ALEPH 1 TO X
Coming down the slope in a pink sleigh along the tall towers of San Gimignano, I feel like a thing between a ghost buster and a tomb raider. I wet my index finger to feel the direction of the wind. On this side of the road it’s cold. On the other, it’s hot. I let myself slide off the sledge. My forehead hits the snow. A thought spears through my heart: I’m nobody’s problem. I get up and leave. And leave. And leave. In Italy I plug my finger into Cantor’s navel, and feel his vibrations. His gaze lacks pagination. Death knocks. I answer: “What do you want with me?” He says: “To leave it there where you want us to leave it.” The sleigh takes a turn for both ends. In the continuum, ambivalence is an anti-logic dance. I call it Aleph X.