Across the road darts a chipmunk and scurries, I would clamber to climb. Light-footed, almost floating, it appears to mock gravity. I battle the uphill of Harlem hills on my second ten-kilometer lap around Central Park’s loop. One day little chipmunk will join you in your levity.
Lego loves lego, and builders love lego, and lego loves artists in abstract. Fungible blocks building imaginings which strip away senseless detail for sensible, sensational delight. Worlds arranged through simple shapes as they are mined into mind crafts or Minecraft. Squares are neat with other squares, joined in infinitesimal dreamwork.
They come both in the utmost disruption or the crease in a canvass. Normality disrupted by the shiny bursting forth with and through forces unknown. It forces us to revisit the graveyard of our language, metaphors undergirding words long forgotten. Grappling with the agonizing awe mirabilia brings, we gasp and grasp beneath prose for our first utterance.
Asian mystic traditions and Christian eschatology mingle into a silicon dream. The singularity realizes history’s technological forces, but as with any eschaton, it fractures the world. Unlike the spiritual revolutions of the past, however, all are not invited to take part. As a reality-denying elitist Gnosticism, it seems the perfect religion for those who have long ago forsaken contact with or care for the poor.
Goethe watches Bryant Park’s carousel. Children fain oblivious to the German laureate. Around and around, the joy palatable. A circular wonder for the watcher. Always and never the same repetition and difference. If only someone would gift Goethe’s bust with a hand. What wonders would he write of what he saw?
He crosses the bridge at Selma one last time. A giant once again laid horizontal to the asphalt—once bloodied, now encased with honors. We journey with him across the river, hoping to follow the linage he leaves of loving our enemies and sacrifice—the ever returning catalyst of love.
Pictures that compose words, words that write images—have we ever lived in anything but a blended world? A picture is worth a thousand words; a well-placed word conjures up a thousand pictures. Around the circle goes. We reference, and the references become worlds—objects which outstrip and sometimes outlast us.
When did resolved hardness become a virtue? Was there some Thomistic meeting declaring unadulterated truth forever that I missed? If our short democratic experiment taught us anything, we should know how fragile and laborious it is to build societal trust. Any diamond-like society forgets one must invite the other to the table every day. Share a meal, understand their fears, hopes, and dreams, and build a community together.
O temporary visitor in between the already, yet, and who knows, there where we face our finitude. Yet, we yearn After Finitude, the title of Meillassoux’s excellent book. Might we forgo our dogmatisms and ignorance into possibilities? Turn our petit peu into peut-être?
Again, here I am as if for the first time in an eerie encored conglomerated memento of something which seems familiar. Tables, people, noises displaced from a previous situation become a rebus of the new in the old. What a wonder it would be if two people could experience déjà vu together.