[Archive][Index]
Number and None I There will be a number and then none. Let the spider count the threads, the lark read from a score, each improvising at indicated points. There will be a number large to spread the commas of its sum over the edges of the paper, across the floor and up the wall, a number so immense no universe contains iotas to answer to its count, yet zero shall swallow it whole, watching from an empty window. It is said: "Zero is not a number," but that is the easy solution. The royal leaf remains dumb, huge beyond benefit, sucking the sap of the tree of the sun, lovely beyond conception, hot as a smoking revolver. We are dealing with one thing alone; a thing said before which need not be said again. It was never true that each generation must resay it, one formulation is enough, proverbial or numeric, encompassing its own exceptions. I think if we do not give it a name we can better take it quietly for granted. Evoke instead the fantasy that streams in the blood alongside iron and air, call it to witness the muse of victory showering leaves from the wreath of Heaven. Draw her with crayons that melt into puddles of wax on hot sidewalk - Reflex Blue and Grammarian's Gold. In the absence of definition, it seems an impossible task turning number into none, but without excess of thought it's easily done, though reason soon forgets what reason has no bearing on. Not defined as a problem it presents no interesting point of engagement to those seeking something deep to ponder. Zero is without depth. Where metaphor seeks to originate rather than to replicate, a different species of light refects from the cross-hatches of the weave, agreeing to inhabit words for the length of time it takes to write them. All words are empty. Understand that first. Between number and none dwells a mathematics devoid of equation, algebra without the quantity of X; geometry with neither sphere nor surface. II Ambiguity is lack of decision, vacillation between poles of potential meaning. Where intentional, thought attempts to ring clear of dialectic and evoke mystery desiring no clarification, acting without motive. To further confound the laws of evidence, there is no lack of open subject to which open predicate applies, as in "You suck!" or "I am." Statement selects opposition as wind selects a sail to propel over the course of undifferentiated waves. Reason is able to manipulate the shape of skin in service of desire, as can all things able to touch and feel touch in return; able to harm and be harmed. Nor is the harm the harm of a moment. Capable of bearing livid scars as well as sacrificial scratches, reason is a candidate for compassion from all human and beyond human, a tender antenna for stroking the surface of stars. The certainty to speak of number and none, as of a favorite fossil, becomes the quality by which it is possible to say with conviction that the milk of lions is suitable to cream coffee brewed from stones, in the presence of no argument to the contrary. But what it is we could love enough to die for must be articulated, and, if not essentially amenable to reason, be justified by art Perfectly moral by our own lights, how can we doubt ourselves? Can the immoralist doubt himself? It's obvious he cannot unless his stance is moral. Ambiguity marks the edges of the cliffs and precipices which shift and rearrange so that something to die for becomes a reason to live. This is felt to be so and feeling must suffice. Number and none estimate capacity but cannot provide the heart with magnitudes worth counting. In lack of such magnitude, we make problems where there are none and demonstrate them. to living tissue in fire. There are worse tricks. We learn them all. Without evil there is no good to be gained. III It's hard to believe it's all for the good but less involved consideration will convince reason only a disposition to habitual obedience prevents release from archaic ideals. What is dearer to the tongue, connected by its root to the heart, than swallowing? Fear and love both prompt a swallow. We swallow in the presence of the holy. Who, in the presence of problems conjured by a clash of ideals, notices this small action, this semi-voluntary undulation of the alimentary tract, amplifying a heartbeat? A satisfying swallow exercises heart and soul, draws phlegm from the mind which, like the white of an egg, provides nourishment to the hatchable yolk. What chickens be these? Solomon found nothing more appropriate than that we should swallow what gives us pleasure & take our comfort in what falls readily to hand. Distressing oneself with vain imaginings was low on his list of priorities. The motive of crime, what is called crime, is desire to ingest what is forbidden by strictures grounded on a variety of conflicting systems; prohibition of something near to hand that would give comfort. It makes sense to be a martyr to a cause you believe in enough to swallow over to swallow hard and often. Better yet to quiet the mind allowing new creations to enter from thin, sweet air. It's the promise of freedom that proves so alluring, not its consequence. Why should freedom be situated entirely in the future? There is freedom now or it does not exist. But we know it exists if only by the shred of evidence felt when tongue touches heart in the sacrament of swallowing. IV Motion, not metaphor. Of breath and balance reason cannot partake except in speculation. But that is neither here nor there. We do not come to the table to fast, nor pour wine to admire the color. Bouquet serves only to whet the appetite. We are here to step outside ourselves and