Matter tells space/time to curve and space/time tells matter to move. The general theory of relativity in a sentence I used a tool to reach a tool I used to make a tool I used to make a metaphysics. The crowd, those rocket scientists, those medical scholars, were exhaustively doing and knowing the heavy spatial world, writing their summa, scolding us, singing while dreaming, knowing foe from friend. I used the body to make beliefs I used to renounce others I spoke to in words I thieved from trash and made further rips in the system and I went on flying with a slice.

BRUCE SMITH

He had dreamed that the whole world was doomed to fall victim to some terrible, as yet unknown and unseen pestilence spreading to Europe from the depths of Asia. Everyone was to perish, except for certain, very few, chosen ones. Some new trichinae had appeared, microscopic creatures that lodged themselves in men’s bodies. But these creatures were spirits, endowed with reason and will. Those who received them into themselves immediately became possessed and mad. But never, never had people considered themselves so intelligent and unshakable in the truth as did these infected ones. Never had they thought their judgements, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions and beliefs more unshakable. Entire settlements, entire cities and nations would be infected and go mad. Everyone became anxious, and no one understood anyone else: each thought the truth was contained in himself alone, and suffered looking at others, beat his breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know whom or how to judge, could not agree on what to regard as evil, what is good. They did not know whom to accuse, whom to vindicate.

DOSTOYEVSKY(From Crime and Punishment)

“Nearly two centuries ago , Melville showed us how easy it is to welcome as our own the touches of others, their equivalent colors, customers, and beliefs; their journeys, their transitions. And to remember those who, unwelcome, suffered. How much could have been avoided, and embraced, had we heeded.Melville feverishly scribbled a diagnosis, prognosis and prescription for the human condition. We are all Ishmael the ingenue and Starbuck the pragmatist and Ahab the maniac, stuck on a ship driven by winds we cannot predict, helmed by a mind not fully comprehensible, whose compulsions we don’t control. The world is an elusive whale; we might choose coexistence or destruction. And though we do not decide the outcome, the hands on the oars are ours.It’s no coincidence that Leviathan, the sperm whale, is Melville’s chosen vehicle. No other candidate qualifies. To face real quotidian madness we must have at stake real blood and real will on both sides. Only this creature comes to us as quickened flesh and immortal metaphor, tangling us with our own pursuits, profane, bleeding, sacred,free. Only Leviathan could do it. Could win.”

CARL SAFINACARL SAFINA

THE TABLES TURNED WORDSWORTH. 1770-1850 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mid-shapes the beauteous forms of things- We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. DICKINSON, 1862 She rose to His Requirement - dropt The Playthings of Her Life To take the honorable Work Of Woman, and of Wife- If aught She missed in Her new Day, Of Amplitude or Awe- Or first Prospective- Or the Gold In using, wear away. It lay unmentioned- as the Sea Develop Pearl, and Weed, But only to Himself- be known The Fathoms they abide- Dickens wrote a letter to Thomas Higginson about publishing a few poems; he responded that they were not strong enough. She consented to his verdict and wrote, “I smile when you suggest that I delay ‘to publish’- that being foreign to my thoughts, as Firmament to Fin. If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her- if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase- and the approbation of my Dog, would forsake me- then. My Bare-foot tank is better. The Sailor cannot see the North, but knows the Needle arm.” The Portent MELVILLE. 1819-1891 Concerning John Brown, hanged in Virginia in 1859 Hanging from the beam, Slowly swaying (such the law), Gaunt the shadow on your green, Shenandoah! The cut is on the crown (Lo, John Brown), And the stabs shall heal no more. Hidden in the cap Is the anguish none can draw; So your future veils its face, Shenandoah! But the streaming beard is shown (Weird John Brown), The meteor of the war. “ Happiness in this world , when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit , and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we caught happiness without dreaming of it.”

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

So, semi interesting then.
