Sweeping upstairs, Andy came to a new set of closed doors. He coasted along the hall, coming to a door painted with florescent orange stripes. A ferociously loud sound came from within, reminding Andy of a triggered alarm system. Materialising through the door, he found a most shocking sight. A thin, robotic figure whirled about in the centre of the small room, emitting the terrible, screaming sound, while swinging one of its long appendages violently about the space. Andy had to duck out of the arm's way, as it quickly spun around the room, blaring its noise over an attached megaphone.
At the centre of this robotic figure, rested a large, flashing orange light, which served as a head, spreading the entire scene with an aggressive and slightly comic urgency. Andy decided right away that this was for all intensive purposes an electronic anxiety attack. The rotating figure shrieked out to everything around it, lurching at the walls with its heavy arm, filling the claustrophobic room with an irrational, mechanical temper tantrum. Andy was delighted in coming across another disturbed machine. In its own, obnoxious way, it perfectly depicted the completely illogical, but fundamentally vital dynamic of hysteria. The turning robot bellowed for the sake of bellowing. It spread panic for the sake of spreading panic, almost consuming itself in its own trepidation.
As Andy turned to exit the overpowering room, he recalled that such moments of absolute hysteria really do exist. He thought for a moment about being in a state of shock, about the instant that someone has the air knocked out of his or her lungs. He thought of the sensation of falling or trying to run in a nightmare but your muscles don't respond... Andy found the manic robot to be an overstated reminder that some moments in life are made up of orange flashes and off-balance contortions... the moments you never see coming.
Venturing into the next room, Andy came across a little brown spider. It hung upside-down from a chandelier by a long web, which it was in the process of connecting to a distant bookcase. The spider had already covered most of this room in a thick network of webs and nests. Its long legs meticulously worked their way down the silky line, stretching out a new strand of web from its rear body. Andy approached the little spider and asked it why it was covering the entire room in webs.
"Because I want to consume this space..."
"Consume the space?" replied Andy.
"Yes, I'm filling up all empty areas, connecting the entire room."
"But why would you make your webs so all-encompassing?"
"So that this space will have one common surface and one congruent texture."
Andy flew low over the meshed landscape, examining the growth-like effect the cobwebs had made upon the room. Collectively they took over the area and all which lie beneath their gossamer coating. The room was occupied by the repressive distribution of the webs. Returning to the little brown spider, Andy floated in the air next to it.
"Tell me why you feel it necessary to give this room one, common surface?"
The dangling arachnid let itself slide all the way down on to the bookcase. After attaching the new line, it looked up at Andy hovering near the chandelier.
"My webs are assertive...they have transformed this ordinary room into another world! Look around you and tell me what you see... Let your eyes find the ebb and flow contained between these six surfaces. The floors, ceiling and walls are now in unison, moving in the same direction, reaching for each other, touching one another. My architecture, as brief as it may be, is allowing this space to dream...it's turning this interior, cubical area inside-out, applying dimensions, fissures and cavities! Now there are hills and valleys extending between the windows; now there are caverns and caves between the walls..."
In the room next door, Andy found what he first thought to be a typical nursery. There were numerous toys and children's furniture, all brightly painted in primary colours. Andy loved to visit rooms where children played. It was always interesting to see what sort of objects attract young persons and why.
But the kind of things Andy saw scattered about that nursery were anything but typical. Lying on the carpet, next to a small bed, he saw a miniature, metal crucible furnace. To the left of this, he saw a tiny replica of a starching and steam-drying apparatus. The more Andy focused on the toys, the weirder they were. Instead of finding trains, horses, or baby dolls, he saw thermometers, treadmills and even a ship's navigation system. This strange assortment of articles was puzzling. Andy had never seen such abnormal toys before.
When he floated over to the room's window, he noticed three tiny elves, working diligently from underneath a desk. Each of these elves performed their task in the building of a medieval battering ram. One chipped away tree bark with a chisel, sharpening the point. Another fastened together a sturdy chain, which held the battering ram in place upon a wooden carriage. The last elf occupied himself by carving the names of various fictional sweethearts into the side of the heavy weapon. By assimilating all the pieces to this odd puzzle, Andy got the impression that the three little elves were working together as a team, attempting to represent the not-so-evident features of a cultural inheritance. Their battering ram questioned the integrity of aesthetic design. Its miscellaneous purpose became transcended in an almost humorous shift of context.