become one with the meal through the mystery of digestion. * That which the sun touches is within the sun, and what is within the sun is the sun. It is odd to say sky when we mean sun as though some figurative space separates sun from shine, assuming by our words a distance as between two objects, by virtue of which both things appear to become, creating number where there is none, other than one, which by itself is not a number since numbers are items of relationship. One is a noun. Two is an adjective. A thing unique to itself has never been seen in the fields of time and multiple collusion. Does this enlarge our thesis; the one aforementioned which seems so improvident to name? Yes, to the degree that a thesis may rightly contain information about what it is not to avoid misapprehension. So the question arises: is there any substance other than that which arises through relationship? Do not say "no" but leave it be. That way lies ontogeny and a multiplicity of verbal calesthentics confusing number with none. Content is the crux; we seek a peripheral conjugation of essence, more aptly divined by ellipsis than by trope . . . How is this stick to be stacked in the woodpile, by length or crosswise? Or should it be put in the box with the sulphur matches? If so, is it self igniting or does it require an anterior abrasive to strike? It is not the great motionless whirlwind, that breath closer to the beginning but not the beginning (begging your pardon) that concerns us here. It is nothing very great at all, nor small. To sing such a song as this about it all (make no mistake, all lines obedient to form are song) is not to instruct so much as to remain and dwell a moment outside the space between what are called stars, free of the pratfalls of time and perspective. V You gave something away once without knowing its value. Now you want it back but don't know who or how to ask for it. Only half of you wants it back the other half abhors it. Turn one eye away from the sun - let it roll around in the dark and I'll make you a present of your lost treasure if it's anything you ever trusted to my hands for safekeeping. If it is not among the faculties with which I was blessed at birth, I'll never miss it nor count it as one of my own items as I set them on a ledge to be counted. As flower petals are plucked with alternating fears and wishes, none and number spin on this ledge like a coin with a single face of which the flip side is absence. How does it stop short of the solopsist's cage to say that your eye and the eye of the sun are one and the same, co-conflagrational and utterly non-unique? Hypothetically, you may choose to agree without once thinking that the idea could warm the blood, much less catch fire and burn. Thunder is not an accident. It was purposely provided to call your attention to the desirability of shelter. Its function is to frighten. Otherwise it would not be thunder, just a loud clapping of the air. The thesis posits no singular perceiver, acknowledges the eye of the many and the eye of the one, prefering but not insisting upon plurality. There are other ways which also profit. Knowing this, choice becomes possible but only insofar as it is perfectly impossible. A nice corner to paint yourself in and out of. But it is not a problem. Straight lines occur only in nature. The best guess is the closest estimate that can be made concerning the speed of a model with no known dimensions. We know nothing about light, describe it endlessly. Blink. VI Blink, swallow, believe. It is of little concern that we know nothing when it is all so nicely balanced by knowing everything. Number and none combine, gestate and produce mathematics. Mathematics parents its subject by rudimentary parthenogenesis . . . vision out of the whorls and vortices of sight, light if you will. But it is not light we need to know about, which, in any case, cannot be known. There is not one among us who does not step in and out of time at will; not one who is unfamiliar with the cliffs and runnels of absolute darkness, their dire depth. There is not one of us who lacks the strength of ten in respect to certain beliefs, nor the strength of twenty in contravening those principles when the faith betrays. All rules but one may be broken: that rule by which the other rules are bound or loosened. That this rule cannot be broken is not a problem. It is a fulcrum. The modes of hyperbole cringe in their clouds retracting their gold slung rays at the approach of the thin brown thought which is too tight to express. But it is not a problem. Neither need surrender its coin of currency because of the other. There is freedom from mere personal salvation in their respectful parity. The diffuse and the concentrate occupy the same space but the clap and the peal of a struck bell are different in kind; empty air contains one but allows no passage to the other. There is no need to extrapolate this to infinity unless one intends to create a problem where there is none. Limited space would seem to be the one invariable condition of anything eternal. VII There will be a number and then none. Let the fire be fed from the charred stick that stirs the ash; from the name and not the substance, from the nomenclature of the category of names which is self inclusive. There is no name beyond naming. The vision of dreams is not other than sight in the waking world; both are seen things. What is beyond them is beyond vision. Has life need of light and a name? If not it would be hard to distinguish from death but it is not necessary to distinguish it is not a problem unless one chooses to fall flat