“Even the words that we are speaking now thieving time has stolen away and nothing can return.” Horace’s Odes “ I also discovered that we still don’t know how time actually works. The nature of time is perhaps the greatest remaining mystery. Curious threads connect it to those other great mysteries: the nature of mind, the origin of the universe, the fate of black holes, and the very functioning of life on earth. “Things are transformed one into another according to necessity, and render justice to one another according to the order of time.” Anaximander 600 BC Perhaps the rivers of ink that have been expended discussing the nature of the “continuous” over the centuries , from Aristotle to Heidegger, have been wasted. Continuity is only a mathematical technique for approximating very finely grained things. The world is subtly discrete, not continuous. But this does not alter the fact that the world is in a ceaseless process of change. The entire evolution of science would suggest that the best grammar for thinking about the world is that of change, not permanence. Not of being, but of becoming. A storm is not a thing, it’s a collection of occurrences. A cloud above a mountain is not a thing, it is the condensation of humidity in the air that the wind blows over the mountain. A family is not a thing, it is the collection of relations, occurrences, feelings.” Carlo Rovelli. The Order of Time “Sooner or later the exact measurements of our time will resume- and we’ll all be on the ship that’s bound for the bitterest shore.” Horace 488 Myself was formed-a Carpenter- An unpretending time My Plane-and I, together wrought Before a Builder came- To measure our attainments- Had we the Art of Boards Sufficiently developed- He’d hire us At Halves- My Tools took Human - Faces- The Bench, where we had toiled- Against the Man- persuaded- We- Temples build- I said Emily Dickinson
A Priori Study of Two Pears.            Wallace Stevens l Opusculum paedagogum. The pears are not viols, Nudes or bottles. They resemble nothing else. II They are not yellow forms Composed of curves Bulging toward the base. They are touched red. III They are not flat surfaces Having curved outlines. They are round Tapering toward the top. IV In the way they are modelled They are bits of blue. A hard dry leaf hangs From the stem. V The yellow glistens It glistens with various yellows, Citrons, oranges and greens Flowering over the skin. VI The shadows of the pears Are blobs on the green cloth. The pears are not seen As the observer wills. A Posteriori Concord                Robert Lowell Ten thousand Fords are idle here in  search Of a tradition. Over these dry sticks- The Minute Man, the Irish Catholics, The ruined bridge and Walden’s fished-out perch- The belfry of the Unitarian Church Rings out the hanging Jesus. Crucifix, How can your whited spindling arms transfix Mammon’s unbridled industry, the lurch For forms to harness Heraclitus’ stream! This Church is Concord- Concord where Thoreau Named all the birds without a gun to probe Through darkness to the painted man and bow; The death-dance of King Philip and his scream Whose echo girdled this imperfect globe. “That the mind may accomplish all it does with nothing more than the kinda of ingredients and types of forces holding together my coffee cup, makes it more extraordinary still. Consciousness would be demystified without being diminished.” Brian Greene
House by C.K. Williams The way you’d renovate a ruined house, keeping the ‘shell’ as we call it, brick, frame, or stone, and razing the rest: the inside walls - partitions we say, then stairs piping, wiring, commodes, saving only.....no, save nothing this time; take the self-shell down to its emptiness, hollowness, void. Down to the scabrous plaster, down to the lining bricks with mortar squashed through the joints, down to the eyeless windows, the forlorn doorless doorways, the sprung joists powdery with rot: down to the slab of the cellar, the erratically stuccoed foundation, the black earth underneath all. Down under all to the ancient errors, indolence, envy, pretension, the frailties as though in the gene; down to where consciousness cries, “Make me new”, but pleads as pitiably, “ Cherish me as I was.” Down to the swipe of the sledge, the ravaging bite of the pick; rubble, wreckage, vanity: the abyss. “Metaphor is the way to pin the jelly of reality to the wall” Among The Intellectuals by Tony Hoagland They were a restless tribe. They did not sit in sunlight, eating grapes together in the afternoon. Cloud-watching among them was considered a disgusting waste of time. They passed the days in an actu they callled “thought-provoking.” as if thought were an animal, and they used long sticks to poke through the bars of its cage, tormenting and arousing thinking into strange behaviors. This was their religion, That and the light shining through the stain-glassed ancestors. They preferred the name of the tree to the taste of the apple. I was young and I wanted to prove myself, but the words I learned from them transmuted me, By the time I’m oticed, the change had already occurred. It is impossible to say if this was bad. Inevitably, you find out you are lost, really lost; blind, really blind; stupid, really stupid; dry, really dry; hungry, really hungry; and you go on from there. But then you also find you can’t stop thinking,thinking, thinking; tormenting,and talking to yourself. “ Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom” Kierkegaard