By using an unconventional language within their workshop, the elves created singular objects, which stood out from their oblique shadows to take centre-stage. Once the medieval battering ram was finished, the three elves rolled it out into the middle of the nursery and took a series of bows. The entire room was suddenly animated with dozens of spectators, who cheered the trio and their unique new presentation. Andy clapped along as well, seeing the little team of inventors as heroes of the obscure. They had given something random the honour of being displayed and contemplated.
Chris Van der Burght
Making his way into one of the other rooms, Andy saw a small whip of light passing to and from within the empty space. It resembled a ray of sunlight, as one might see shining from a mirrored reflection. This quick flash shifted about like a bird, never remaining stationary for more than a few seconds.
"What sort of light wave are you?" asked Andy curiously.
The blinking flicker giggled, "You silly ghost, I'm not a light wave! I'm a surge of momentum."
"A surge of momentum?"
"Of course… don't you feel me just about to lunge?"
Andy concentrated on the little surge, not knowing where it would go next.
"But don't you usually need to infiltrate matter in order to aquire your potential? Seeing like this, you seem so light and delicate."
"Not necessarily," answered the surge. "Sometimes I can live within the most unexpected places…take a photograph for instance. Should a photographer capture me within one of the shutters, then I can remain there, frozen in a particular moment."
"But do you continue to move inside a photograph?"
"I continue to pull upon the eyes of the viewer, granting a sense of movement through the positions I animate. I am the presence within the breeze, blowing over a field of wheat. I am the little wind that ripples across the shirt of a runner or even the potential for a subject to fall off balance, though the photograph is permanent."
"Do you never tire, remaining fixed within a defined instant?" asked Andy.
"There are ways to breathe and places to land…ways to regenerate myself each time a viewer follows my currents… There are even ways for me to transcend the foreground and the background, enlacing the inertia between ground, muscle and fabric…"
Passing through the air, Andy went into a small bedroom, which was full of large, multi-coloured images, arranged upon the walls. Each of these images had been sewn together, consisting of various dyed cloths. At first Andy wasn't sure what the fabric pictures were supposed to be. He recognised certain features within the series, but couldn't quite place from where he recalled them. After looking very closely at a red cloth with what seemed to be white, Arabic letters, Andy realised that he was studying a warped Coca-Cola logo. Suddenly it was clear. Who ever had sewn together this little flag, had done so with the actual Coca-Cola logo in mind, yet they had purposely twisted the letters into an indecipherable script. The effect was strange. There was something child-like in the renderings of the popular label logos.
Seeing them in this way, Andy even got the idea that the logos were mutated, distortions of the commercial empires they abstractly represented. When Andy considered the contrast between this collection of logos and the perfect, polished idealism of an advertisement one was used to seeing, they even subtly suggested something deformed or impaired. The letter fonts and styles of certain product labels, such as Coca-Cola, Fuji Film or Apple Computers, are embedded within the collective psyche. To view such familiar emblems in an odd, barely recognisable way was surreal. Glancing over the group of incoherent names and symbols, Andy wondered what a dyslectic Coca-Cola tasted like?
At the end of the upstairs hall, Andy came to another very dark room. Upon entering he immediately heard the sounds of radio interference and satellite transmission frequencies. It reminded him of a Mission Control centre from a space expedition. Flying over to a large monitor in the middle of the room, he watched a slow motion video feed. A robot probe had undoubtedly captured these scenes, as it filmed an unspecified alien terrain. The rigid, mechanical camera tediously panned from right to left, with a portion of its support arm always remaining within a corner of the frame.
The unknown landscapes Andy saw upon the monitor were barren, rocky and apparently devoid of any life forms.Yet there was also a soothing type of tranquillity in these desolate scenes. As lonely and uncivilised as this place might be, Andy could not help but to feel an urge to go there and walk about the quiet rocks. The audio interference accompanying the images was also sedative, portraying a far away place composed of silence, poisonous gas and electrical airwaves. He could have been seeing the surface of a distant planet.
He could have also been subject to perspective and scale, actually watching a microscopic camera film the top of an ordinary kitchen table or a minute portion of human skin. There were worlds within worlds, each awaiting an electronic scanner to define its reality. Andy smiled to himself, thinking about how relative the senses are.
Inside a closet, coming off the upstairs hallway, Andy was instantly zapped away into a tearing vortex of momentum. Somehow, the entire closet was falling through the air. A fierce wind blew through his hair, pushing his tiny transparent form with a mass of G-Forces.This turn of events was completely unexpected. For a moment Andy wondered if he was still within Lillian Wilson's sketched house. Maybe he had fallen through a point of instability within his current reality? Maybe the universal history inside the algebra book had worm-holed with another dimension?
