1:30 am
It’s 2012, alas we are done!
Though of linear time there is none.
The calendar’s round
Wheels turn, I have found:
All are washed in the blood of the sun.
Having my way with Ulysses
The point was the least conspicuous point about it.
1:26 am
Scene: [An endlessly large room once belonging to to all the infinite possibilities but now cavernously empty save for Caesar who is curled up on the floor patting his knife wounds with smooth caresses.]
Time: [On the god mic, sotto voce] Are you ready to listen?
Caesar: What’s the point?
Time: You must stop looking at the point of everything. This particular version of you has no point. Or rather, you have many points. You are legion.
Caesar: Blah blah blah.
Time: You’re tired, you’re not taking it in. Maybe some solid food? I’m a stickler for solid food. Here. [A cup of coffee appears on the floor next to Caesar. It’s over-roasted, must be Starbucks.] Now Caesar, honey, you do know that history is a tale like any other too often heard. But darling, your history, your place in Roman history, is only one manifestation of infinite possibilities. You have ousted all the others and now here we are, at a standstill until you can accept it. You are at a crucial point.
Caesar: But if I have other selves, some which did not die, then they are not to be thought away.
Time: They are, but not by you. You occupy a non-dimensional point, the stilled eternity. Move to become a line, then a plane, then a tetrahedron and you’ll gain some perspective. Trust me on this one. Your other selves did.
Caesar: I refuse to accept other selves.
Time: They are the possibilities you have ousted. You did that. Get used to it. You think you can square the circle lying there in a puddle of yourself? Stand up, man, form a line. Until then you are both center and circumference. Unless you straighten up beyond this particular singularity, that thing you call “self” to which you stubbornly cling, sweetie love, you will understand nothing, and only nothing.
Caesar: Leave me alone
Time: The point is always alone.
His inscrutable face which really was a work of art.
1:20 am
I’m coming for you motherfucker. You just wait. I’m waiting. I am waiting. I’m a spider and I’ll stab you in the fly. I’m the king of infinite space, cultivating my time, and the instant you so much as twitch I’m on you. I’ll be there. On you like that. You hear me? Course you don’t but I hear you. I see you. I’m staring back. And I’m coming at you from all sides asshole. I’ll put pills in your water and a knife in your back and it will be so fast you wont even, you’ll think maybe. It won’t even register. Funny, very! I’m coming for you; it’s a matter of time. I can feel in my soul the time it takes to count the numbers between the nerve impulse at the start of my strike and your movement into ideal position. The numbers are small when calculating for the slimmest little knife blade of a kairotic moment. O but I’ve made a science of transecting knives; it’s become my religion. You keep to the spirit of where ignorance is bliss; I’ll get you in my own time.
My methods are new and are causing surprise; to make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.
12:57 am
Creation from nothing and then arbitrate?
If that’s what this is, to the party I’m late.
But nothing’s not nothing, of this I well ken
It’s in here I must kill the now and the then.
All, not at all, or the Vala between?
Damn death, Luvah life! (Or you’d think me obscene.)
Before gravity’s center gets all displaced,
Let’s kiss and atone and then pardon disgrace.
For truely and bluely and justly and such,
I’ll speak to your eyes, though I do talk too much!
Kiss Biddy the Clap, and tell sweet Cunty Kate,
To tell what’s true plainly I must obfuscate.
Time’s livid final flame leaps and, in the following darkness, ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry.
12:52 am
What made time? This is the western world I’m swimming in; within these waters I know deep in my gills that time was made. I open my eyes and see fish; perhaps you open yours and see flow. Maybe your temporality isn’t something that can be said to have begun. What the hell do I know about that, I’m breathing water here. Your geographical location will tell your gills other truths. Maybe your temporality has no need of a beginning. So. What made time? This time, yeah? A god? A god made time? Nice work dumbass, you made something that breaks too easily. Your temporality is too fragile. It smashes whenever we make something formed from what is that word everybody knows? What’s the point (ah the point!) of a temporality that breaks whenever we corrode sublimate smash something into nothing. Break it down boys. We can clear this place out in no time flat. Make quick work. Sudden, sometimes. But look at the materials: creatio ex nihilo, so what do you expect? Shows what you get when you make something from nothing. Must not have been much of a primary void. You want void? You want nothing? We have nothing. We have plenty of nothing right here. In this country. Right here. Go look at the sky just above our greatest city. That particular nothing ranks with some of our greatest and most terrible nothings ever to cleave time, and we’ve had some enormous nothings on our record. Millions of leaping final flames. Tear stained trails of them. When a world watches with hearts in mouths while receiving a nightmare’s bad kick, what is the more grievous sight? The buildings falling? The dust clouds and smoke rising spreading filling smothering settling? No. It’s the oh my god the towers aren’t there. That. It was that. Remember that? That ripple of obvious entwined with inconceivable? It was visceral, that moment. That’s the sight that cleaved time. There’s what rent temporality. That monumental nothing. We look into that nothing. That hole in our sky. That hole in our temporality. And we look into that nothing and name everything on that side “before” and on this side “after.” Why have we yet to build something to fill nothing? Our monument of nothing is too compacted, too dense; it won’t just drift off with the tide just like that. You want something not nothing? Good luck to you. Put what you like there, go ahead, put it all there. Make it everything, that nothing’s not going anywhere.