From The Age of Anxiety by W.H.Auden Sob,heavy world, Sob as you spin Mantled in mist, remote from the happy The washerwomen have wailed all night The disconsolate clocks are crying together And the bells toll and toll For tall Agrippa who touched the sky: Shut is that shining eye Which enlightened the lampless and lifted up The flat and foundering, reformed the weeds Into civil cereals and sobered the bulls: Away the cylinder seal, The didactic digit and dreaded voice Which imposed peace on the pullulating Primordial mess. Mourn for him now, Our lost dad, Our colossal father. For seven cycles For seven years Past vice and virtue,surviving both, Through pluvial periods, paroxysms Of wind and wet, through the whirlpool of heat, And comas of deadly cold, On an old white horse, an ugly nag, In his faithful youth he followed The black ball as it bowled downhill On the spotted spirit’s spiral journey, Its purgative path to that point of rest Where longing leaves it, and saw Shimmering in the shade the shrine of gold, The magical marvel no man dare touch, Between the towers the tree of life And the well of wishes The waters of joy. In the high heavens, The ageless places, Their gods are wringing their great worn hands For their watchman is away, their world-engine Creaking and cracking. Conjured no more By his master music to wed Their truths to times, the Eternal Objects Drift about in a daze: O the lepers are loose in Lombard Street, The rents are rising in the river basins, The insects are angry. Who will dust The cobwebbed kingdoms now? For our lawgiver lies below his people, Bigger bones of a better kind, Unwrapped by their weight, as white limestone Under green grass, The grass that fades. “These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now deserves the love of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict,the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as Freedom should not be highly rated.” Thomas Paine
Don't You Wonder, Sometimes? by Tracy K. Smith After dark, stars glisten like ice, and the distance they span Hides something elemental. Not God, exactly. More like Some thin- hipped glittering Bowie-being- a Starman Or cosmic ace hovering , swaying, aching to make us see. And what would we do, you and I, if we could know for sure That someone was there squinting through the dust, Saying nothing is lost, that everything lives on waiting only To be wanted back badly enough? Would you go then, Even for a few nights, into that other life where you And that first she loved, blind to the future once, and happy? Would I put on my coat and return to the kitchen where my My Mother and  father sit waiting, dinner keeping warm on the stove? Bowie will never die. Nothing will come for him in his sleep Or charging through his veins. And he'll never grow old, Just like the woman you lost, who will always be dark-haired And flushed-faced, running toward an electronic screen That clocks the minutes, the miles to go. Just like the life In which I'm forever a child looking out my window at the night sky Thinking one day I'll touch the world with bare hands Even if it burns. 2. He leaves no tracks. Slips past, quick as a cat. That's Bowie For you: the Pope of pop, coy as Christ. Like a play Within a play, he's trademarked twice. The hours Plink past like water from a window A/C. We sweat it out, Teach ourselves to wait. Silently, lazily, collapse happens. But not for Bowie, he cocks his head, grins that wicked grin. Time never ends, but does it stop? And how many lives Before take-off , before we find ourselves Beyond ourselves, all glam-glow, all twinkle and gold? The future isn't what it used to be. Even Bowie thirsts For something good and cold. Jets blink across the sky Like migratory souls. 3. Bowie is among us. Right here In New York City. In a baseball cap And expensive jeans. Ducking into A deli. Flashing all those teeth At the doorman on his way back up. Or he's hailing a taxi on Lafayette As the sky clouds over at dusk. He's in no rush. He doesn't feel The way you'd think he feels. Doesn't strut or gloat. Tells jokes. I've lived here all these years And never seen him. Like not knowing A comet from a shooting star. But I'll bet he burns bight, Dragging a tail of white hot matter The way some of us trail tissue Back from the toilet stall. He's got The whole world under his foot, And we are small alongside , Though there are occasions When a man his size can meet Your eyes for just a blip of time, And send a thought like SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE SHINE Straight to your mind. Bowie, I want to believe you. Want to feel Your will like the wind before rain. The kind everything simply obeys, Swept up in that hypnotic dance As if something with the power to do so Had looked it's way and said: Go ahead.
