Over and above the normal forecasts, there is a higher, stranger weather. It hovers above the rain and storm and snow like a baseball card collector who doesn’t even know the rules of the sport. Its seasons are not the seasons we experience, but, like a gnostic tuba player, sit one level removed. The anti-winter is not summer, but rather a radiant sugarstorm which we have never experienced. This Great Weather is the true antidote to the concept of the master. It follows the whims of its own desire, and buffets humans indirectly, as if we meant nothing to it, and surely we cannot mean much at all. Our production process cannot alter its rhythms, because they are too obscure, even for our unconscious urge to destroy that which we have not yet discovered. It is not a weather of plenty, this Great Weather, but it is certainly a weather of irony, and in that I think we may find a point of conjunction. It doesn’t do much like we do, but it does “smirk”. It distributes non-euclidean geobananas into bursts of gravy storm-matter. It tickles the soundtrack of sweltering heat and makes it sound like a cicada composer of the baroque era (tinny). If the Great Weather had a pseudonym it would be “bad attitude”. The closest we get to it is when we imagine with frisson a cold winter eve in the glowing sun of the June solstice. Antinomies are just the beginning. It never plays on emotions without breaking hearts and recalling odours. The Great Weather brings up fish-eggs to roost in the stars, briefly, to impress Charles Fort, who lives there as a fat groundhog with a constellation of his own, and Charles Fourier, who is sunbathing in a garish one-piece bathing suit. It’s no heaven, this Great Weather; just an afternoon club that meets at midnight.