Once he finally gained control of himself, Andy tried to slow down his velocity, but there was nothing he could do to lessen the pressure around him. He began to worry that he might not ever find his way back into Lillian's algebra book. He continued to fall at a high rate of speed, having no idea where he was going. Then Andy saw that he could still make out the wallpaper of Lillian's closet. He pushed himself over to the side and touched the flower-printed wallpaper. It slid under his fingertips, going on forever without end. Why was it, he wondered, that one could suddenly fall out of a cubic space? What must happen before one is to break the barrier of stability? Was Andy's free-fall through the closet psycho-semantic? Was the room falling or was he falling?
Andy took a deep breath and everything came to rest. The closet no longer fell. He hovered once again inside a small, claustrophobic space, with a single, overhead light bulb. Still touching the walls, Andy collected himself. He felt certain that somewhere inside Lillian's psychology, as with most humans, there existed a point where she longed to leap away from herself. Like she subconsciously wished to dive off the edge of her classroom chair and fall through the walls around her. Though Andy wondered, should someone wish to spring away from themselves, how and where would they safely land?
At last Andy came to the attic of the sketched house. He entered through a trap door in the top bedroom's ceiling, ascending into a tall, rafted space. In the middle of this attic was a large, round, wire structure, which slowly rotated between the ceiling and the wooden floor. Flying into the middle of this ring, Andy was able to see that it rested entirely from free-suspension between the floorboards and rafters. It was huge in size, echoing a model of centrifugal force. This ring contained a graceful, yet mechanical sort of eloquence. It seemed to float within the space being perfectly symmetrical, subject to no mass or density.
Going over to a window, Andy looked outside. He saw sky, drifting clouds and a very peculiar, bleached sunlight. It was, remembered Andy, the sunlight within a mental projection. These types of daylight had always fascinated him. The source of illumination within a thought, memory or dream, was a very intriguing thing. Andy floated around the rotating ring, basking in the artificial glow of the attic. Looking back through the window, he could make out a tiny, white-hot ball, burning in the distant sky. Sighing, Andy addressed the blinding sphere.
"So here I am once again, looking at a trace of a sun through the corner of a window sill.. But you're not really there are you? You're just an imprint, inside the imagination of a young girl in Virginia..."
The little spec replied in a dignified, far away voice, "Would I not be one and the same?"
"I'm not sure."
"Do I not see all the icebergs of the Antarctic regions as well as a sandstone cave in Sicily? Just because I am here with you, inside this little attic, do you not think that I am also other place as well, at this very moment...placing one hand upon the Straits of Gibraltar and the other hand upon the moons of Saturn?"
Andy tilted his head, watching the atmosphere.
"But I left the real sun behind in the algebra classroom. How can you be out there and here at the same time?"
The angle of the imaginary sun slanted a fraction of a centimetre lower, while the large round structure in the middle of the attic continued to turn.
"Consider the vastness of the axis of the ecliptic...the breadth of longitude and latitude...the perihelion distance slinging the comets around the galaxy... Why must I stop at the end of a retina? Why should I not be able to go deeper, into the page of a book or the thoughts of a young girl?"
Andy thought for a moment about what the sun had said.
"I should think not, because ultimately a star is just a burning mass of hydrogen gases... To me, finding you here, inside a pencil sketch, you're nothing more than a projection..."
"My little sophomoric friend," replied the sun in a way that made Andy feel suddenly foolish, "the parallelogram of forces are much more placid than you assume. Look at the floor very carefully, behind you, there, just underneath the suspended ring and tell me what you see..."
Andy did as instructed. He saw, very slightly, upon the wooden floorboards of the attic, an odd series of little burned arches. Each had a thin, charred, black line, extending into the centre of the ring structure.
"What are they?" he asked, returning to the window. The sun spoke once again, in its perpetual far away voice.
"Those are my finger prints, pictures I have made with shadows. They are little markers, showing where I've been, reminding the floor how unique each moment is. There are very few places, physical or virtual, where I have not gone."
Andy swept back around the attic, considering the shadows he saw stretching across the floor and walls. It was true that every second of every day made a different picture. Shadows shifted and distended traversing lunar craters and even the unknown attic corners, within the fleeting daydream of an adolescent girl in May of 1916.