La trois

With a note of advice from our sponsor:

Welcome to the incomplete tribe. Walk with your head erect, for if you look down, you may run into someone.


The distal effluvium from which we distill Cosmos:
by accident we exhaust
the dimensional confinements
of our projective limitations.
o lose one’s self or to find one’s self:
to express either absent opinion
is to admit to ourselves that we do not exist
in cosmos.

The very definition of cosmos as counter to chaos does not contain us.

We exist separate from our notion of space.
We define space within the limitations of our own projections.
In expanding what Heidegger sought,
we no longer push inward to evolve
but we no longer push outward, either.

We have developed an uncanny sense of imprisonment for our
“souls,” “minds,” “absences,” to fill, but we cannot.
As bipeds, we cannot walk to the edge of the cosmos.

There is nothing to prove, in physics or in philosophy,
that we cannot move away from the cosmos.

There is nothing to prove our presence in the cosmos.
Once we are gone, there will be nothing left to prove our absence.

We do not exist in a cosmos.

We are, as Kafka says, cages in search of birds.
We are stumps cut off at the knees.
We are the axe that breaks the ice.
We are a thump on a taut piece of leather.
We are scratchings in black ink, scrawled across paper that we have fashioned.
We are curious monkeys, nothing more.

What would the epicenter of this cosmos be if, suddenly, we discovered life on Saturn?
What would the epicenter of this cosmos be if, in a parallel universe, we picked up signals, rebuttals, declarations of war?
Would, then, this other planet represent another epicenter, or would we treat it like Cuba?

If you wish to see the only implementation of cosmos within your Western reality,

Take a boat ride down to Havana, and pay $50 for a light bulb.

We wish to define the parameters of a cosmos in spherical form; we wish to see revolutions.
We wish to see such things because we are formed within spheres. We are tadpoles in a bubble as we develop, and we are pushed forth through the birth canal, which should demonstrate to us that to push forth from the limitations of a belief in a cosmos, we must be caught, not by a latex-covered pair of hands, but by the cold, dark pull of infinite space; infinite, but bounded.

Lay this on your table, and tell me that I have wasted my life.

Look at our clocks. We see time performing for us
in tiny rotations that we mark with ticking and tocking,
as though time could be reduced to a nursery rhyme.

It would be unfair to say that we are ignorant of our limitations.

No, in fact, we glorify our limitations.

We build rectangular buildings to stretch as high as they can into the sky, to create cosmos, the boundaries of Manhattan, epicenters of trade, commerce.
Easy targets.

We work, as we erect the 94th floor, to defy gravity
by the use of 2,304 stairs that no one will ever walk unless disaster strikes. Even then, those who listened to the loudspeakers stayed calmly in place.

I do not deny my self-righteousness in what I am saying.
My self-existence, within my ignorant cosmos, is most important to me.
But I chose not to kill, because the smell of human blood nauseates me.

Transmission over. Go in peace, wherever your ill-equipped feet will carry you.

Take a moment to consider your hands tonight, your heels as you return to your nest. Consider the arch of your foot, consider the muscle patterns in your back,
and wonder why the myth of fallen birds crosses cultures.
I believe fools call them angels.
The mature, those who wish to know, call them ancestors.

When you wish upon a glorious morning star,
as you wonder where he is,
realize that reduction is a fatal flaw of our tendency toward cosmography.

Goodnight. And have a pleasant tomorrow. Rest peacefully. Two alleys over, around the next block, your cosmos no longer exists. Our existence is codified as how far we can see at any given moment. It takes losing one’s eyesight to realize that.

M. Trois, evening, 1848