Imagination by John Davidson 1857-1909 There is a dish to hold the sea, A brazier to contain the sun, A compass for the Galaxy, A voice to wake the dead and the done! That minister of ministers, Imagination, gathers up The undiscovered Universe, Like jewels in a jasper cup. Its flame can mingle north and south; Its accent with the thunder strive; The ruddy sentence of its mouth Can make the ancient dead alive. The mart of power , the fount of will, The form and mold of every star, The source and bound of good and ill, The key of all the things that are, Imagination , new and strange In every age, can turn the year; Can shift the poles and lightly change The mood of men, the world's career. " Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn away, And lose the name of action." Hamlet  Act III. Scene I
Richard Dawkins- Darwinism and design "   Darwinism encompasses all of life- human, animal, plant, bacterial, and if I am right in the last chapter ( The Blind Watchmaker), extraterrestrial. It provides the only satisfying explanation for why we all exist, why we are the way that we are.it is the bedrock on which rest all the disciplines known as the humanities. I do not mean that history, literary criticism, and the law should be recast in a specifically Darwinian mould. But all human works are the products of brains, brains are evolved data processing devices, and we shall misunderstood their works if we forget this fundamental fact. Darwinism evolution, as one reviewer has observed, " is the most portentous natural truth that science has yet discovered ". There are still those who seek to deny the truth of evolution, and they mostly centre around the notion of 'design'- which also happens to be the principle theme of The Blind  Watchmaker. The book had finer ambitions than to serve as a reply to such arguments, but it is still true that anybody tempted by the arguments of creationists will find definitive refutations-I think all of them- in here. This book is written in the conviction that our own existence once presented the great st of all mysteries, but that it is a mystery no longer because it is solved. Darwin and Wallace solved it, though we shall continue to add footnotes to their solution for awhile yet. I was surprised that so many people seemed not only unaware of the elegant and beautiful solution to this deepest of problems but, incredibly, in many cases actually unaware that there was a problem in the first place. The problem is that of complex design. The computer on which I am writing was consciously designed and deliberately manufactured. The brain with which you are understanding is array of some ten million kiloneurons. At the molecular genetic level, every single one of more than a trillion cells in the body contains about a thousand times as much precisely- coded information. The complexity of living organisms is matched by  the elegant efficiency of their apparent design. I want to inspire the reader with a vision of our own existence as, on the face of it, a spine-chilling mystery and simultaneously to convey the full excitement of the fact that it is a mystery with an elegant solution, which is within our grasp. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, Darwinism seems more in need of advocacy than similarly established truths in other branches of science. Many of us have no grasp of quantum theory, or Einstein's theories of special and general relativity, but this does not in itself lead us to oppose those theories. I suppose one trouble with Darwinism is that, as Jacques Monod perceptively remarked, everybody thinks he understands it. It is a remarkably simple theory. In essence, it amounts simply to the idea that non- random reproduction, where there is hereditary variation , has consequences that are far-reaching if there is time for them to be cumulative. But we have good grounds for believing that this simplicity is deceptive. Never forget that, simple as the theory may be, nobody thought of it until Darwin and Wallace, nearly two hundred years after Newton's Principia, and more than two thousand years after Eratosthenes measured the earth. It is almost as if the human brain were specifically designed to misunderstand Darwinism and to find it hard to believe. Take ,for instance, the issue of 'chance', often dramatiz d as blind chance. The great majority of people that attack Darwinism leap with almost unseemly eagerness too the mistaken idea that there is nothing other than random chance in it. Since living complexity embodies the very antithesis of chance, if you think that evolution is tantamount to to chance you'll obviously find it easy to refute Darwinism. Another way in which we seem predisposed to disbelieve Darwinism is that our brains are built to deal with events on radically different timescales from those that characterize evolutionary change. We are equipped to appreciate processes that take seconds, minutes, years. Darwinism is a theory of cumulative processes so slow that they take  between thousands and millions of decades to complete. All our intuitive judgements of what's is probable turn out to be wrong by many orders of magnitude. Our  well-tuned apparatus of scepticism and subjective probability-theory misfir s by huge margins. It requires effort of imagination to escape from a prison of familiar timescale. A third respect in which our brains seem predisposed to resist Darwinism stems from our great success as creative designers. Our world is dominated by feats of engineering and works of art. We are entirely accustomed too the idea that complex elegance is an indicator of premeditated, crafted design. This is probably the most powerful reason for the belief in some kind of supernatural deity. It took a very large leap of imagination to see that, contrary to all intuition, there is another way for complex design to arise from primeval simplicity." And so we build our three legged stool- physics, evolution, art. Bend every sinew to the task