The sins of the past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds.
12:39 am
Thousands. They are raindrops rolling across a window, and you can see allpast right through them. Lets get up close. Magnification of where, distortion of how, inversion of what time, and with how many fluxes in octaves between convex and concave. Polytemporality wouldn’t know anything about that, strictly speaking, from here it’s ants all the way down. I dreamed something different perhaps maybe once if rememory serves. I disguised myself and walked, a dark visaged man, trailing hair, creamfruit smell. I was dreaming and the dream was me. Like you. But you appear to be drowning just a bit. Partially drowning, like you misplaced your what’s that? Well, that’s your opinion, I’m just saying what I see from nowhen. Men like to ondts.
From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.
12:28 am
Think back. Remember. I am almosting it. I spent those summer months, the first ones after, with circles and squares. As one would. It’s natural. Look at that circle there. You see it? A reflection of your eye looking at me. I’ll reflect mine back to you in case you need, no? Fine then. So beautiful your circle. A circle is a circle because it is not a square. A square is a square because it is not a circle. The perfect square lacks corners, but I get ahead of myself. But I can’t get ahead of myself, that’s my predicament. Nor can I get behind myself either, damn it. But let’s return to the roundness, the fullness of your circle. All points of your circumference are equal from your center. Such pretty, such sublime perfection. Such infinity. Such simultaneity of number. Ba! Look at that square, now, ugly thing. In front of you, see it? Around where you stare. You should blink more, this is very bad for your eyes holding them open like that. Blink. Now see that ugly square binding your reflection. My reflection back. Corners. Angles. Limited. Linear. Like me. Ba, this has been an unusually fatiguing day. And this day, like any other day is this day now. Here. Now. Endlessly now. Nothing but now, only now forever and always now. I know for you it is different. I see it is different from here. Good Christ you can see it from space, but for me, when I look at myself I see only this and no other then. When? I exist between before and after in a durationless instant, and I unite them. Before and after exist because of me. You exist because of me. But I heard once of a way, a secret way. Closer, I’ll tell you. If the square married the circle, yes? You see it? Forgive the allegorical language but this is top secret understand. If the square married the circle they would mate, yes, and be united. Unified. If the perfect square lacked corners and if the circle had rationality. Think of the implications! Imagine what it could mean! The eternal and the temporal entwining. Infinity plunging into linearity. We can do it. So gently, so carefully. This is virgin territory. The past that was can be caressed into the now. And the future that beckons, we shall be the ones saying come hither sweet little thing you are. Aren’t you curious? Nobody’s looking baby love, we can do it. The cause is sacred. Stop. You don’t agree, do you. You think I’m wasting time. But the quadrature of the circle is all I have left, don’t you see? I live in temporal succession and this compounds my grief. You think it’s so easy to? You. Your center is everywhere and your circumference is nowhere. Ba. When have you ever needed to resurrect anything? Simultaneity. You are nothing. Leave me. Sorrow lives only in linearity; what do you know of my troubles? Now go.
A new era is about to dawn.
