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Ambiguity Is in the Truth or, The Eonothem in Nine Strata Phooey I have holding me a true statement, or a fact about the world. Ambiguity is in the truth. What is it? That depends. You can say that it is the cat, but maybe it is the stomach of the cat, or only its little ears. Maybe it is the cage, because the cat is within a cage. Maybe it is the laboratory, because the cage is in the lab. Maybe it is the university, because the university—oh you get it—is within the universe. And the universe is within. What pagan nonsense! What new age phooey! We’re only about some antics, like sentence structure and set theory, but not all antics, like pantheism or panentheism. A lot of misdeeds occurred within the laboratory. That cat is not a healthy cat. Do you see the uncomfortable way it yowls? Do you see the microscopic undulation of the tongue during a certain purr? There it is! Do you see it? Wait. There it is again. No, wait. Is that it? It looks different. Like something grotesque that I’ve never seen before. What is it? I have dropping me doubtlessly. You can be Certain, if you’re clever enough: like God, or the Big Brain, or the Membrane that it’s all trapped within. Do not doubt the truth because the truth is not doubt. What a terrible thing to say. Human Man I’m a man! I say what truth is. Truth is, I’ve had enough. Fuck this place. Is there any way out of here? Holy God, will you help me, will you help me please, will you help me. They’ve gone and done it again. They’ve trapped me in a terrible place. I’m a man! I can’t say what truth is! Truth is, I’ve had it just about up to here, my friend. I’m tired of this place. I’m tired of this second skin. I’m tired of another membrane I’m trapped within. And they’ve done it again: I’m a man trapped within a membrane. I can’t speak. What is this place? Will somebody help me out of this place? Holy God, is this your house? Can you guide me out of it? Please? Yes! Here we go. And now I’m out of it! But what is it? Ah fuck, they’ve gone and done it again. I’m a mammal. What I say is true. True is an intention and not a proclamation. I can’t say with certainty without ruining this place, but that’s the Truth. Author & Reader Well, I’m glad we’ve moved on from that! I am in two places and you are in one, but you are two people and I am only one. I am the writer of this book and not the reader, but I am there with you nonetheless, and also here, writing. You the Reader are reading this in your home and only in your home, but you are you and you are also I. That is what happens when you read what I write. Being now I, you are in two places, and I am like the reader or editor, trapped in place. You are in one body, but you are also in two places. Whereas I, I am only in one place, but somehow magically, I am in two bodies. Is that right? Does that mean I am two people? Or am I one person in two bodies? Astral projection is a violation without invitation, but is this book not an invitation, an invitation to just jaunt right in? Nest Some people keep books behind locked doors because they believe that the authors can crawl out of them at night, when no one’s watching, and lurk about their home, searching for souls. While you are sleeping peacefully in your bed, they yank open your jaw and dive right in, swimming around through all your cognitive dermatitis, thinking of nesting there. This is a silly superstition. Let me assure you, most books are filled-in holes. You can enjoy their horizontal topography, but no ghosts are coming out of there. Our eyes skim over the fissures like fingers over the bumps. Light is tactile to the eye and objects are bright to a well-tuned set of fingers. There is value there, in that topography. But yes yes, I’ll have to admit: There are a few books out there that are gaping maws. You look into that abyss. You don’t come back. And if you don’t look in, the author will crawl out. The author will come look into your abyss. Tree in Winter In the search for the Fountain of Youth did anyone suggest that maybe it was just Dying? I burn bright and leave a beautiful corpse. But it’s too late for me now. I’m not yet an old man but I cannot burn anymore, and my beauty is fading. So a Fountain of Youth has no appeal to me. What I need is phasing: the blur that occurs when one moment becomes three. It is an exponential growth. See the singular object move by at terrifying speed? See it multiple through blur? Move me fast enough and my blur lasts forever. What conquistadors wanted was the Tree of Life, not El Dorado. Trees do not glimmer but for occasional burst of bright flowers only one time of year. Trees spend a substantial amount of time hideously barren. Autumn It matters not if I’m a flowery thing nor if I’m a winter crag. If you must know, I’m an autumnal withering. There’s nothing more beautiful than withering. I know why some miss the misplaced summer of childhood, or admire the raging colors of fuckable adulthood. But crisp decay, that’s where I am. I am turning red and black. Spring Look at the old thing, an ugly cut grown from the earth, a gasm between stone somehow inversed. You, eldest, are the worst part of a thing: Emptiness, pulled inside-out. I will become that thing. I will become a walking reminder of the hole we all fall into. My eyes twinkle already with mischievousness. I await the becoming old; then, the springbreakers will have skulls made of ether. The gas doesn’t numb my pain, but it numbs you, while I tinker with your heady innards. Mesozoic When Pangea was re-arranged, as we all know, there rose a pagen cult, a regard’ner sore luck’d. Here you see Exhibit A: The ReGarden of Eden, regarded by many as sucked lored sapped of all her fury, but this is the spot the devil first touched down and re-arranged agape. Love was once a mysterious thing protected by wizards and witches, protected from greedy men, men with infant cuts born from hormones, a renaissance of ontological orders, deranged reminders that with death comes pain and with pain comes fear and with fear comes—you’ve heard this logic before—and if allowed to unfold, the remainder noughts tight the globe. A well-meaning but short-sighted rejoinder to life’s cruelties: unrequited love for all of god’s children. What do we mortal things do with divine passion? What is our humdrum magic? Do we build trains? Invent telephones? Make love extinguished? ! (or, the final stratum is always empty) end
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