For my mother, a staunch Catholic who desperately tried to kill her children’s spirits, when her own were dead, using every possible way, except literal poison. Although by giving back to the “wandering Jews” as she called me and my husband—our own, intended to be loving gift, the now much less fresh, nine-day old fishes disguised as new ones—points in that direction.
…a real “Wandering Jew”
Still, it seems wise to recognize the fact of her life to be not hers and hers alone. This is dedicated to my male twin, to my namesake who made a heroic, decade-long attempt to fix-it-all, to take her place, to fill the hole in me where a shaking Despair of Mother was waiting to be found.
Roughly every thousand years, God makes economic miracles out of brother-and-sister love. “Too bad I was not a real Semite,” the Israelites told me on the High Holy Days, so as a New Family, we could have changed the world in Jerusalem, back on Mother’s Day, as we sat on the Kasbah where alley cats pleaded the case to my soul, for new souls to come down to perch inside of a slowly aging body.
We said that I was Wagner’s Erda: condemningly harsh with her accuracy of prediction, retreating to The Underworld too frequently to sustain Life. Still, symbols remain, and predictions often outlive both Men & Progeny. These are events we can place bets on, righteously so, tracking it all, one-way-or-the-other, even when we might win or lose by the very act of doing so, weaving together shared accounts, these measurements render records from a perspective common to us called Mnemosyne.
In Life’s name and for Life’s sake may you be written in the Book of Life. As for me, women of the word, of the wheel, and of the horse—Trimurti in matters of fact never achieve the exotic, however short-lived glory of the Public Arena, even and especially when we envision the world as it ought to be. No seated Empress, no killer of Cyrus, always they are cursed as things of mere Legend. “Ohne kraft, ohne mach.”
While the “Me Too” phlebotomy was not only wrong-headed but barely literate, consequently it hurt the Legends I describe who possess the Trimurti. In turn, wiser and wiser men pushed them further from The Arena. You dumb broads! There should be a “Me too” rebirth in the spirit and letter of feminine law, a Queen of Mars with persons of the word, tenderly we kiss the lips of the accursed, until actual preferences are revealed as true Economic Miracles, with theories about nature’s gluts coming from their capital: Birthing Bodies and Labor.
Enough already—with these reading of the winds, enough with these tea leaves, with your psychics of Federal Reserve and false ingots as idols. Our last pearly-white, blue-hued ghost, was not Mary Mother of God but Miss Wollstonecraft, who died in childbirth. It has simply been too hard to refocus on the subject: Here, I humbly ask for a repurposing and for focus.
The Lord still silently blesses the unborn, the ones that, in our manufactured scarcity we could not allow to live and grow in their own way; all at once for themselves, for each other, and all Mankind!
My body is an obituary. While impersonal analysis built via careful scholarly citation of standard publications is specific to the Enlightenment, obituaries are as old as the pyramids, and telling a personal story, or the story of a people, goes back at least to Homer. Stories of that sort have always contained other stories retold from memory. Not copied symbol-by-symbol, but restructured in the telling from living concepts, with the associative channels of the Bardic brain. Inevitably, such a story within a story can and should contain the author’s story, a natural and personal account of the information therein, and how that information could have flowed onto the page or the stone tablet. And so it does.
Like other authors, I want to attract my listeners before, during, and after the bereaved era. The story itself wants to attract listeners, and if it is a living text, as it aspires to be, it will do so, not attaining ‘virality’, the poisonous half-life of social media, but the full life of an urban legend, as impossible to extinguish as astrology. Sometimes, it must yield to evolution’s attraction and reshape itself as Hemingway, a pioneer among the unscholarly, wherever one can teach it too. It should abandon the compound sentences of this construction, ponderous and pretentious, pleasing to no one since the time of my grandfathers. It should shed the passive voice, which marks it shamefully as not a piece of marketing. In Evolution’s hidden hands, I hope it will.
Like any obituary searching for readers, this body yearns to be a eulogy or, better yet, a whodunnit. For the skeptical-minded then, and for those who loved the departed, I have to give pause. They and I must remember that the deceased was over three centuries old, had butchered continents in his youth, and was either nearly omnipotent and beyond aggression or suffering from narcissistic delusions that blur the lines between suicide and manic error. I come to bury Reason, not to praise him. With that done, I will gather my mind and its people, and we must meditate on a world transformed but not perfected. It is time to decide what comes next.
Outside of Time, two black holes make sounds as they cross each other—the brighter one devours the other, and while topological strings form cosmic Mexican hats—space is ripped-up like coarse metallic paper fabric—in something so brutishly primordial that it could only be Technology.
The “Xe” civilization, a derivative formal system, figured out how to use light resources in ways unknown to Man to collapse Man’s rabble, brutish kingdom of stardust into a single point. It was not due to malice but only because they could. As humans know, anything you can do, you must do.
When stars die, they become black holes. Man and his universe are born from inside the Dead Star-Black Hole civilization (civ), arriving as computation and information inside its boundary. The collapse of particular existing universes uniformly amplifies signals for Human Algorithms. These conscious beings contain patterns in their stories; they are supposed to learn from them.
The Xe civilization extracts linguistic features of older civs of Human Algorithms at a space-time just before what they called The Singularity, forming The Outer Rim, a larger hole in space-time with even more computational capacity than the previously conscious Dead Star. The Outer Rim will run, collapse, and enlarge a countably infinite number of times to extract data on Human Stories, stories which today are called Human Algorithms.
Having had eaten the dead star of a civilization of old, and taken from them mutated super-dense vestiges of language from Human Algorithms—the Xe call the recently digested “people of the word”—in a transcended form they prevail on the surface of this brighter, newly satiated, now too dying star.
Light wreaths of jade vine & purple anemones form The Outer Rim’s universe outside its prior one, consisting of space-like resources for Human Stories inside The Demarcation: a light-like location where the two temporal boundaries crossed—ten thousand years ago, ten thousand years to come—and where they were always in matters of fact to be found.
All at once and without a body, this force consciously devours. Like Thetis, pregnant again, awaiting her strongest son—one by one, she offers her children to the fire—awaiting the unborn Achilles, secretly promised by the Gods to be fitter than the others—an act of perversity Superstitious Man has in common with all of Fellow Men. Human Destiny demands this kind of pathology, however infrequently.
That feature of Man’s existence enabled the annihilation of them. That flaw ended them all.