before a stone and offer up sacrifice hoping to curry favor by misunderstanding. This would not be the hope which is said to spring eternal but it would be some of the substance of the hope. All which is present is present to the eye, the taste, the touch and the electricity that crackles and flows around the heart bringing the gift of terror: the charge of fear up and down the sockets which freezes the tiger in mid-leap, stops the sun in its circle and enleadens clouds so that they drop to earth and become mountains - this is the full treasure. The fear that resolves into absence of fear which is tranquility. How shall we content ourselves with the chill of mild fright, the chatter of small invented problems as they seek to carve stone steps out of recollections of water, seek to divide the circle into units obedient to the axioms of the angle? There is no fragrance in the clash of opposites, only in their union; no justice in retribution, only problems, problems where there is no space for problems, neither in the detailed edifice of time and place nor in the shapeless subjective center of revolution around which things appear to arc and orbit and, in a sense, to shine. Despite these conditions, accepted or rejected, nothing at all is different than it was before nor will subsequent transformations be affected one iota. Damnation remains the favored pastime of devils and the holy dwell at their pleasure in radiance. VIII The brain is a bell; in its folds the static clap and chiming tug the threads and strings which animate the meat. Marvelous if true, but no truer than theories of synapse and nomenclature of nerve and electro- magnetic resistance. The belly is the seat of the mind until the belly is replaced with a bladder or a bucket and then the mind moves into the lung or a nutlike node in the hollow of the throat but never into the heart which is the seat of hunger and of hope. When the heart is gone, hunger moves into the wrist; hope to the knee. When both heart and knee are gone, hope returns to the sky, that flat and risky line between the plate of the eye and the nearest overhanging cloud, sun or star. Hunger sinks into the soil. Red is most red where it merges with blue into purple. Color has no discretion, is known to blend with tone in a species of audibility or to convivialize with emotions and partake of their nature. There are natures within natures but for one to arise, you must die to the other. This shift of subjectivity is not a nuance, nor is there a possibility of it being partial you do not take a bit of this and a bit of that, but surrender all and receive nothing in recompense. "I" is outmoded and another "I" resides behind the blue gray eyes or the black, also to be replaced. Of all things born of the clock and the ruler, this is the most confusing. And it is a problem. Of all things, this gives rise to most conjecture; not a transformation, it is a replacement. The pages of the wind riffle and the words fall off the sheets into the sea, which gives the sea its sound a sound like wind but lacking wind's focus and precision; the groan of utterly open vowels. The words of the sea are not the words of the wind although they appear to converse. Yet neither comprehends nor profits from the discourse of the other. When this becomes insupportable, it storms. IX Who will make promises for the moon or give assurance for the sun? We have been told what things to believe and believing makes them so, so long as they do duty for the thin line of sky between number and none. Yet none of these things would be problematic were we able to transform rather than quit one truth for another. This is the very root of the problem, as such things go, that it is thus, and not otherwise. Beware of any who say they've solved it, for they are either deluded or they lie. In either case they have not grasped the diverse possibilites of simple mortality and squander their fear on ineffectual anodynes. Let it suffice that the subject of this thesis defies analysis, in that analysis is its toy, its bauble, its regiment of small wood soldiers lined on a window ledge. It could not be visualized, not so far as a quick eyeful, retreating as it arrives, clad in a clap of thunder with a bracelet of raging seas, silencing all of the clatter with its innate quiet, the very hive of sound. It is not to be discovered in the act mending at the same moment it ravels, nor is it able to surrender itself with a tight fist and a faceplate of steel in the lap of a virgin like a common unicorn. No cavern can contain the spark of it which may be seen flickering from a hole gnawed in the wallboard, gleaming without conscience. That it happens without consciousness or notice is not the lesser part of its charm and challenge. That it fluctuates between a given and a gone assures a sweetness equal to its absence for which reason it is often confused with love. And love it does and is, with cool detatchment and lack of passion which allows it entry into both the dream and the lack of dream, a tight splice between number and none removed from the postures and antics of transformation. Nothing need be said although saying is bound to it as to a Maypole by cords of braided strands, where speech leaves the mouth and hits flat against the slant wedge, thicker than sky, where souls assemble. It is in the mouth to smile and to swallow in the eye to blink and be dazzled. It is in the mind to believe and in the soul to slip like a threadbare ghost between number and none seeking what might sustain it in the poverty between riches. § 1992-1996 Robert Hunter ©1996
[Archive][Index]