From Paradise Lost by John Milton Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe, With loss of Eden, till one greater man Restore us, and regain the blissful seat Sing Heavn'ly Muse, What in me is dark Illumine, what is low raise and support; That to heighth of this great argument, I may assert Eternal Providence, And justify the ways of God to men. The mind is its own place, and in itself Make a Heav'n of Hell, and a Hell of Heav'n, Here we may reign secure, and in my choice To reign is worth ambition though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell , than serve on Heav'n. What fear I then , rather what know to fear Under this ignorance of good and evil, Of God or death, of law or penalty? Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine, Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste, Of virtue to make wise; what hinders then To reach, and feed at once both body and mind? So saying, her rash hand in evil hour Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she ate: Earth felt the wound, and Natire for her seat Sighing through all her works gave signs of woe, That all was lost. No more of talk where God or angel quest With man as with his friend ,familiar used, To sit indulgent, and with him partake Rural repast, permitting him the while Venial discourse unblamed: I now must change Those notes to tragic: foul distrust , and breach Disloyal on the part of man, revolt, And disobedience: on the part of Heav'n Now alienated, distance and distaste, Anger and just rebuke, and judgement giv'n, That brought into this world a world of woe, Sin and her shadow Death, and misery ... Death's harbinger. "Know then thyself Presume not God to scan, The proper study of mankind is man, Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise and rudely great, He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest, In doubt to deem himself a God or beast, The glory, jest, and riddle of the world." A. Pope
Don't Worry About The Government I see the clouds that move across the sky I see the wind that moves the clouds away It moves the clouds over by the building I pick the building that I want to live in I smell the pine trees and the peaches in the woods I see the pine cones that fall by the highway That's the highway that goes to the building I pick the building that I want to live in It's over there, it's over there My building has every convenience It's gonna make life easy for me It's gonna be easy to get things done I will relax alone with my loved ones Loved ones , loved ones visit the building, Take the highway, park and come up and see me I'll be working, working but if you come visit I'll put down what I'm doing, my friends are important Don't you worry about me I wouldn't worry about me Don't you worry 'bout me Don't you worry 'bout me I see the states, across this big nation I see the laws made in Washington, D.C. I think of the ones I consider my favorites I think of the people that are working for me Some civil servants are just like my loved ones They work so hard and they try to be strong I'm a lucky guy to live in my building They own the buildings to help them along It's over there, it's over there My building has every convenience It's gonna make life easy for me It's gonna make it easy to get things done I will relax along with my loved ones Loved ones, loved ones, visit the building Take the highway, park and come up to see me I'll be working, working but if you come visit I'll put down what I'm doing, my friends are important "The race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise or rich s to men of understanding, but time and chance happen to us all. Whatever work thy hand findeth to do, Do it with all thy might, For there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge In the grave, whither thou goest ." "We need not approach 'ought' by the way of 'is'. We need not approach ought at all, because ought is imbedded in the attitudes and emotions  that allow us to pursue recognizably human lives. It follows that we don't need to make the impossible crossing from 'is' to 'ought'. We have been waiting for a phantom ferry that we don't need. At least  we don't have to worry about how we can get ourselves to the banks of ought in the first place. We are already there. Existence precedes essence
Paterson, Book 1 William Carlos Williams Paterson lies in the valley under the Passaic Falls its spent waters forming the outline of his back. He lies on his right side, head near the thunder of the waters filling his dreams! Eternally asleep, his dreams walk about the city where he persists incognito. Butterflies settle on his stone ear. Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldom seen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his machinations drawing their substance from the noise of the pouring river animate a thousand automations. Who because they neither know their sources nor the sills of their disappointments walk outside their bodies aimlessly for the most part, locked and forgot in their desires-unroused. -Say it, no ideas but in things- nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident- split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained- secret- into the body of the light! " There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which , taken at the flood, leads onto fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in the shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures." Brutus Julius Caesar