Kandinsky Space

The great geometer circles around the sky, inviting you through an ovoid portal that's crafted with the finest precision.  In the void between worlds, you watch basic shapes floating about in an atmosphere of blue.  Circles and squares wiggle their way into cohesive hybrids, serving as the blueprints of form, of life, of all things sustainable by thought, even abstractions.  The forms are constructed into prototypes of the lethological mold, stateless in space and as ambiguous as time.  The atmosphere darkens, the circles get larger, and now they have smaller ones inside them: new generations of the imperial design.  A checkerboard of squares has formed, each of them different colors, and they are connected to other ones by equidistant lines.  You find yourself freely floating, in Kandinsky space, viewing an infrastructure of mathematical genesis born from the mind of a genius.  Neurogenic circuits fire across the spherical manifold, elongating the squares into rectangles, breaking the rectangles into triangles, splitting the circles into arcs of drifting curvature.  Like falling shards of glass they disperse through the void, shattered by a catalyst of synaptic fire that disfigures the original plan.  New complexities arise as the broken pieces coalesce into hyper-forms and mixed models.  The sound of music penetrates the darkness, structuring the broken pieces into harmonic proportions of size and beauty.  Drumsticks beat on phonic keys, a record spins on an isosceles needle, a ballroom orb glitters around hash-marked notes.  It's a transient operathon, strung with choirs of electricity. 

Now the compositions are converging into forms that resemble objects: abstractions of the proto-symphonic mold from which the conductor assembled his pieces.  Color becomes more defined now, as each of the shapes brighten with the fluidity that convergence brings.  Harmonic vibrations are bringing life into the picture.  You notice the intricacies of soundscapes in phase putting together amoebic strings of vitality.  The instruments have become living beings, playing themselves with the notes that embody them.  You pass over a town made of triangular houses all lined up in order, crystalline in appearance, which happens to be where the tiny life-forms are coming from.  Just ahead lies the boundary where microcosms breed into macrocosms.  There on the horizon, a red dawn awaits.  A ship is sailing on a sea of blood, suspended under a curtain of stars.  That's not the only construction you notice; look, there's a city that stands on a globe orbiting through alternate phases of day and night.  Another city built of squares that shine with warm lights is glowing behind it, presenting itself over the ledge of an ocean where cool bubbles float up into the sky like they were saucers.  You feel part of a new universe now, traveling through each stage of its evolution.  Inside the city, elongated triangles balance their tips on teetering lines that sway in yellow-space, like branches on a tree.  A building made of red square blocks has several of them balancing on it.  The way they nearly topple and regain their footing makes you feel dizzy. 

In the streets of the city, a festival is taking place.  Here the shapes have gotten so small that they are able to detach from the whole and move on their own.  The music down here is jazzy and free.  A swarm of figurines are dancing in the streets.  Inside a nightclub you see flashing orbs of light, great swaths of distorted checkerboards, carpets of squiggly lines and concentric circles, and rainbows of monochrome variety all moving in rhythm on the dance floor.  Nothing resembles a shape anymore.  Everything has mutated into non-linear expressions of the things they once were.  There's a stairway to oblivion beyond the jigsaw jive, and beyond it lies more blue space, occupied by the same free-floating biological forms.  Microscopic genotypes of the cityscape have been compressed and re-assembled into these little creatures.  Many of them have tails that were once rectangles, or heads that were once circles.  Near the boundary of Kandinksy space, the shapes gain so much complexity that they look like mandalas: sacred geometrical forms representing the hidden structure of the cosmos.  Everywhere there are tiny circles and streamy lines that look like strings.  Batons of light move about them, drawn into waves by some invisible hand directing all the movement.  The painter's universe reveals secrets behind everything in our own; that we are all connected by strings and particles that are directed by the components of these designs.  

At the border, all the colors smear and the shapes are stretched to smithereens.  You walk through a door in a daze of wonder, stateless in space and as ambiguous as time.