12:02 am
It can’t be done. I won’t do it. You’ll need another architect, I can’t do this shit. What do you take me for? I’m no magician. Ok. Ok. listen. Just look at your plan here, 40,000 rooms and only 12 doors. In what universe does this make any sense: 40,000 rooms arranged in a perfect square, excuse me, cube. It will be hideous. No architect will touch it. A big ugly cube — it will look like a Wallmart. You want your new Bloomusalem to be a Wallmart? I mean, maybe we can do 200 x 200 rooms with tall ceilings, which might be our only shot at symmetry under the cemetery wall, but look how tall the damn rooms would have to be. The ceilings will have their own weather! Otherwise we can stack 34 or 35 but we won’t get anywhere near your perfect 40,000. Maybe we can get there with an octahedron, and make the sides 44 of whatever measure you like, in length. Close enough to 40,000. We can include an annex for the rest. But that brings us to another problem, how big is this place? Your plan uses stadia and furlongs. And cubits! Who measures anything with cubits? None of your numbers make sense. Seriously. What are we using to measure this thing? It’s a beast! You want cubits, fine. It’s your deal. But you have here each side of the cube measures 12,000 stadia. That’s four million nine hundred thirty three thousand thirty three cubits. So a cubit being 1/1000 the distance the earth rotates at the equator during one second of time, we are talking about the length of about an hour and twenty minutes of Earth’s rotation. What planet are you on man? Do you know how big that is? By the time I even get the foundations laid (12 foundations? Dude!) the Earth’s rotation will have slowed down enough that we’ll have to redefine the length of the cubit. And then what, we start over? And with what work force? Who is building this thing? Where are they going to live eat shit? Schools for their kids? Hospitals? Food? We’ll have to build a new Bloomusalem just to house the people who will build the new Bloomusalem, which will require Bloomusalems for those builders recursive to no end point. I’ll take the lake of fire. Really. I’d rather have a good eternal swim in the lake of fire. I don’t want any part of this. Find another contractor, I’m out.
Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a second?
11:40 pm
You slumming here! You ought to see yourself. Tell me, do you remember the night we, when there was, when we were so inclined to? We had such a nice little mix up of the marital, is it beyond recall? Can we again, maybe, oh how time flies, hark back in a retrospective arrangement to the housewarming party remember? Blindfolded feeling for partners (oh you had such soft corners!) and you and I by the teapot talking about what it means, what it meant to me. You. And you now. Lady and the Unicorn (what were you thinking?) but we can’t change that now. Or maybe we can, eh? Want me to kiss the spot? Could you? I have a little present for you, if you’ll ever forgive me for it. If you are so inclined. Just for a moment. A second. A half second, really, just a small. Just a little. Won’t count really, just a little fraction of a fraction. Mathematically insignificant. What is time, really? Just a pin prick of it, just a little something, shall we, won’t in the grand scheme of, don’t you see, I know somebody won’t like it but the ears can’t see what the lips won’t hear, if you understand my dear, my faun, my hart. How graceful are your feet in those gold sandals. You are so elusive in them. My fugitive. Your breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle. Whatever do you think of me? Do you remember what I whispered in your ear that night? I bit your ear and sent you a secret valentine and said
It floats, it flows about her starborn flesh.
10:41 pm
Scene: [In the house of Mary and Martha, Mary prepares for her wedding while Martha, ever the bridesmaid, ruminates under yards and yards of what do you call it gossamer veils bunched into the ideal form of a bridesmaid dress. O Martha, thou lost one, you’ll totally be able to wear it again (if you like looking like a fat red triangle!)]
Mary: I’m so so happy! I feel my soul soaring, wafting over regions of cycles of generations that have lived! Have you seen Lilith? She didn’t show up for her fitting.
Martha: [Muttering with the thunder of rebellion] That screech owl? She’s probably fucking Azazel in the bathroom. Wish I was with them.
Mary: O Martha! Martha Martha Martha! The wonder of it! The love I have for Jesus grows to heaven’s own what do you call it magnitude! I feel like I’m floating, flowing, simply swirling! Hey, do you think he’ll like these gold sandals with my dress?
Martha: Yeah. If he likes you to look like Hermes.
Mary: Oh Martha, everything will be so beautiful. All the stars are aligned perfectly for us too! He’s a Capricorn and I’m a Virgin.
Martha: [Moaning] Yeah right.
Mary: And I’m a Virgin, young dear and radiant, so we make such astrological sense together. We will have parallax minds and hearts! Do you have to drink so much? Such horrible gulpings, you’ll be drunk before the ceremony. And I want everything to be perfect. Together we will spin out our love into the infinite of space and of time! And just think Martha, our wedding will be the alpha and nothing, absolutely nothing will go wrong!
Martha: [Ominous, revengeful] Nothing will go wrong. That’s a good idea, Mary. For once you’re thinking with that horse’s head you’ve got wafting above all that simply swirling. Nothing. Nothing is everything, if done properly. Have you seen my phone?
