another introduction and list of contents

I am the androgyne2

I am the living mind you fail to describe

in your dead language

the lost noun, the verb surviving

only in the infinitive

the letters of my name are written

under the lids of the newborn child

-- Adrienne Rich

to protect the One that protects the Many,

a discourse combining all discourses,

a superscientific superpoem for superhumans

(only gods (including animal cartoon characters) need apply)

for the purpose or pretext of purveying --

affirming the wisdom of the warning: be careful what you wish for (not to mention systematically strive for), you just might get it --

the well documented, historical discovery of the mystical revelation that, from over there in the space of time, timelessly engenders the demystified modern world,

verifying the sacred origin of science to render obsolete the opposition --

in this demilitarized zone with endless free space (thank you Google) for settlements, feel free to build your own branch.

by which --- ssshh right this way, take these binoculars, listener -- I've spotted and am tracking in its natural habitat poetry in camouflage winding its way through the world. Leave your nets behind on this excursion plain old poets, salam salam, so glad to have your eminences on board!

or

how I broke through a blind spot in the modern world's vision and recovered its whole being, mind and body, body and spirit, root and crown, thorn and petal, male and female in one perfect flower,

which was born in a night to perish in a night -- in one fresco by Giotto (see wikipedia if you only know him as the ninja of the species that wins the race, a quite apt representation), but instead of perishing, it froze.

Maybe it was nature's doing, or maybe Giotto did it on purpose, assuming methods might be developed to defrost it safely, a good assumption. I thank all the friends and thinkers (list forthcoming) who helped me perfect and now verify the method.

this site including:

this introductory column

a narrative telling the story of the finding, presently in draft form with introduction and links to the drafts on the left side of this scroll, with preface to that text above

posts and pages attempting to describe the structure, novel form, and affect of the world after the finding

posts and pages playing in the novel world adumbrated by the dreamers of it -- silhouetted by the sea, with one arm waving free

posts and pages attempting to purvey a state of mind and mindset capable of recognizing and embracing the finding

posts and pages analyzing the function, and correcting the abuse in the use and reading of everyday language, this correction a large part of the finding of the finding of the finding...

posts and pages in which the finding tries to describe itself in response to people elsewhere following the logic to the end, but then lacking the ability to assimilate the conclusion, they deny its existence by forcing it into a known category, when it can only create a novel one while re-defining all the others.

posts and pages attempting, in order to fit the finding, to rearrange and reform language, effectively creating a novel paradigm, or language of experience, 

in which sufficiently Appollonian art vies with science as an instrument of knowledge, time gives equal time to space, and the private mix of languages -- from the practical to the mystical -- in the mind of a creator goes public, giving everybody a view of the whole, a shared map. 

Here a harmonious anarchy arises in a visual order that is actually far more ordered than all the different linear ones today that, each one and altogether, can only chase the subject round and round and up and down creating a terrible tangle. Being inundated with images does not mean one has arrived at visual literacy. While the former might be a necessary stage, many will drown without arriving at the latter.

To take the next step (the wheel must regress to progress) listeners need to build a mental memory palace in order to visualize many ideas in their places all at once 

and stop driving their own minds and those of others -- by placing a little scrap of cheese at the end of it, down a maze made of known paths that they and others have built long ago, and that professors have adorned with festoons and rest stations with amusing concessions -- in order always to arrive at the same conclusions, whose comfortable sameness makes up for their direness. By now I'm sure you've mastered many such mazes, but a maze is a maze is a maze and a maze is hardly amazing anymore.

By contrast, as alien positions hover in space in the memory palace, one day the slowly eroding walls of the palace (de- or a-mazingly!) come tumbling down, and the alien positions begin to weave across one another into an image of restoration or apocotastasis, 

which words, as Dante professes having glimpsed it, cannot directly describe except in abstract terms, but it is by words that you climb to the gate.

At least Dante could not describe the restoration or apocostasis directly, could not give names to the things there, as his version had floated up to Platonic heaven. Here, where it floats down to his friend Giotto's earthy earth, it conforms very well to human language corrected of bad usage, 

twisting the original meanings and emotional affect that arise in the act of naming in spontaneous poetic responses to not yet named things (see in no way dingdong, "dingdong theory") and of burdening them with inappropriate connotations. 

Take the word "preposterous" -- telling us by its constitution that it means timeless -- both before and after -- that is, everything we cogitate and imagine in order to perceive a "present" that we can be "aware" of.

True, everything is outrageous and absurd, but it is also many other, quite surprising things when all the twisted and biased, moralizing connotations of the word, in this case "preposterous" fall away, leaving the diaphanous gauze of language that reveals the long concealed dancing body of being, while shielding us from the blinding light of this god among and within us.4

This rearrangement of categories and saturation of language with itself comes as a foreign language of experience that can't help, like all not yet learned foreign language, sounding like gibberish for quite a while, and is learned best by immersion and study of the grammatical principles presented bit by bit during the process of immersion. 

To demand a foreign language make sense before a year or so makes no sense, but I think your ear can hear whether it's a language or a fake language. If you guess the former, given what's been said so far, it's clearly worth the investment, no? If you think it might be so, just enjoy the beautiful music of this language, let meaning slowly come in its own time, as you thrill to the slowly growing intermittent incidents of novel understanding, steeled to endure setbacks after each advance.

posts and pages in which the narrative of the finding is already told in different ways, but I'm hoping this last one will be the decisive one

posts and pages representing more failed attempts to introduce, encapsulate, limit, or imagine it would ever be possible to define or complete this project, as paradoxically incommensurable and sprawling as it is concrete and focused.

a preface to the posts and pages preceding the list of pages and archive of posts at the bottom of this column

1 It just so happens toward the fulfillment of my mission impossible, that I probably came out, but in any case I turned out a mongrel, not just a scientist, but also an artist, and moreover, as a scientist, I'm a mongrel of theoretical and technical, and as an artist I'm a mongrel of visual and verbal, and as writer, I'm a mongrel of historian, philosopher, memoirist, and poet, philosopher, and of course I'm a prose poet, at least that's an established mongrel form,

you could keep breaking it down and with a high speed accelerator possibly hone in on the god particle,

and all that explains why the signs that speak to me are not just numbers and physical tracks, but words.

2 cultural appropriation alert.I'm only as androgynous as my nearly limitless feminine empathy (tweaked by a slight, native surplus of testosterone, which helps me push it), quite limited self-transcendence, and ability to channel the universal binding intention of art and science allows. (see under pages, below: footnote, when both masks fall)

3 the whole might not be wholistic, just as humans might not be humanistic, but if they are, they can do it better than anybody.

4 the Florentines are like that. They built their cathedral so large there was no known means to span it, but they assumed in the centuries it would take them to build it, someone would figure it out.

preface to the posts and pages listed below

Phong Bui, the publisher of The Brooklyn Rail, once compared me to Giacometti. I do relate to him in the way I write going round and round the form searching urgently for the elusive contour, trying in vain to separate the thing out there from myself, and whatever success I achieve is bound up with my failure, as an artist isn't bound to be good, an artist is bound to be real, by which, however bad at large, a grain of real good will be transmitted.

warning: the veils drop so slowly and naturally with every passing instant no instrument can detect the change, and yet fifteen minutes of anything, such as reading, could change your world so dramatically, that, as mentioned, the hairs of your heart, and possibly your head, would turn white as those of Moses on receiving a divine decree.